10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (81 page)

‘Nonsense, whatever gives you that –’

‘But I love him, Daddy.’ His heart spins once in his chest. ‘And I don’t want anything to happen to him.’

‘What makes you think something’s going to happen to him?’

‘The way he’s been acting lately, like he’s keeping secrets from me. Mum’s noticed it, too. I’m not just dreaming. But she said she thought maybe he was planning an engagement.’ She sees his eyes widen, and shakes her head. ‘I didn’t believe it. I knew it was something else. I thought, I don’t know, I just . . .’

He notices for the first time that they have an audience. Until now they might have been in a sealed box for all the notice he has taken of their surroundings. Now, though, he sees a bemused desk sergeant, two WPCs clutching paperwork to their bosoms and watching the scene with a kind of maternal glow, two unshaven men slumped in seats against the wall, just waiting.

‘Come on, Sammy,’ he says. ‘Let’s go up to my office.’

They were halfway to the Murder Room before he remembered that it was not, perhaps, the most wholesome environment for a teenage girl. The photos on the walls were only the start of it. A sense of humour was needed on a case like the Wolfman, and that sense of humour had begun to manifest itself in cartoons, jokes and mock-ups of newspaper stories either pinned to the noticeboards or taped onto the sides of computer screens. The language could be choice, too, or someone might be overheard in conversation with someone from forensics.

‘. . . torn . . . ripped her right . . . kitchen knife, they reckon . . . slit from ear . . . gouged . . . anus . . . nasty bastard . . . makes some of them seem almost human.’ Stories were swapped of serial killers past, of suicides scraped from railway lines, of police dogs playing ball with a severed head.

No, definitely not the place for his daughter. Besides, there was always the possibility that Lamb might be there.

Instead, he found a vacant interview room. It had been turned into a temporary cupboard while the investigation continued, filled with empty cardboard boxes, unneeded chairs, broken desk-lamps and computer keyboards, a heavy-looking manual typewriter. Eventually, the computers in the Murder Room would be packed back into the cardboard boxes, the files would be tidied away into dusty stacks somewhere.

For now, the room had a musty, barren feel, but it still boasted a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, a table and two chairs. On the table sat a glass ashtray full of stubs and two plastic coffee cups containing a layer of green and black mould. On the floor lay a crushed cigarette packet. Rebus kicked the packet beneath some of the stacked chairs.

‘It’s not much,’ he said, ‘but it’s home. Sit down. Do you want anything?’

She seemed not to understand the question. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know, coffee, tea?’

‘Diet Coke?’

Rebus shook his head.

‘What about Irn-Bru?’

Now he laughed: she was joking with him. He couldn’t bear to see her upset, especially over someone as undeserving as Kenny Watkiss.

‘Sammy,’ he asked, ‘does Kenny have an uncle?’

‘Uncle Tommy?’

Rebus nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

‘What about him?’

‘Well,’ said Rebus, crossing his legs, ‘what do you know about him?’

‘About Kenny’s Uncle Tommy? Not a lot.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘I think Kenny said he’s got a stall somewhere, you know, in a market.’

Like Brick Lane market? Did he sell false teeth?

‘Or maybe he just delivers to market stalls, I can’t really remember.’

Delivers stolen goods? Goods given to him by thieves like the one they’d picked up, the one who had pretended to be the Wolfman?

‘Anyway, he’s got a few bob.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Kenny told me. At least, I think he did. Otherwise how would I know?’

‘Where does Kenny work, Sammy?’

‘In the City.’

‘Yes, but for which firm?’

‘Firm?’

‘He’s a courier, isn’t he? He must work for a company?’

But she shook her head. ‘He went freelance when he had enough regular clients. I remember he said that his boss at the old place was pissed off –’ She broke off suddenly and looked up at him, her face going red. She’d forgotten for a moment that she was talking to her father, and not just to some copper. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ she apologised. ‘His boss was angry with him for taking away so much of the trade. Kenny was good, see, he knows all the shortcuts, knows which buildings are which. Some drivers get confused when they can’t find some tiny alleyway, or when the numbers on a street don’t seem to make sense.’ Yes. Rebus had noticed that; how sometimes the street numbers seemed illogical, as though numbers had been skipped. ‘But not Kenny. He knows London like the back of his hand.’

Knows London well, the roads, the shortcuts. On a motorbike, you could cut across London in a flash. Tow-paths, alleys – in a flash
.

‘What kind of bike does he have, Sammy?’

‘I don’t know. A Kawasaki something-or-other. He’s got one that he uses for work, because it’s not too heavy, and another he keeps for weekends, a really big bike.’

‘Where does he keep them? There can’t be too many safe places around the Churchill Estate?’

‘There are some garages nearby. They get vandalised, but Kenny’s put a reinforced door on. It’s like Fort Knox. I keep kidding him about it. It’s better guarded than his –’ Her voice falls flat. ‘How did you know he lives on Churchill?’

‘What?’

Her voice is stronger now, curious. ‘How did you know Kenny lives on Churchill?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I suppose he told me, that night I met him round at your place.’

She’s thinking back, trying to recall the conversation. But there’s nothing there, nothing she can latch onto. Rebus is thinking, too.

Like Fort Knox. A handy place to store stolen gear. Or a corpse
.

‘So,’ he says, pulling his chair a little further in to the table. ‘Tell me what
you
think has happened. What do you think he’s been keeping from you?’

She stared at the table-top, shaking her head slowly, staring, shaking, until finally: ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, had you fallen out over anything? Maybe you’d been arguing?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe he was jealous?’

She gave a desperate laugh. ‘No.’

‘Maybe he had other girlfriends?’

‘No!’

When her eyes caught his, Rebus felt a stirring of shame inside him. He couldn’t forget that she was his daughter; nor could he forget that he needed to ask her these questions. Somehow he kept swerving between the two, careering into her.

‘No,’ she repeated softly. ‘I’d have known if there was someone else.’

‘Friends, then: did he have any close friends?’

‘A few. Not many. I mean, he talked about them, but he never introduced me.’

‘Have you tried calling them? Maybe one of them knows something.’

‘I only know their first names. A couple of guys Kenny grew up with, Billy and Jim. Then there was someone called Arnold. He used to mention him. And one of the other bike messengers, I think his name was Roland or Ronald, something posh like that.’

‘Hold on, let me jot these down.’ Rebus took notebook and pen from his pocket. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘so that was Billy, Jim. What was the other one?’

‘Roland or Ronald or something.’ She watched him writing. ‘And Arnold.’

Rebus sat back in his chair. ‘Arnold?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever meet Arnold?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What did Kenny say about him?’

She shrugged. ‘He was just someone Kenny used to bump into. I think he worked the stalls, too. They went for a drink sometimes.’

It couldn’t be the same Arnold, could it? Flight’s bald sex-offender snitch? What were the chances? Going for a drink? They seemed unlikely supping companions, always supposing it was the same Arnold.

‘All right,’ Rebus said, closing the notebook. ‘Do you have a recent photo of Kenny? A good one, one that’s nice and sharp.’

‘I can get one. I’ve got some back at the house.’

‘Okay, I’ll get someone to drive you home. Give them the picture and they’ll bring it back to me. Let’s circulate Kenny’s description, that’s the first thing to do. Meanwhile I’ll do some snooping, see what I can come up with.’

She smiled. ‘It’s not really your patch, is it?’

‘No, it’s not my patch at all. But sometimes if you look at something, or some place, for too long, you stop seeing what’s there. Sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes to see what’s staring you in the face.’ He was thinking of Flight, of the reason Flight had brought him down here. He was thinking, too, of whether he, Rebus, could muster enough clout to organise a search for Kenny Watkiss. Maybe not without Flight to back him up. No, what was he thinking of? This was a missing person, for Christ’s sake. It had to be investigated. Yes, but there were ways and ways of investigating, and he could count on no preferential treatment, no favours, when it came to the crunch. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he asked now, ‘you know whether or not his bikes are still in the garage?’

‘I took a look. They’re both still there. That was when I started to get worried.’

‘Was there anything else in the garage?’ But she wasn’t listening to him.

‘He hardly ever goes anywhere without a bike. He hates buses and stuff. He said he was going to name his big bike after . . . after me.’

The tears came again. This time he let her cry, though it hurt him more than he could say. Better out than in, wasn’t that how the cliché went? She was blowing her nose when the door opened. Flight looked into the small room. His eyes said it all:
you might have taken her somewhere better than this
.

‘Yes, George? What can I do for you?’

‘After you left the lab,’ the pause showed displeasure at not having been informed or left a message, ‘they gave me a bit more gen on the letter itself.’

‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

Flight nodded but directed his attention to Samantha. ‘Are you okay, love?’

She sniffed. ‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Well,’ he said archly, ‘if you
do
want to register a complaint against Inspector Rebus, see the desk sergeant.’

‘Ach, get away, George,’ said Rebus.

Sammy was trying to giggle and blow her nose at the same time, and making a bit of a mess of both. Rebus winked towards Flight who, having done as much as he could (and for which Rebus was grateful), was now retreating.

‘You’re not all bad, are you?’ said Samantha when Flight had gone.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Policemen. You’re not all as bad as they say.’

‘You’re a copper’s daughter, Sammy. Remember that. And you’re a
straight
copper’s daughter. Be sure to stick up for your old dad. Okay?’

She smiled again. ‘You’re not old, Dad.’

He smiled, too, but did not reply. In truth, he was basking in the compliment, whether it was mere flattery or no. What mattered was that Sammy, his daughter Sammy, had said it.

‘Right,’ he said at last, ‘let’s get you into a car. And don’t worry, pet, we’ll track down your missing beau.’

‘You called me pet again.’

‘Did I? Don’t tell your mother.’

‘I won’t. And, Dad?’

‘What?’ He half-turned towards her just in time to receive her peck on the cheek.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Whatever happens, thanks.’

Flight was in the small office of the Murder Room. After the close confines of the interview cupboard, this space had suddenly taken on a new, much larger dimension. Rebus sat himself down and swung one leg over the other.

‘So what’s this about the Wolfman letter?’ he said.

‘So,’ replied Flight, ‘what’s this about Kenny Watkiss disappearing?’

‘You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.’

Flight picked up a folder, opened it, took out three or four closely typed sheets of paper, and began to read.

‘Typeface used is Helvetica. Unusual for personal correspondence, though used by newspapers and magazines.’ Flight looked up meaningfully.

‘A reporter?’ Rebus said doubtfully.

‘Well, think about it,’ said Flight. ‘Every crime reporter in England knows about Lisa Frazer by now. They could probably find out where she lives, too.’

Rebus considered this. ‘Okay,’ he said at last, ‘go on.’

‘Helvetica can be found on some electronic typewriters and electric golfball machines, but is more commonly found on computers and word processors.’ Flight glanced up. ‘This would correlate with density of type. The type itself is of very even quality . . . blah, blah, blah. Also, the letters line up neatly, suggesting that a good quality printer has been used, probably a daisywheel, suggesting in turn the use of a high quality word processor or word-processing package. However,’ Flight went on, ‘the letter K becomes faint towards the tips of its stem.’ Flight paused to turn the page. Rebus wasn’t really paying a great deal of attention as yet, and neither was George Flight. Labs always came up with more information than was useful. So far, all Rebus had really been hearing was the chaff.

‘This is more interesting,’ Flight went on. ‘Inside the envelope particles were found which appear to be flecks of paint, yellow, green and orange predominating. Perhaps an oil-based paint: tests are still continuing.’

‘So we’ve got a crime reporter who fancies himself as Van Gogh?’

Flight wasn’t rising to the bait. He read through the rest of the report quickly to himself. ‘That’s pretty much it,’ he said. ‘What’s left is more to do with what they failed to find: no prints, no stains, no hair or fibres.’

‘No personalised watermark?’ Rebus asked. In detective novels, the personalised watermark would lead to a small family business run by an eccentric old man, who would recall selling the paper to someone called . . . And that would be it: crime solved. Neat, ingenious, but it seldom happened like that. He thought of Lisa again; of Cousins. No, not Cousins: it couldn’t be Cousins. And besides, he wouldn’t try anything with those two gorillas in attendance.

‘No personalised watermark,’ Flight was saying. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh well,’ Rebus offered, with a loud sigh, ‘we’re no further forward, are we?’