machine. He polished the toes of both well-worn black shoes before starting down to breakfast.
The restaurant area was busy, most of the customers looking like businessmen or tourists. The day’s newspapers had been arranged across one vacant table and Rebus lifted a Guardian before being directed to a table laid for one by the harassed waitress.
Breakfast was mainly help-yourself, with juices, cereals and fruit crammed onto a large central display. A pot of coffee appeared, unasked for, on his table, as did a toastrack filled with cool half-slices of lightly tanned bread. Not so much toasted as wafted in front of a lightbulb, Rebus thought to himself as he smeared a portion of butter across one pitiful triangle.
The Full English Breakfast consisted of one slice of bacon, one warm tomato (from a tin), three small mushrooms, a sickly egg and a curious little sausage. Rebus wolfed down the lot. The coffee wasn’t quite strong enough, but he finished the pot anyway and asked for a refill. All the time he was flicking through the paper, but only on a second examination did he find anything about the previous night’s murder: a short, bare-bones paragraph near the foot of page four.
Bare bones. He looked around him. An embarrassed looking couple were trying to hush their two vociferous children. Don’t, thought Rebus, don’t stifle them, let them live. Who could know what might happen tomorrow? They might be killed. The parents might be killed. His own daughter was here in London somewhere, living in a flat with his ex-wife. He should get in touch. He would get in touch. A businessman at a corner table rustled his tabloid noisily, drawing Rebus’s attention towards the front cover.
WOLFMAN BITES AGAIN.
Ah, that was more like it. Rebus reached for a final half-slice of toast, only to find that he’d run out of butter. A hand landed heavily on his shoulder from behind, causing him to drop the toast. Startled, he turned to see George Flight standing there.
‘Morning, John.’
‘Hello, George. Sleep okay?’
Flight pulled out the chair across from Rebus and sat down heavily, hands in his lap.
‘Not really. What about you?’
‘I managed a few hours.’ Rebus was about to turn his near-arrest on Shaftesbury Avenue into a morning anecdote, but decided to save it. There might come a time when they would need a funny story. ‘Do you want some coffee?’
Flight shook his head. He examined the food on display. ‘Some orange juice wouldn’t go amiss though.’ Rebus was about to rise, but Flight waved him down and rose himself to fetch a glassful, which he promptly downed. He squeezed his eyelids together. ‘Tastes like powdered,’ he said. ‘Better give me some of that coffee after all.’
Rebus poured another cup. ‘Seen that?’ he said, nodding towards the corner table. Flight glanced at the tabloid and smiled.
‘Well, it’s their story now as much as ours. Only difference is, we’ll keep things in perspective.’
‘I’m not sure just what that perspective is.’
Flight stared at Rebus, but said nothing. He sipped at the coffee. ‘There’s a conference in the Murder Room at eleven o’clock. I didn’t think we’d be able to make it, so I left Laine in charge. He likes being in charge.’
‘And what are we going to be doing?’
‘Well, we could go up to the Lea and check on the house-to-house. Or we could visit Mrs Cooper’s place of employment.’ Rebus didn’t look enthusiastic. ‘Or I could give you a tour of the other three murder scenes.’ Rebus perked up. ‘Okay,’ said Flight, ‘the scenic route it is. Drink up, Inspector. There’s a long day ahead.’
‘Just one thing,’ said Rebus, lifting the cup halfway to his mouth. ‘Why the nursemaid treatment? I’d have thought you’d have better things to do with your time than act as my chauffeur?’
Flight examined Rebus closely. Should he tell Rebus the real reason, or invent some story? He opted for invention and shrugged.
The restaurant area was busy, most of the customers looking like businessmen or tourists. The day’s newspapers had been arranged across one vacant table and Rebus lifted a Guardian before being directed to a table laid for one by the harassed waitress.
Breakfast was mainly help-yourself, with juices, cereals and fruit crammed onto a large central display. A pot of coffee appeared, unasked for, on his table, as did a toastrack filled with cool half-slices of lightly tanned bread. Not so much toasted as wafted in front of a lightbulb, Rebus thought to himself as he smeared a portion of butter across one pitiful triangle.
The Full English Breakfast consisted of one slice of bacon, one warm tomato (from a tin), three small mushrooms, a sickly egg and a curious little sausage. Rebus wolfed down the lot. The coffee wasn’t quite strong enough, but he finished the pot anyway and asked for a refill. All the time he was flicking through the paper, but only on a second examination did he find anything about the previous night’s murder: a short, bare-bones paragraph near the foot of page four.
Bare bones. He looked around him. An embarrassed looking couple were trying to hush their two vociferous children. Don’t, thought Rebus, don’t stifle them, let them live. Who could know what might happen tomorrow? They might be killed. The parents might be killed. His own daughter was here in London somewhere, living in a flat with his ex-wife. He should get in touch. He would get in touch. A businessman at a corner table rustled his tabloid noisily, drawing Rebus’s attention towards the front cover.
WOLFMAN BITES AGAIN.
Ah, that was more like it. Rebus reached for a final half-slice of toast, only to find that he’d run out of butter. A hand landed heavily on his shoulder from behind, causing him to drop the toast. Startled, he turned to see George Flight standing there.
‘Morning, John.’
‘Hello, George. Sleep okay?’
Flight pulled out the chair across from Rebus and sat down heavily, hands in his lap.
‘Not really. What about you?’
‘I managed a few hours.’ Rebus was about to turn his near-arrest on Shaftesbury Avenue into a morning anecdote, but decided to save it. There might come a time when they would need a funny story. ‘Do you want some coffee?’
Flight shook his head. He examined the food on display. ‘Some orange juice wouldn’t go amiss though.’ Rebus was about to rise, but Flight waved him down and rose himself to fetch a glassful, which he promptly downed. He squeezed his eyelids together. ‘Tastes like powdered,’ he said. ‘Better give me some of that coffee after all.’
Rebus poured another cup. ‘Seen that?’ he said, nodding towards the corner table. Flight glanced at the tabloid and smiled.
‘Well, it’s their story now as much as ours. Only difference is, we’ll keep things in perspective.’
‘I’m not sure just what that perspective is.’
Flight stared at Rebus, but said nothing. He sipped at the coffee. ‘There’s a conference in the Murder Room at eleven o’clock. I didn’t think we’d be able to make it, so I left Laine in charge. He likes being in charge.’
‘And what are we going to be doing?’
‘Well, we could go up to the Lea and check on the house-to-house. Or we could visit Mrs Cooper’s place of employment.’ Rebus didn’t look enthusiastic. ‘Or I could give you a tour of the other three murder scenes.’ Rebus perked up. ‘Okay,’ said Flight, ‘the scenic route it is. Drink up, Inspector. There’s a long day ahead.’
‘Just one thing,’ said Rebus, lifting the cup halfway to his mouth. ‘Why the nursemaid treatment? I’d have thought you’d have better things to do with your time than act as my chauffeur?’
Flight examined Rebus closely. Should he tell Rebus the real reason, or invent some story? He opted for invention and shrugged.
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