Tooth & Nail

She broke away from his hug and walked into the alcove which served as a kitchen. There was the sound of running tap-water, a kettle filling. `I suppose you've seen the papers?' she called.

`Yes.'

Her head came out of the alcove. `A friend called me up to tell me. I couldn't believe it. My picture on the front page!'

'Fame at last.'

'Infamy more like: a “police psychologist” indeed! They might have done their research. One paper even called me Liz Frazier!' She plugged the kettle in, switched it on, then came back into the room. Rebus was sitting on the arm of the sofa.

`So,' she asked, `how goes the investigation?’

‘A few interesting developments.'

`Oh?' She sat on the edge of the bed. `Tell me.'

So he told her about Jan Crawford, and about his false teeth theory. Lisa suggested that Jan Crawford's memory might be helped by hypnosis. `Lost memory' she called it. But Rebus knew this sort of thing was inadmissible as evidence. Besides, he'd experienced `lost memory' for himself, and shivered now at the memory.

They drank Lapsang Souchong, which he said reminded him of bacon butties, and she put on some music, something soft and classical, and they ended up somehow sitting next to one another on the Indian carpet, their backs against the sofa, shoulders, arms and legs touching. She stroked his hair, the nape of his neck.

`What happened the other night between us,' she said,

`are you sorry?’

'You mean sorry it happened?' She nodded.

`Christ, no,' said Rebus. `Just the opposite.' He paused.

`What about you?'

She thought over her answer. `It was nice,' she said, her eyebrows almost meeting as she concentrated on each word. `I thought maybe you were avoiding me,' he said. `And I thought you were avoiding me.'

`I went looking for you this morning at the university.'

She sat back, the better to study his face. `Really?'

He nodded.

`What did they say?'

`I spoke to some secretary,' he explained. `Glasses on a string around her neck, hair in a sort of a bun.'

`Millicent. But what did she tell you?'

'She just said you hadn't been around much.'

`What else?'

`That I might find you in the library, or in Dillon's.' He nodded over towards the door, where the carrier-bag stood propped against a wall. 'She said you liked bookshops. So I went looking there, too.'

She was still studying his face, then she laughed and pecked him on the cheek. `Millicent's a treasure though, isn't she?'

'If you say so.' Why did her laugh have so much relief in it? Stop looking for puzzles, John. Just stop it right now.

She was crawling away from him towards the bag.

`So what did you buy?'

He couldn't honestly remember, with the exception of the book he'd. started reading in the taxi. Hawksmoor.

Instead, he watched her behind and her legs as she moved away from him. Spectacular ankles. Slim with a prominent hemisphere of bone.

`Well!' she said, lifting one of the paperbacks from the bag. 'Eysenck.'

`Do you approve?'

She thought this question over, too. `Not entirely. Probably not at all, in fact. Genetic inheritance and all that. I'm not sure.' She lifted out another book, and shrieked. `Skinner! The beast of behaviourism! But what made you—?'

He shrugged. `I just recognised some names from those books you loaned me, so I thought I'd—'

Another book was lifted high for him to see. King Ludd. `Have you read the first two?' she asked.

`Oh,' he said, disappointed, `is it part of a trilogy? I just liked the title.'

She turned and gave him a quizzical look, then laughed. Rebus could feel himself going red at the neck. She was making a fool of him, He turned away from her and concentrated on the pattern of the rug, brushing the rough fibres with his hand.

`Oh dear,' she said, starting to crawl back. `I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.' And she placed a hand on either of his legs, kneeling in front of him, angling her head until his eyes were forced to meet hers. She was smiling apologetically. `Sorry,' she mouthed. He managed a smile which said: `that's okay'. She leaned across him and placed her lips on his, one of her hands sliding up his leg towards the thigh, and then a little higher still.

It was evening before he escaped, though `escape' was perhaps putting it too harshly. The effort of easing, himself from beneath Lisa's sleeping limbs was almost too much. Her body perfume, the sweet smell of her hair, the flawless warmth of her belly, her arms, her behind. She did not waken as he slid from the bed and tugged on his clothes. She did not waken as he wrote her another of his notes, picked up his carrier-bag of books, opened the door, cast a glance back towards the bed and then pulled the door, shut after him.