Tooth & Nail

He walked through more rooms, rooms airy and light and containing Greek vases and figurines, then, pushing open a, glass double-door, he found himself confronted by the Sculptures of the Parthenon. (For some reason they had stopped advertising them as the Elgin Marbles.) Rebus walked around this large gallery, feeling almost as though he were in some modern-day place of worship. At one end, a gabble of school-kids squatted before some statues, trying to draw them, while their teacher walked around, trying to keep the grudging artists quiet. It was Rhona. Even at this distance he recognised her. Recognised her walk and the slant of her head and the way she held her hands behind her back whenever she was trying to make a point . . .

Rebus turned away, and found himself face to face with a horse's head. He could see the veins bulging from the marble neck, the open mouth with its teeth worn away to an indeterminate smoothness. No bite. Would Rhona thank him for walking over and interrupting her class, just to make smalltalk? No, she would not. But what if she, spotted him? If he were to slink away it would look like the action of a coward. Hell, he was a coward, wasn't he? Best to face facts and move back towards the doors. She might never spot him, and if she' did she was hardly likely to announce the fact. But then he wanted to know about Kenny, didn't he? Who better to ask than Rhona? There was a simple answer: better to ask anyone. He'd ask Samantha. Yes, that's what he'd do. He'd ask Samantha.

He crept back to the doors and walked briskly towards the exit. Suddenly all the exquisite vases and statues had become ridiculous. What was the point in burying them behind glass for people to glance at in passing? Wasn't it better to look forward, 'forget about ancient history? Wouldn't it be better if he just took Lamb's ill-meant advice? There were too many ghosts in London. Way too many. Even the reporter Jim Stevens was down here somewhere. Rebus fairly flew across the museum courtyard only pausing when he reached the gates. The guards stared at him strangely, glancing towards his carrier-bag. They're just books, he wanted to say. But he knew you could hide anything in a book, just about anything. Knew from painful personal experience.

When feeling depressed, be rash. He stuck a hand out into the road and at the first attempt managed to stop an empty black cab. He couldn't remember the name of the street he wanted, but that didn't matter.

`Covent Garden,' he said to the driver. As the cab did what Rebus assumed was a fairly illegal u-turn, he dipped into his bag to claim the, first prize.

He wandered around Covent Garden proper for twenty minutes, enjoying an open-air magic act and a nearby fire-eater before moving off in search of Lisa's flat. It wasn't too difficult to find. He surprised himself by recalling a kite shop and another shop which seemed to sell nothing but teapots. Took a left and a right and another right and found himself in her street; standing outside the shoe shop. The shop itself was busy. The clientele, like the serving staff, was very young, probably not yet out of teens. A jazz saxophone played. A tape perhaps, or someone busking in the distance. He looked up at the window to Lisa's flat, with its bright yellow' roller blind. How old was she really? It was hard to, tell.

And then, only then, he went to the door and pressed her buzzer. There was noise from the intercom, a crackle of movement. `Hello?'

`It's me, John.'

`Hello? I can't hear you!'

`It's John,' he said loudly into the door frame, looking around him in embarrassment. But no-one was interested. People glanced into the shop window as they passed, eating strange-looking snacks, vegetable-looking things.

`John?' As though she had forgotten him already. Then. `Oh, John.' And the buzzer sounded beside him. `Door's open. Come on up.'

The door to her flat was open, too, and he closed it behind him. Lisa was tidying the studio, as she called it. In Edinburgh it wouldn't have been called a studio. It would have been called a bedsit. He supposed Covent Garden didn't have such things as bedsits.

`I've been trying to get in touch,' he said.

`Me too.'

`Oh?'

She turned to him, noting , the hint of disbelief in his voice. `Didn't they tell you? I must've left half a dozen messages with, what was his name, Shepherd?'

`Lamb?'

`That's it.'

Rebus's hate for Lamb intensified.

`About an hour ago,' she went on, `I called and they said you'd gone back to Scotland. I was a bit miffed at that. Thought you'd gone without saying goodbye.'

Bastards, thought Rebus. They really did hate his guts, didn't they? Our expert from north of the border.

Lisa had finished making a neat stack from the newspapers lying on the floor and the bed. She had straightened the duvet and the cover on the sofa. And now, a little out of breath, she was standing close to him. He slid his arm around her and pulled her to him.

`Hello,' he murmured, kissing her.

`Hello,' she said, returning the kiss.