Tooth And Nail (12 page)

The judge looked imperious as he pored over some papers in front of him, while just below him the Clerk of Court spoke in hushed tones into a telephone receiver. From the time it was taking to begin proceedings, Rebus realised two things. One was that the case was continuing, not beginning; the other was that some Point of Law had been placed before the judge, which the judge was now considering.

‘Here, seen this?’ Lamb was offering a tabloid to Flight. The newspaper had been folded to a quarter of its size and Lamb tapped one column as he passed it to his superior. Flight read quickly, glancing up at Rebus once or twice, then handed the paper to Rebus with a hint of a smile.

‘Here you go, expert.’

Rebus read through the unattributed piece. Basically, it concerned itself with the progress or lack of it on the Jean Cooper murder inquiry. But the closing paragraph was the killer: ‘The team investigating what have come to be known as the “Wolfman Murders” are being assisted by an expert on serial killers, drafted in from another police force.’

Rebus stared at the newsprint without really seeing it. Surely Cath Farraday wouldn’t have? But then how else had the newspaper got to know? He kept his eyes on the page, aware that both Flight and Lamb were looking at him. He couldn’t believe it:
him
, an
expert
! Whether it was true or not – and it wasn’t – didn’t really matter now. What mattered was that results would be expected from him, results above the norm. Yet he knew he couldn’t deliver and in not delivering he would be made to look a laughing stock. No wonder those two pairs of eyes burned into his head. No hard-working policeman liked to be usurped by ‘experts’. Rebus didn’t like it himself. He didn’t like any of it!

Flight saw the pained expression on Rebus’s face and felt sorry for the man. Lamb, however, was smirking, enjoying Rebus’s agony. He accepted his newspaper from Rebus and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

‘Thought you’d be interested,’ he said.

The judge finally looked up, his attention fixed on the jury. ‘Members of the jury,’ he began, ‘it has been brought to my attention in the case of Crown versus Thomas Watkiss that the evidence of Police Constable Mills contained a passage which may have lodged in your minds, influencing your objectivity.’

So, the man in the dock was Tommy Watkiss, Maria’s husband. Rebus studied him again, shaking his mind clear of the news story. Watkiss’s face was a curious shape, the top half much wider than the cheekbones and jaw, which fell almost to a point. He had the look of an old boxer who had suffered one dislocated jaw too many. The judge was going on about some cock-up in the police case. The arresting constable had given evidence stating that his first words on reaching the accused had been ‘Hello, Tommy, what’s going on here?’ By giving this in evidence, he had let the jury know that Watkiss was well known to the local constabulary, something which might well influence their judgment. The judge was therefore ordering the jury to be dismissed.

‘Good on ya, Tommy!’ came a cry from the public gallery, quickly silenced by a glare from the judge. Rebus wondered where he had heard the voice before.

As the court rose, Rebus stepped forward a few paces and turned to look up at the balcony. The spectators had risen, too, and in the front row Rebus could see a young man dressed in bike leathers and carrying a crash-helmet, grinning towards Watkiss. He raised his fist in a gesture of triumph, then turned and began to climb the steps to the gallery’s exit. It was Kenny, Samantha’s boyfriend. Rebus walked back to where Flight and Lamb were standing, watching him curiously, but Rebus directed his attention towards the dock. The look on Watkiss’s face was one of pure relief. DC Lamb, on the other hand, seemed ready to kill.

‘Luck of the fucking Irish,’ he spat.

‘Tommy’s no more Irish than you are, Lamb,’ Flight said phlegmatically.

‘What was the charge?’ Rebus asked, his mind still confused by the newspaper story, by Kenny’s presence in this place and by his actions. The judge was leaving by a green padded-leather door to the side of the jury box.

‘The usual,’ said Lamb, calming quickly. ‘Rape. When his old woman snuffed it, he needed somebody else on the game. So he tried to “persuade” a girl on his street that she could make a few bob. When that didn’t work, he lost his rag and had a go at her. Bastard. We’ll get him at the retrial. I still think he did for his old woman.’

‘Then find the evidence,’ said Flight. ‘Meantime, I can think of a certain Police Constable who needs a good kick up the arse.’

‘Yeah,’ said Lamb. He was grinning evilly at the thought, then took the hint and left the courtroom in search of the unfortunate PC Mills.

‘Inspector Flight.’ It was the prosecuting counsel, striding briskly towards them with documents and books cradled in his left arm, his right arm outstretched. Flight took the well-groomed hand and shook it.

‘Hello, Mr Chambers. This is Inspector Rebus. He’s come down from Scotland to help us on the Wolfman investigation.’

Chambers looked interested. ‘Ah, yes, the Wolfman. I look forward to prosecuting that particular case.’

‘I just hope we can give you the opportunity,’ said Rebus.

‘Well,’ said Chambers, ‘meanwhile it’s tricky enough landing the little fish like our friend.’ He glanced back in the direction of the dock, which now stood empty. ‘But we try,’ he said with a sigh, ‘we try.’ Then he paused, and added in an undertone, directed at Flight: ‘Get this, George, I don’t like being royally shafted by my own team. Okay?’

Flight blushed. Chambers had dressed him down in a way no Superintendent or Chief Constable could ever have done, and he knew it. ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ he said, moving away, ‘and good luck, Inspector Rebus.’

‘Thanks,’ Rebus called to the retreating figure.

Flight watched as Chambers pushed open the doors of the court, the tail of his wig flicking from side to side, robes flapping behind him. When the doors were closed, Flight chuckled.

‘Arrogant prick. But he’s the best there is.’

Rebus was beginning to wonder if anyone in London was second-rate. He’d been introduced to the ‘top’ pathologist, the ‘best’ prosecuting counsel, the ‘crack’ forensic team, the ‘finest’ police divers. Was it part of the city’s own arrogance?

‘I thought the best lawyers all went in for commercial work these days,’ Rebus said.

‘Not necessarily. It’s only the really greedy bastards who go in for City work. Besides, this sort of stuff is like a drug to Chambers and his ilk. They’re actors, bloody good ones at that.’

Yes, Rebus had known a few Oscar-winning advocates in his time, and had lost a few cases more to their technique than to the strength of their defence. They might earn a quarter of the riches earned by their brothers in the commercial sector, might take home a scant £50,000 each year, but they endured for the sake of their public.

Flight was moving towards the doors. ‘What’s more,’ he said, ‘Chambers studied for a time in the USA. They train them to be actors over there. They also train them to be hard-nosed bastards. I’m told he came out top of his class. That’s why we like having him on our side.’ Flight paused. ‘Do you still want a word with Tommy?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Why not?’

Out in the concourse, Watkiss was standing by one of the large windows, relishing a cigarette and listening to his solicitor. Then the two men started to walk away.

‘Tell you what,’ said Rebus, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Let’s skip Watkiss for the moment.’

‘Okay,’ said Flight. ‘You’re the
expert
after all.’ He saw the sour look on Rebus’s face and laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘I know you’re no expert.’

‘That’s very reassuring, George,’ Rebus said without conviction. He stared after Watkiss, thinking: And I’m not the only one leaving court without conviction.

Flight laughed again, but behind his smile he was still more than a little curious about Rebus’s action in the courtroom, walking out into the court like that to peer up at the public gallery. But if Rebus didn’t want to talk about it, then that was his privilege. Flight could bide his time. ‘So what now?’ he asked.

Rebus was rubbing his jaw. ‘My dental appointment,’ he said.

Anthony Morrison, who insisted that they call him Tony, was much younger than Rebus had been anticipating. No more than thirty-five, he had an underdeveloped body, so that his adult head seemed to have outgrown the rest of him. Rebus was aware that he was staring at Morrison with more than common interest. The scrubbed and shiny face, the tufts of bristle on chin and cheekbone where a razor had failed to fulfil its duties, the trimmed hair and keening eyes: in the street, he would have taken Morrison for a sixth-year pupil. Certainly, for a pathologist, albeit a dental pathologist, the man was in stark contrast to Philip Cousins.

On learning that Rebus was Scottish, Morrison had started on about the debt modern-day pathology owed to the Scots, ‘men like Glaister and Littlejohn and Sir Sydney Smith’ though the latter, Morrison had to admit, had been born in the Antipodes. He then said that his own father had been a Scotsman, a surgeon, and asked if Rebus knew that the earliest British Chair of Forensic Medicine had been founded in Edinburgh. Rebus, swept away by the welter of facts, said that this was news to him.

Morrison showed them into his office with an enthusiastic bounce to his walk. Once inside, however, the dentist’s demeanour changed from social to professional.

‘He’s been busy again,’ he said without preamble, leading them to the wall behind his desk, where several ten by eight colour and black and white photographs had been pinned. They showed precise close-ups of the bite marks left on Jean Cooper’s stomach. Arrows had been drawn in, leading from particular spots on certain photographs out to where pinned notes gave Morrison’s technical summary of his findings.

‘I know what to look for now, of course,’ he said, ‘so it didn’t take long to establish that these are probably the same teeth used in the previous attacks. A pattern is also emerging, however, perhaps a disturbing one.’ He went to his desk and returned with more photographs. ‘These are from victim number one. You’ll notice that the indents left by the teeth are less marked. They grow a little more marked by victims two and three. And now –’ he pointed to the current crop of pictures.

‘They’ve got even deeper,’ Rebus answered. Morrison beamed at him.

‘Quite right.’

‘So he’s becoming more violent.’

‘If you can term an attack made on someone who’s already dead “violent”, then yes, Inspector Rebus, he’s getting more violent, or perhaps more unstable would be a better way of phrasing it.’ Rebus and Flight exchanged a glance. ‘Apart from the change in the relative depth of the bite marks, there’s little I can add to my previous findings. The teeth are quite likely to be prosthetic –’

Rebus interrupted. ‘You mean false?’ Morrison nodded. ‘How can you tell?’

Morrison beamed again. The prodigy who liked to show off in front of his teachers. ‘How can I best explain this to a layman?’ He seemed to consider his own question for a moment. ‘Well, one’s own teeth – your own, for example, Inspector Rebus – and by the way, you should get them seen to – they get a little ragged over time. The cutting edge gets chipped and worn. The edge on false teeth is more likely to be smoother, more rounded. Less of an edge to the front teeth especially, and less chips and cracks.’

Rebus, lips closed, was running his tongue over his teeth. It was true, they had the serrated feel of a workman’s saw. He hadn’t visited a dentist in ten years or more, had never felt the need. But now Morrison had commented on them. Did they really look so awful?

‘So,’ Morrison continued, ‘for that reason, as well as for several others, I would say the killer has false teeth. But he also has very curious teeth indeed.’

‘Oh?’ Rebus tried to speak without showing Morrison any more of his own decaying mouth.

‘I’ve already explained this to Inspector Flight,’ Morrison paused so that Flight could nod agreement of this, ‘but briefly, the upper set has a greater biting curve than the lower set. From my measurements, I conclude that the person in possession of these teeth must have quite a strangely shaped face. I did draw some sketches, but I’ve managed to come up with something better. I’m glad you’ve come this afternoon.’ He walked over to a cupboard and opened it. Rebus looked to Flight, who merely shrugged. Morrison was turning towards them again, his right hand supporting a large object covered by an inverted brown-paper bag.

‘Behold,’ he said, lifting the bag from the object. ‘I bring you the head of the Wolfman!’

There was silence in the room, so that the traffic noise from outside became conspicuous. Neither Rebus nor Flight could think of anything immediately to say. Instead, they walked across to meet with the chuckling Morrison, who was regarding his creation with a measure of glee. There was a squeal of suddenly braking tyres outside.

‘The Wolfman,’ Morrison repeated. He was holding the cast of a human head, constructed so far as Rebus could ascertain from pale pink plaster. ‘You can ignore the idea from the nose upwards, if you prefer,’ said Morrison. ‘It’s fairly speculative, based on mean measurements taking into account the jaw. But the jaw itself is, I believe, pretty accurate.’

And a strange jaw it was. The upper teeth jutted out from the mouth, so that the lips over them and the skin below the nose was stretched and bulging. The lower jaw seemed tucked in beneath in what seemed to Rebus a Neanderthal display, to the extent that it almost disappeared. The chin had a narrow, pinched look and the cheekbones were swollen in a line with the nose, but concave as the face extended downwards. It was an extraordinary face, the like of which Rebus could not recall having encountered in the real world. But then this was not the real world, was it? It was a reconstruction, depending upon a measure of averages and guesswork. Flight was staring at it in fascination, as though committing the face to memory. Rebus had the chilling notion that Flight would release a photograph to the papers and charge the first poor soul he came across possessing such a physiognomy.