Tooth & Nail

It was Malcolm Chambers, Malcolm Chambers was the Wolfman. Rebus couldn't explain it, couldn't exactly justify it, but he knew it all the same. It was like a dark polluted wave rolling over him, anointing him. Malcolm Chambers. Someone who knew about police procedure, someone above suspicion, someone so clean you had to scratch beneath the skin to find, the filth.

Rebus was running. He was running along Gower Street in what he hoped was the right direction for the City. He was running and he was craning his neck to seek out a taxi. There was one ahead of him, at the corner beside the British Museum, but it was picking up a fare. Students or tourists. Japanese. Grins and cameras. Four of them, two men, two young women. Rebus stuck his head into the back of the cab, where two of them were already seated.

`Out!' he yelled, jerking a thumb towards the pavement.

'Oi, mate, what's your game?' The driver was so fat he could barely turn in his seat.'

`I said out!' Rebus grabbed an arm and pulled. Either the young man was surprisingly light, or else Rebus had found hidden strength, for the body fairly flew from its seat uttering a string of high-pitched comment as it went.

`And you.'

The girl followed obligingly and Rebus hurled himself into the cab, slamming shut the door.

`Drive!' he yelled.

`I'm not moving till I—'

Rebus shoved his ID against the window separating the back seats of the taxi from the front.

`Inspector Rebus!' he called. `This is an emergency. I need to get to the Old Bailey. Break every traffic law you like, I'll sort it out later. But get your fucking skates on!'

The driver responded by switching his headlights on full beam before setting out into the traffic.

`Use your horn!' Rebus called. The driver did so. A surprising number of cars eased out of his way. Rebus was on the edge of his seat, gripping it with both hands to stop himself being thrown about. `How long will it take?"

'This time of day? Ten or fifteen minutes. What's the matter, guv? Can't they start without you?'

Rebus smiled sourly. That was just the problem. Without him, the Wolfman could start whenever he liked. `I need to use your radio,' he said. The driver slid his window further open.

'Be my guest,' he said, pulling the, small microphone up, towards Rebus. He'd worked on the cabs for twenty-odd years, but he'd never had a fare like this.

In fact, he was so excited, they were halfway there before he remembered to switch on the meter.

Rebus had told Flight as much as he could, trying not to sound hysterical. Flight sounded dubious about the whole thing, but agreed to send men to the Old Bailey. Rebus didn't blame George Flight for being wary. Hard to justify arresting a pillar of society on the strength of a gut feeling. Rebus remembered what else Lisa Frazer had said about serial killers: that they were products of their environments; that their ambitions had been thwarted, leading them to kin members of the social group above them. Well, that certainly wasn't true in Malcolm Chambers's case, was it? And what had she said about the Wolfman? His attacks were 'non-confrontational', so perhaps he was like that in his working life. Hah! So much for theory. But now Rebus began to doubt his own instincts. Jesus, what if he was wrong? What if the theory was right? He was going to look more than a little psychologically disturbed himself.

Then he recalled something George Flight had said. You could build up as neat a picture as you liked of the killer, but it wouldn't give you a name and address. Psychology was all well and good, but you couldn't beat a good old fashioned hunch.

`Nearly there, guv.'

Rebus tried to keep his breathing regular. Be calm, John, be calm. However, there were no police cars waiting by the entrance to the Old Bailey. No sirens and armed officers, just people milling around, people finishing work for the day, people sharing a joke. Rebus left the cab driver unpaid and untipped—`I'll settle later'—and pushed open the heavy glass door. Behind more bulletproof glass stood two security personnel. Rebus stuck his ID in front of their noses. One of them pointed towards the two vertical glass cylinders by which people were admitted to the building one at a time. Rebus went to one cylinder and waited. Nothing happened. Then he remembered, pushed the heel of his hand against the button and the cylinder door opened. He walked in. and waited for what seemed an eternity while the door slid shut behind him, before the door in front slid just as slowly open.

Another guard stood beside the metal-detection equipment. Rebus, still holding open, his ID, walked quickly past until he found himself behind the bulletproof glass of the reception area.

`Can, I help?' said one of the security men.

`Malcolm Chambers,' said Rebus. `He's a barrister. I need to see him urgently.'

`Mr Chambers? Hold on, I'll just check.'

`I don't want him to know I'm here,' Rebus warned. `I just want to know where I can find him.'