Tooth & Nail

`Sorry,' said the, white-coated scientist. He looked not yet to be out of his teens. Beneath his lab coat, there lurked a black T-shirt decorated with the name of a heavy metal band. `I don't think we're going to have much luck. All we're finding so far is H2O, tap-water. Whoever stuck the envelope down must have used a wet sponge or a pad or one of those old-fashioned roller, things. No traces, of saliva at all.'

The breath left Rebus's lungs. `What about fingerprints?'

`Negative so far. All we've found are two sets which look like they're going to match Dr Frazer's. And we're not having any better luck with fibres or grease stains. I'd say the writer wore gloves. Nobody here has seen such a clean, speck-free job.'

He knows, Rebus was thinking. He knows everything we might try. So damned smart.

`Well, thanks anyway,' he said. The young man raised his eyebrows and spread his palms.

`I wish we could do more.'

You could start by getting a haircut, son, he thought to himself. You look too much like Kenny Watkiss. He sighed instead. `Just do what you can,' he said. `Just do what you can.’

Turning to walk away, Rebus felt a mixture of fresh rage and impotence, sudden savage frustration. The Wolfman was too good. He would stop killing before they could catch him, or he would simply go on killing again and, again and again. No one would be safe. And most of all, it seemed, Lisa would not be safe.

Lisa.

She was being blamed by the Wolfman for the story Rebus had invented. It had nothing to do with Lisa. And if the Wolfman should somehow get to her it would be Rebus's fault, wouldn't it?. Where was Lisa going? Rebus didn't know. Flight thought it was safer that way. But Rebus couldn't shake off the idea that the Wolfman might well be a policeman. Might well be any policeman. Might be the brawny detective or the thin and silent detective. Lisa had gone off with them thinking them her protection. What if she had walked straight into the clutches of . . .? What if the Wolfman knew exactly . . .? What if Philip Cousins . . .?

A loudspeaker, sounded from its recess in the ceiling.

`Telephone call for Inspector Rebus at reception. Telephone call for Inspector Rebus.

Rebus walked quickly down the rest of the corridor and through the swing-door at the end. He didn't know if Flight was still in the building, didn't care. His mind was filling with horrors: Wolfman, Lisa, Rhona, Sammy. Little Sammy, his daughter. She'd seen enough terror in her life. He'd been responsible before. He didn't want her to be hurt ever again.

The receptionist lifted the receiver as he approached, holding it out to him. As he grabbed it, she pressed a button on the dial, connecting him to the caller.

`Hello?' he said, breathlessly.

`Daddy?' Oh Christ, it was Sammy.

`Sammy?' Nearly yelling now. `What is it? What's wrong?'

`Oh, Daddy.' She was crying. The memory flashed in front of him, scalding his vision, Phonecalls. Screams.

`What is it, Sammy? Tell me!'

`It's,' a sniff, `it's Kenny.'

`Kenny?' He furrowed his brow. `What's wrong with him? Has he been in a crash?'

`Oh no, Daddy. He's just . . . just disappeared."

`Where are you, Sammy?'

`I'm in a call-box.'

`Okay, I'm going to give you the address of a police station. Meet me there. If you have to get a taxi, that's fine. I'll pay for it when you arrive. Understand?'

`Daddy.' She sniffed back tears. `You've got to find him. I'm worried. Please find him, Daddy. Please. Please!'

By the time. George Flight, reached reception, Rebus had already left. The receptionist explained as best she could, while Flight rubbed his jaw, encountering stubble. He` had argued with Lisa Frazer, but by Christ she'd been stubborn. Attractively stubborn, he had to admit. She'd told him she didn't mind bodyguards but that the idea of a `safe location' was out of the question. She had, she said, an appointment at the Old Bailey, a couple of appointments actually, interviews she was doing in connection with some research.

`It's taken me weeks to set them up,' she said, `there's no way I'm going to blow them out now!'

`But my dear,' Philip Cousins had drawled, `that's just where we're headed.' He was, Flight knew keen for a close to proceedings, glancing at his watch impatiently. And it seemed that Lisa and Cousins knew one another from the murder at Copperplate Street, that they had things in common, things they ? HYPERLINK “http://wanted.to/”??wanted to? talk about. That they were keen to be going.