Tooth And Nail (22 page)

‘If you’ll just hold a minute, Inspector Rebus, I believe Chief Inspector Laine wants a word.’

‘But, Christ, I don’t want –’ Too late, the voice at the other end had gone. Rebus held the receiver away from him and scowled.

Eventually, Howard Laine came on the line. Rebus pushed a finger into one ear, pressing his other ear hard against the earpiece.

‘Ah, Inspector Rebus. I wanted a quiet word. You’re a hard man to catch. About that business last night.’ Laine’s was the voice of reasoned sanity. ‘You’re about a bollock-hair’s breadth away from an official reprimand, understand? Pull a stunt like that again and I’ll personally see to it that you’re shipped back to Jockland in the boot of a National Express bus. Got that?’

Rebus was silent, listening closely. He could almost hear Cath Farraday sitting in Laine’s office, smirking.

‘I said, have you got that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ A rustling of paper. ‘Now, you want an address I believe?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It’s a lead, you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus suddenly wondered if this would be worth it. He hoped so. If they found out he was abusing the system like this, they’d have him in the dole office with prospects roughly equivalent to those of a shoeshine boy on a nudist beach.

But Laine gave him the address and, as a bonus, supplied Kenny’s surname.

‘Watkiss,’ said Laine. ‘The address is Pedro Tower, Churchill Estate, E5. I think that’s Hackney.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Rebus.

‘Oh by the way,’ said Laine, ‘Inspector Rebus?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘From what I’ve been told of Churchill Estate, if you’re intending to visit, tell us first. We’ll arrange for an SPG escort. All right?’

‘Bit rough is it then, sir?’

‘Rough doesn’t begin to tell the story, son. We train the SAS in there, pretend it’s a mock-up of Beirut.’

‘Thanks for the advice, sir.’ Rebus wanted to add that he’d been in the SAS and he doubted Pedro Tower could throw anything at him that the SAS HQ in Hereford hadn’t. All the same, it paid to be cautious. The brickies were playing pool, their accents a mix of Irish and Cockney.
Born to be Wild
had finished. Rebus finished his pint and ordered another.

Kenny Watkiss. So there was a connection and rather a large one at that, between Tommy Watkiss and Samantha’s boyfriend. How was it that in a city of ten million souls, Rebus had suddenly begun to feel an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia? He felt like someone had wrapped a muffler around his mouth and pulled a Balaclava down over his head.

‘I’d be careful, mate,’ said the barman as Rebus took delivery of his second pint. ‘That stuff can kill you.’

‘Not if I kill it first,’ said Rebus, winking as he raised the glass to his lips.

The taxi driver wouldn’t take him as far as the Churchill Estate. ‘I’ll drop you off a couple of streets away and show you where to go, but there’s no way I’m going in there.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Rebus.

So he took the taxi as far as the taxi would take him, then walked the remaining distance. It didn’t look so bad. He’d seen worse on the outskirts of Edinburgh. A lot of dull concrete, nuggets of glass underfoot, boarded windows and spray-painted gang names on every wall. Jeez Posse seemed to be the main gang, though there were other names so fantastically contrived that he could not make them out. Young boys skateboarded through an arena constructed from milk-crates, wooden planks and bricks. You couldn’t muzzle the creative mind. Rebus stopped to watch for a moment; it only took a moment to appreciate that these boys were masters of their craft.

Rebus came to the entrance of one of the estate’s four high-rises. He was busy looking for an identifying mark when something went splat on the pavement beside him. He looked down. It was a sandwich, a salami sandwich by the look of it. He craned his neck to look up at the various levels of the tower block, just in time to catch sight of something large and dark growing larger and darker as it hurtled towards him.

‘Jesus Christ!’ He leapt into the safety of the block’s entrance hall, just as the TV set landed, flattening itself with an explosion of plastic, metal and glass. From their arena, the boys cheered. Rebus moved outside again, but more warily now, and craned his neck. There was no one to be seen. He whistled under his breath. He was impressed, and a little scared. Despite the thunderous sound, nobody seemed curious or interested.

He wondered which television show had so angered the person somewhere above him. ‘Everyone’s a critic,’ he said. And then: ‘FYTP.’

He heard a lift opening. A young woman, greasy dyed-blonde hair, gold stud in her nose and three in each ear, spider-web tattoo across her throat. She wheeled a pushchair out onto the concrete. Seconds earlier she would have been beneath the television.

‘Excuse me,’ said Rebus above the noise of her wailing passenger.

‘Yeah?’

‘Is this Pedro Tower?’

‘Over there,’ she said, pointing a sharpened fingernail towards one of the remaining blocks.

‘Thank you.’

She glanced towards where the television had landed. ‘It’s the kids,’ she said. ‘They break into a flat, and throw a sandwich out of the window. A dog comes to eat it, and they chuck a telly after it. Makes a helluva mess.’ She sounded almost amused. Almost.

‘Lucky I don’t like salami,’ Rebus said.

But she was already manoeuvring the pushchair past the fresh debris. ‘If you don’t shut up I’ll fucking kill you!’ she yelled at her child. Rebus walked on unsteady legs towards Pedro Tower.

Why was he here?

It had all seemed to make sense, had seemed logical. But now that he stood in the sour-smelling ground-floor hallway of Pedro Tower he found that he had no reason at all to be here. Rhona had said that Sammy was out with Kenny. The chances of them choosing to spend the evening in Pedro Tower must be slim, mustn’t they?

Even supposing Kenny were here, how would Rebus locate the flat? The locals would sniff an enquiring copper from fifty paces. Questions would go unanswered, knocked doors would stay unopened. Was this what intellectuals called an impasse? He could always wait, of course. Kenny would be sure to return at some point. But wait where? In here? Too conspicuous, too unappealing. Outside? Too cold, too open, too many armchair critics high above him in the now-dark sky.

Which left him where precisely? Yes, this probably was an impasse. He walked from the block, his eyes on the windows above him, and was about to make off in the direction of the skateboarders when a scream split the air from the other side of Pedro Tower. He walked quickly towards the source of the sound and was in time to see the butt-end of a burning argument. The woman – no more than a girl really, seventeen, eighteen – hit the bedenimed man with a good right hand, sending him spinning. Then she stalked off as he, holding one side of his face, tried to hurl obscenities at her while at the same time feeling in his mouth for damaged teeth.

They did not interest Rebus particularly. He was looking past them to a low-built, dimly illuminated building, a prefabricated construction surrounded by grass and dirt. A weathered board, lit by a single bulb, proclaimed it The Fighting Cock. A pub? Here? That was no place for a policeman, no place for a
Scots
policeman. But what if …? No, it couldn’t be so simple. Sammy and Kenny couldn’t be in there, wouldn’t be in there. His daughter deserved better. Deserved the best.

But then she reckoned Kenny Watkiss was the best. And maybe he was. Rebus stopped dead. Just what the hell was he doing? Okay, so he didn’t like Kenny. And when he had seen Kenny cheering in the Old Bailey, he had put two and two together and come to the conclusion that Kenny was in deep with Tommy Watkiss. But now it turned out the two were related in some way and that would explain the cheer, wouldn’t it?

The psychology books told him that coppers read the worst into every situation. It was true. He didn’t like the fact that Kenny Watkiss was dating his daughter. If Kenny had been heir apparent to the throne, Rebus would still have been suspicious. She was his daughter. He’d hardly seen her since she had entered her teens. In his mind she was still a child, a thing to be cosseted, loved, and protected. But she was a big girl now, with ambition, drive, good looks and a grown-up body. She was grown-up, there was no escaping it, and it scared him. Scared him because she was Sammy, his Sammy. Scared him because he hadn’t been there all these years to warn her, to tell her how to cope, what to do.

Scared because he was getting old.

There, it was out. He was growing old. He had a sixteen-year-old daughter and she was old enough to leave school and get a job, to have sex, to get married. Not old enough to go into pubs, but that wouldn’t stop her. Not old enough for street-wise eighteen-year-olds like Kenny Watkiss. But grown-up all the same; grown-up without him, and now he too was old.

And by God he felt it.

He plunged his left hand deep into his pocket, his right hand still wrapped around the handle of the carrier-bag, and turned from the pub. There was a bus stop near where the taxi had dropped him. He’d go where the bus would take him. The skateboarders were coming along the path in front of him. One of them seemed very proficient, weaving without losing balance. As the boy approached, he suddenly flipped the board up so that it spun in the air in front of him. Both hands neatly grabbed the board by its running-tail and swung the board itself in a backward arc. Too late, Rebus saw the manoeuvre for what it was. He tried to duck but the heavy wooden board hit the side of his head with a sharp crack.

He staggered, dropped to his knees. They were on him immediately, seven or eight of them, hands gouging into his pockets.

‘Fuckin’ split my board, man. Lookatit. Fuckin’ six inch split.’

A training shoe caught Rebus on the chin and sent him flying. He was concentrating on not losing consciousness, so much so that he forgot to fight or to scream or to defend himself. Then a loud voice:

‘Oi! What the fuck d’you think you’re up to?’

And they ran, rolling their boards until they had gained enough speed, the hard wheels crackling on the tarmac as they fled. Like a posse in an old western, Rebus thought with a smile. Like a posse.

‘You all right, mate? Come on, let’s get you up.’

The man helped Rebus to his feet. When his eyes regained their powers of focus, he saw blood on the man’s lip, smeared across his chin. The man noticed him looking.

‘My bird,’ he said, his breath rich with alcohol. ‘She fuckin’ clocked me, didn’t she? Got me a good one, too. Couple of loose teeth. Still, they was rotten anyway, probably saved me a fortune at the dentist’s.’ He laughed. ‘Come on, let’s get you into the Cock. A couple of brandies’ll see you right.’

‘Took my money,’ Rebus said. He was clutching the carrier-bag to him like a shield.

‘Never mind that,’ said his Samaritan.

They were kind to him. They sat him down at a table, and every now and again a drink would appear, and someone would say ‘That one’s from Bill’, or ‘That one’s from Tessa’, or ‘That one’s from Jackie’, or ‘That one’s from …’

They were kind to him. They collected a fiver so he could get a taxi back to his hotel. He explained that he was a tourist, down here for a bit of sightseeing. He’d managed to get lost, had jumped off a bus and ended up here. And they, kind souls, believed him.

They didn’t bother phoning the police.

‘Those bastards,’ they spat. ‘Waste of time. Wouldn’t turn up till tomorrow morning and then they’d do nothing. It’s the cops round here that are behind half the crimes, believe me.’

And he did. He did believe them. And another drink arrived, another brandy in a small schooner.

‘All the best, eh?’

And they were playing cards and dominoes, a lively crowd, a regular crowd. The TV blared – a musical quiz show – and the jukebox sang and the one-armed bandit bleeped and buzzed and spat out an occasional win. He thanked God Sammy and Kenny weren’t here. How would it have looked to them? He dreaded to think.

At one point he excused himself and went to the toilet. There was a jagged triangle of mirror nailed to one wall. The side of his head, jaw and ear, were red and would probably bruise. The jaw would ache for some time. Where the shoe had connected, there was already a red and purple welt. Nothing more. Nothing worse. No knives or razor blades. No massed assault. It had been a clean, professional hit. The way that kid had flipped the board, caught it and swung it. Professional. An absolute pro. If Rebus ever caught him, he would congratulate him on one of the sweetest moves he had ever seen.

Then he’d kick the little bastard’s teeth so far down his throat they’d bite his small intestine.

He reached down the front of his trousers and drew out his wallet. The warning from Laine and the knowledge that he was on uncharted ground, had been enough to persuade Rebus that he should hide his wallet. Not to save him from muggers, no. So that no one would find his ID. It was bad enough being a stranger in this place, but being a copper…. So he had hidden the wallet, ID and all, down the front of his underpants, tucked into the elasticated waistband. He slipped it back there now. After all, he was not yet clear of Churchill Estate. The night might turn out to be a long one.

He pulled open the door and headed back to his table. The brandy was working. His head was numb, his limbs pleasantly flexible.

‘You all right there, Jock?’

He hates that name, absolutely loathes it, but he smiles nevertheless. ‘I’m all right. Oh yes, I’m quite all right.’

‘Great. By the way, this one’s from Harry at the bar.’

After she has posted the letter, she feels a lot better. She does some work, but soon begins to twitch inside. It’s like feeding a habit now. But it’s also an art form. Art? Fuck art. So unbecoming in a man. So art unbecoming fuck in a man. So fuck a man in unbecoming art. They used to quarrel, squabble, argue all the time. No, that’s not true. She remembers it that way but it wasn’t that way. For a while it was, but then they just stopped communicating altogether. Her mother. Her father. Mother, strong, domineering, determined to be a great painter, a great watercolourist. Every day busy at an easel, ignoring her child who needed her, who would creep into the studio and sit quietly in a corner, crouched, trying not to be noticed. If noticed, she would be sent out of the room fiercely, red hot tears streaming down her face.