Tooth And Nail by Ian Rankin Page A

Rebus?’
    ‘That’s right. Dr Frazer, I presume?’
    ‘Yes.’ She showed a row of perfect teeth as Rebus invited her to take a seat. ‘Though I’d better explain.’ Rebus fixed his eyes on her own and nodded. He kept his eyes fixed on hers for fear that otherwise they would be drawn down to her slim tanned legs, to that point where, an inch above the knee, her cream skirt began, hugging her thighs. He had taken her body in with a single sweeping glance. She was tall, almost as tall as him. Her legs were bare and long, her body supple. She was wearing a jacket to match the skirt and a plain white blouse, set off by a single string of pearls. There was a slight, exquisite scar on her throat just above the pearls and her face was tanned and without make-up, her jaw square, her hair straight and black, tied back with a black band, so that a shock of it fell onto one shoulder. She had brought a soft black leather briefcase into the room, which she now held up in her lap, running her fingers around the handles as she spoke.
    ‘I’m not a medical doctor.’ Rebus registered slight surprise. ‘I’m a doctor courtesy of my Ph.D. I teach psychology at University College.’
    ‘And you’re American,’ said Rebus.
    ‘Canadian actually.’
    Yes, he should have known. There was a soft lilt to her accent, something few Americans possessed. And she wasn’t quite as nasal as the tourists who stopped in Princes Street to get a picture of the Scott Monument.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘so, what can I do for you, Dr Frazer?’
    ‘Well, I did talk to someone on the telephone this morning and I told them of my interest in the Wolfman case.’
    Rebus could see it all now. Another nutter with some crazy idea about the Wolfman, that’s probably what the Murder Room had thought. So they’d decided to play a joke on him, arranged a meeting without letting him know, and then Flight, forewarned, had made himself scarce. Well, the joke was on them. Rebus could always find time for an attractive woman, crazy or not. After all, he had nothing better to do, had he?
    ‘Go on,’ he said.
    ‘I’d like to try to put together a profile of the Wolfman.’
    ‘A profile?’
    ‘A psychological profile. Like an identikit, but building up a picture of the mind rather than the face. I’ve been doing some research on criminal profiling and I think I can use similar criteria to help you come to a clearer understanding of the killer.’ She paused. ‘What do you think?’
    ‘I’m wondering what’s in it for you, Dr Frazer.’
    ‘Perhaps I’m just being public spirited.’ She looked down into her lap and smiled. ‘But really, what I’m looking for is validation of my methods. So far I’ve been experimenting with old police cases. Now I want to tackle something real.’
    Rebus sat back in his chair and picked up the pen again, pretending to study it. When he looked up, he saw that she was studying him. She was a psychologist after all. He put down the pen. ‘It isn’t a game,’ he said, ‘and this isn’t a lecture theatre. Four women are dead, a maniac is loose somewhere and right now we’re quite busy enough following up all the leads and the false trails we’ve got. Why should we make time for you, Dr Frazer?’
    She coloured, her cheekbones blushed a deep red. But she seemed to have no ready answer. Rebus hadn’t much to add, so he too sat in silence. His mouth was sour and dry, his throat coated in a layer of resin. Where was the tea?
    Eventually she spoke. ‘All I want to do is read through the material on the case.’
    Rebus found some spare sarcasm. ‘That’s all ?’ He tapped the mound of paperwork in the in-tray. ‘No problem then, it’ll only take you a couple of months.’ She was ignoring him, fumbling with the briefcase. She produced a slim orange folder.
    ‘Here,’ she said stonily. ‘Just read this. It’ll only take you twenty minutes. It’s one of the profiles I did of an American serial killer. If