Tooth And Nail (27 page)

‘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?’

Flight was looking at the report, as though willing something, some clue, to grab his attention. Then: ‘So what’s all this about Kenny Watkiss?’

‘He’s scarpered under mysterious circumstances. Good riddance, I’d say, but it’s left Sammy in a bit of a state. I said we’d do what we could.’

‘You can’t get involved, John. Leave it to us.’

‘I don’t want to get involved, George. This one’s all yours.’ The voice seemed ingenuous enough, but Flight was long past being fooled by John Rebus. He grinned and shook his head.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ said Rebus, leaning forward in his chair, ‘Sammy did mention one of Kenny’s associates. Someone called Arnold who worked on a market stall, at least she thinks he works in or around a market.’

‘You think it’s my Arnold?’ Flight thought it over. ‘It’s possible.’

‘Too much of a coincidence, you think?’

‘Not in a city as small as this.’ Flight saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘I’m being serious, actually. The small-time crooks, they’re like a little family. If this was Sicily, you could cram every small-timer in London into a village. Everybody knows everybody else. It’s the big-timers we can’t pin. They keep themselves too much to themselves, never go down the pub shooting their mouths off after a couple of Navy Rums.’

‘Can we talk to Arnold?’

‘What for?’

‘Maybe he knows something about Kenny.’

‘Even supposing he does, why should he tell us?’

‘Because we’re police officers, George. And he’s a member of the public. We’re here to uphold law and order, and it’s his duty to help us in that onerous task.’ Rebus was reflective. ‘Plus I’ll slip him twenty quid.’

Flight sounded incredulous. ‘This is London, John. A score can hardly get a round of drinks. Arnold gives good gen, but he’ll be looking for a pony at least.’ Now he was playing with Rebus, and Rebus, realising it, smiled.

‘If Arnold wants a pony,’ he said, ‘tell him I’ll buy him one for Christmas. And a little girl to sit on it. Just so long as he tells me what he knows.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Flight. ‘Come on then, let’s go find ourselves a street market.’

Flight was struggling with half a dozen large brown-paper bags, the fruits – literally – of asking for Arnold at three or four market stalls so far. Rebus had refused the offers of free bananas, oranges, pears and grapes, though Flight had prodded him to accept.

‘It’s a local custom,’ Flight said. ‘They get annoyed if you don’t accept. Like a Glaswegian offering you a drink. Would you turn it down? No, because then you’d offend him. Same with these guys.’

‘What would I do with three pounds of bananas?’

‘Eat them,’ said Flight blandly. Then, cryptically: ‘Unless you were Arnold, of course.’

He refused to explain the meaning of this, and Rebus refused to consider the various possibilities. They moved from stall to stall, passing most, stopping at only a few. In their way, they were like the women who crushed in all around them, feeling this or that mango or aubergine, checking prices at the various stalls, pausing only at a few to make their final purchases.

‘’Allo, George.’

‘Blimey, George, where you been hiding yourself?’

‘All right there, George? How’s your love life?’

It seemed to Rebus that half the stall-holders and most of their box- and tray-carrying assistants knew Flight. At one point, Flight nodded behind one of the stalls, where a young man was disappearing rapidly along the street.

‘Jim Jessop,’ he said. ‘He skipped bail a couple of weeks back.’

‘Shouldn’t we …?’

But Flight shook his head. ‘Another time, eh, John? The little bugger was three-A’s standard in the thousand metres. I don’t feel like a run today, what about you?’

‘Fair enough,’ said Rebus, aware that here, in this place, on this ‘patch’, he was very much the bystander, the tourist. This was Flight’s territory. The man moved confidently through the throng, spoke easily with the various vendors, was in every way quite at home. Eventually, after a chat with the man behind the fresh fish counter, Flight returned with a bag of mussels, another of scallops and information on where Arnold might be found. He led Rebus behind the market stalls onto the pavement and then into a narrow alleyway.