case out of their minds, but could not. It was like that with big murder inquiries; they got to you, physically and mentally, consuming you and making you work all the harder. There was a rush of pure adrenalin behind every murder. It kept them going past the point of no return.
‘I’d better be getting back to the flat,’ said Rebus.
‘No, have another.’
Jack Morton weaved towards the bar, his empty glass in his hand.
Rebus, his mind foggy, thought more about his mysterious correspondent. He suspected Rhona, though it could not be said to be her style. He suspected his daughter Sammy, perhaps taking a delayed-action revenge for her father’s dismissal of her from his life. Family and acquaintances were, initially at least, always the chief suspects. But it could be anyone, anyone who knew where he worked and where he lived. Someone in his own force was always a possibility to be feared.
The 10,000 dollar question, as ever, was why?
‘Here we go, two lovely pints of beer, gratis from the management.’
‘I call that very public-spirited,’ said Rebus.
‘Or publican-spirited, eh, John?’ Morton chuckled at his joke, wiping froth from his top lip. He noticed that Rebus wasn’t laughing. ‘A penny for them,’ he said.
‘A serial killer,’ said Rebus. ‘It must be. In which case we’ve not seen the last of our friend’s handiwork.’
Morton put down his glass, suddenly not very thirsty.
‘Those girls went to different schools,’ continued Rebus, ‘lived in different areas of the city, had different tastes, different friends, were of different religions, and were killed by the same murderer in the same way and without noticeable abuse of any kind. We’re dealing with a maniac. He could be anywhere.’
A fight was breaking out at the bar, apparently over a game of dominoes, which had gone very badly wrong. A glass fell to the floor, followed by a hush in the bar. Then everyone seemed to calm down a little. One man was led outside by his supporters in the argument. Another remained slumped against the bar, muttering to a woman beside him.
Morton took a gulp of beer.
‘Thank God we’re off duty,’ he said. Then: ‘Fancy a curry?’
Morton finished the chicken vindaloo and threw his fork down on to the plate.
‘I reckon I ought to have a word with the Health Department boys,’ he said, still chewing. ‘Either that or the Trading Standards. Whatever that was, it wasn’t chicken.’
They were in a small curry-house near Haymarket Station. Purple lighting, red flock wallpaper, a churning wall of sitar-music.
‘You looked as if you were enjoying it,’ said Rebus, finishing his beer.
‘Oh yes, I enjoyed it, but it wasn’t chicken.’
‘Well, there’s nothing to complain about if you enjoyed it.’ Rebus sat slant-wise on his chair, his legs straight out before him, an arm along the chair’s back while he smoked his umpteenth cigarette that day.
Morton leaned unsteadily towards his partner.
‘John, there’s always something to complain about, especially if you think you can get off with not paying the bill by doing so.’
He winked at Rebus, sat back, burped, and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
‘Garbage,’ he said.
Rebus tried to count the number of cigarettes he himself had smoked that day, but his brain told him that such calculations were not to be attempted.
‘I wonder what our friend the murderer is up to at this exact moment?’ he said.
‘Finishing a curry?’ suggested Morton. ‘Trouble is, John, he could be one of these Joe Normal types, clean on the surface, married with kids, your average suburban hardworking chap, but underneath a nutter, pure and simple.’
‘There’s nothing simple about our man.’
‘True.’
‘But you could well be right. You mean that he’s a sort of Jekyll and Hyde, right?’
‘Exactly.’ Morton flicked ash onto the table-top, already splashed with curry sauce and beer. He was peering at his empty plate as though
‘I’d better be getting back to the flat,’ said Rebus.
‘No, have another.’
Jack Morton weaved towards the bar, his empty glass in his hand.
Rebus, his mind foggy, thought more about his mysterious correspondent. He suspected Rhona, though it could not be said to be her style. He suspected his daughter Sammy, perhaps taking a delayed-action revenge for her father’s dismissal of her from his life. Family and acquaintances were, initially at least, always the chief suspects. But it could be anyone, anyone who knew where he worked and where he lived. Someone in his own force was always a possibility to be feared.
The 10,000 dollar question, as ever, was why?
‘Here we go, two lovely pints of beer, gratis from the management.’
‘I call that very public-spirited,’ said Rebus.
‘Or publican-spirited, eh, John?’ Morton chuckled at his joke, wiping froth from his top lip. He noticed that Rebus wasn’t laughing. ‘A penny for them,’ he said.
‘A serial killer,’ said Rebus. ‘It must be. In which case we’ve not seen the last of our friend’s handiwork.’
Morton put down his glass, suddenly not very thirsty.
‘Those girls went to different schools,’ continued Rebus, ‘lived in different areas of the city, had different tastes, different friends, were of different religions, and were killed by the same murderer in the same way and without noticeable abuse of any kind. We’re dealing with a maniac. He could be anywhere.’
A fight was breaking out at the bar, apparently over a game of dominoes, which had gone very badly wrong. A glass fell to the floor, followed by a hush in the bar. Then everyone seemed to calm down a little. One man was led outside by his supporters in the argument. Another remained slumped against the bar, muttering to a woman beside him.
Morton took a gulp of beer.
‘Thank God we’re off duty,’ he said. Then: ‘Fancy a curry?’
Morton finished the chicken vindaloo and threw his fork down on to the plate.
‘I reckon I ought to have a word with the Health Department boys,’ he said, still chewing. ‘Either that or the Trading Standards. Whatever that was, it wasn’t chicken.’
They were in a small curry-house near Haymarket Station. Purple lighting, red flock wallpaper, a churning wall of sitar-music.
‘You looked as if you were enjoying it,’ said Rebus, finishing his beer.
‘Oh yes, I enjoyed it, but it wasn’t chicken.’
‘Well, there’s nothing to complain about if you enjoyed it.’ Rebus sat slant-wise on his chair, his legs straight out before him, an arm along the chair’s back while he smoked his umpteenth cigarette that day.
Morton leaned unsteadily towards his partner.
‘John, there’s always something to complain about, especially if you think you can get off with not paying the bill by doing so.’
He winked at Rebus, sat back, burped, and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
‘Garbage,’ he said.
Rebus tried to count the number of cigarettes he himself had smoked that day, but his brain told him that such calculations were not to be attempted.
‘I wonder what our friend the murderer is up to at this exact moment?’ he said.
‘Finishing a curry?’ suggested Morton. ‘Trouble is, John, he could be one of these Joe Normal types, clean on the surface, married with kids, your average suburban hardworking chap, but underneath a nutter, pure and simple.’
‘There’s nothing simple about our man.’
‘True.’
‘But you could well be right. You mean that he’s a sort of Jekyll and Hyde, right?’
‘Exactly.’ Morton flicked ash onto the table-top, already splashed with curry sauce and beer. He was peering at his empty plate as though
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