Tooth And Nail (25 page)

Flight smiled. ‘Well, you did say she was a teacher.’

‘Yes, she still is actually. Lives in Mile End with my daughter.’

‘Mile End? Bloody hell. Gentrified gangland, no place for any copper’s daughter.’

Rebus smiled at the irony. It was time to confess. ‘Actually, George, I’ve found out she’s going out with someone called Kenny Watkiss.’

‘Oh dear. Who is? Your missus or your daughter?’

‘My daughter. Her name’s Samantha.’

‘And she’s going out with Kenny Watkiss? How old is he?’

‘Older than her. Eighteen, nineteen, something like that. He’s a bike messenger in the City.’

Flight nodded, understanding now. ‘He was the one who shouted from the public gallery?’ Flight thought for a moment. ‘Well, from what I know of the Watkiss family history, I’d say Kenny must be Tommy’s nephew. Tommy’s got a brother, Lenny, he’s doing time just now. Lenny’s a big softie, not like Tommy. He’s in for fraud, tax evasion, clocking cars, naughty kites, I mean bad cheques. It’s all fourth division stuff, but it mounts up, and when there’s enough of it against you at any one sitting of the bench, well, it’s odds on you’ll go inside, isn’t it?’

‘It’s no different in Scotland.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it is. So, do you want me to find out what I can about this bike messenger?’

‘I already know where he stays. Churchill Estate, it’s a housing estate in –’

Flight was chuckling. ‘You don’t have to tell any copper in Greater London where Churchill Estate is, John. They use that place to train the SAS.’

‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘so Laine said.’

‘Laine? What’s he got to do with it?’

In for a penny, thought Rebus. ‘I had Kenny’s telephone number. I needed an address.’

‘And Laine got it for you? What did you tell him it was for?’

‘The Wolfman case.’

Flight flinched, his face creasing. ‘You keep forgetting, John, you’re our
guest
down here. You don’t go pulling stunts like that. When Laine finds out –’

‘If he finds out.’

But Flight was shaking his head. ‘
When
he finds out. There’s no “if” about it, believe me. When he finds out, he won’t bother with you. He won’t even bother with who’s directly above you. He’ll go to your Chief Super back in Edinburgh and give him the most incredible verbals. I’ve seen him do it.’

Do a good job, John. Remember, you’re representing our force down there
.

Rebus blew on the coffee. The notion of anyone giving ‘verbals’ to Farmer Watson was almost amusing. ‘I always did fancy getting back into uniform,’ he said.

Flight stared at him. The fun was over. ‘There are some rules, John. We can get away with breaking a few, but some are sacrosanct, carved into stone by God Almighty. And one of them states that you don’t muck around with someone like Laine just to satisfy your own personal curiosity.’ Flight was angry, and trying to make a point, but he was also whispering, not wanting anyone to hear.

Rebus, not really caring any more, was half-smiling as he whispered back. ‘So what do I do? Tell him the truth? Oh hello there, Chief Inspector, my daughter’s winching with someone I don’t like. Can I have the young man’s address, please, so I can go and belt him? Is that how I do it?’

Flight paused, then frowned. ‘Winching?’

Now he too was smiling, though trying hard not to show it. Rebus laughed aloud.

‘It means dating,’ he said. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you don’t know what hoolit means.’

‘Try me,’ said Flight, laughing too.

‘Drunk,’ explained Rebus.

They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment. Rebus thanked God for the linguistic barrier between them, for without it there would be no easy jokes, jokes which broke the tension. There were two ways to defuse tension: one was to laugh it away, the other was to resort to physical action. It was laugh or lash out. Once or twice now they had come near to trading punches, but had ended up trading grins instead.

Praise be for the gift of laughter.

‘Anyway, I went to Hackney last night looking for Kenny Watkiss.’

‘And you got those for your pains?’ Flight was nodding towards the bruises. Rebus shrugged. ‘Serves you right. Someone once told me hackney’s French for a nag. Doesn’t sound French, does it? But I suppose it would explain the hackney carriage.’

Hackney. Nag. That horse in the British Museum, no bite. Rebus had to talk to Morrison about the bite marks.

Flight finished his drink first, draining the cup and tossing it into a bin beside the machine. He checked his watch.

‘I better find a phone,’ he said. ‘See what’s happening back at base. Maybe Lamb will have found something on that Crawford woman.’

‘“That Crawford woman” is a victim, George. Stop making her sound like a criminal.’

‘
Maybe
she’s a victim,’ said Flight. ‘Let’s get our facts straight before we go for the tea and sympathy routine. Besides, when did you join this little victim support group of yours? You know the way we have to play this sort of thing. It isn’t nice necessarily, but it means we don’t get it wrong.’

‘That’s quite a speech.’

Flight sighed and examined the tips of his shoes. ‘Look, John, has it ever occurred to you that there might be another way?’

‘The way of Zen perhaps?’

‘I mean, a way other than your own. Or are the rest of us just thick, and you’re the only policeman on the planet who knows how to solve a crime? I’d be interested to know.’

Rebus desperately did not want to blush, which is probably precisely why he did blush. He tried to think of a smart answer, but none came to mind right that second, so he kept silent. Flight nodded approval.

‘Let’s go find that phone,’ he said. Now Rebus found the courage he needed.

‘George,’ he said. ‘I need to know: who brought me here?’

Flight stared at him, wondering whether or not to answer. He pursed his lips as he thought about it, and came up with an answer: what the hell.

‘I did,’ he said. ‘It was my idea.’

‘You?’ Rebus seemed puzzled. Flight nodded confirmation.

‘Yes, me. I suggested you to Laine and Pearson. A new head, fresh blood, that sort of thing.’

‘But how in God’s name did you know about me?’

‘Well,’ Flight was beginning to look sheepish. He made a play of examining the tips of his shoes again. ‘Remember I showed you that file, the one with all the guesswork in it? On top of that I did some background reading on multiple murderers. Research, you could call it. And I came across that case of yours in some newspaper clippings from Scotland Yard. I was impressed.’

Rebus pointed a disbelieving finger. ‘You were reading up on serial killers?’

Flight nodded.

‘On the
psychology
of serial killers?’

Flight shrugged. ‘And other aspects, yes.’ Rebus’s eyes had widened.

‘And all this time you’ve been having a dig at
me
for going along with Lisa Frazer’s – no, I don’t believe it!’

Flight was laughing again. The apparently arch anti-psychologist revealed in his true light. ‘I had to examine every angle,’ he said, watching as Rebus, having finished his coffee, tossed the cup into a waste-bin. ‘Now come on, we really should make that phone call.’

Rebus was still shaking his head as he followed Flight down the hall. But though he appeared to be in good humour, his brain was more active than ever. Flight had pulled the wool over his eyes with consummate ease. How far did the pretence actually stretch? Was he now seeing the real Flight, or yet another mask? Flight whistled as he walked and kicked at an imaginary football. No, not George Flight, Rebus decided in an instant: never George Flight.

There was a telephone in the admin offices. There was also, seated at a desk having a conversation with one of the senior staff, Philip Cousins, immaculate in grey suit and burgundy tie.

‘Philip!’

‘Hello there, George. How are things?’ Cousins spotted Rebus. ‘And Inspector Rebus, too. Still lending a Caledonian hand?’

‘Trying,’ said Rebus.

‘Yes, very,’ rejoined Flight. ‘So what brings you here, Philip? Where’s Isobel?’

‘Penny’s rather tied up, I’m afraid. She’ll be sorry to have missed you, George. As for my presence here, I just wanted to double-check some facts on a murder case from last December. You might remember it, the man in the bathtub.’

‘The one that looked like suicide?’

‘That’s right.’ Philip Cousins’s voice was as rich and slow as double cream. Rebus reckoned that the word ‘urbane’ had been invented with him in mind. ‘I’m in court later today,’ Cousins was saying. ‘Trying to help Malcolm Chambers pin the deceased’s wife for manslaughter at the very least.’

‘Chambers?’ Flight shook his head. ‘I don’t envy you that.’

‘But surely,’ Rebus interrupted, ‘you’ll be on the same side?’

‘Ah yes, Inspector Rebus,’ said Cousins, ‘you are quite correct. But Chambers is such a scrupulous man. He’ll want my evidence to be water-tight, and if it isn’t, then he’s as likely to undo me as is the defence counsel. More likely, in fact. Malcolm Chambers is interested in the truth, not in verdicts.’

‘Yes,’ said Flight, ‘I remember him having a right go at me once in the witness box, all because I couldn’t recall offhand what kind of clock had been in the living-room. The case nearly crumbled there and then.’ Flight and Cousins shared a comradely smile.

‘I’ve just been hearing,’ said Cousins, ‘that there’s fresh evidence on the Wolfman case. Do tell.’

‘It’s beginning to come together, Philip,’ said Flight. ‘It’s definitely beginning to come together, due in no small part to my associate here.’ Flight laid a momentary hand on Rebus’s shoulder.

‘I’m impressed,’ said Cousins, sounding neither impressed nor unimpressed.

‘It was luck,’ said Rebus, as he felt he ought. Not that he believed what he was saying. Cousins’s eyes on him were like packs of ice, so that the room temperature seemed to drop with every glance.

‘So what do we have?’

‘Well,’ said Flight, ‘we’ve got someone who claims she was attacked by the Wolfman but escaped from him.’

‘Fortunate creature,’ said Cousins.

‘And,’ continued Flight, ‘one of the … people helping us on the case this morning received a letter claiming to be from the Wolfman.’

‘Good God.’

‘We think it’s kosher,’ Flight concluded.

‘Well,’ said Cousins, ‘this
is
something. Wait till I tell Penny. She’ll be thrilled.’

‘Philip, we don’t want it getting out –’

‘Not a word, George, not a word. You know it’s all one-way traffic with me. But Penny should be told.’

‘Oh, tell Isobel by all means,’ said Flight, ‘only warn her it’s not to go any further.’

‘Total secrecy,’ said Cousins. ‘I quite understand. Mum’s the word. Who was it, by the way?’ Flight appeared not to understand. ‘To whom was this threatening letter addressed?’

Flight was about to speak, but Rebus beat him to it. ‘Just someone on the case, as Inspector Flight says.’ He smiled, trying to alleviate the brusqueness of his response. Oh yes, his mind was working now, working in a fever: nobody had told Cousins the letter was threatening, so how did he know it was? Okay, it was simple enough to work out that it wouldn’t exactly have been fan mail, but all the same.

‘Well then,’ said Cousins, choosing not to press for details. ‘And now, gentlemen,’ he scooped up two manila files from the desk and tucked them under his arm, then stood, the joints of his knees cracking with the effort, ‘if you’ll excuse me, Court Eight awaits. Inspector Rebus,’ Cousins held out his free hand, ‘it sounds as though the case may be drawing towards its conclusion. Should we fail to meet again, give my regards to your delightful city.’ He turned to Flight. ‘See you soon, George. Bring Marion round for supper some evening. Give Penny a tinkle and we’ll try to find one night in the calendar when all four of us are free. Goodbye.’

‘Bye, Philip.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Oh.’ Cousins had stopped in the doorway. ‘There is just one thing.’ He turned pleading eyes on Flight. ‘You don’t have a spare driver, do you, George? It’s going to be hell getting a taxi at this time of day.’

‘Well,’ Flight thought hard, then had an idea, ‘if you can hang on for a couple of minutes, Philip, I’ve got a couple of men here in the building.’ He turned to Rebus, whose eyes had widened. ‘Lisa won’t mind, will she, John? I mean, if her car drops Philip off at the Old Bailey?’

Rebus could do little but shrug.

‘Excellent!’ said Cousins, clasping his hands together. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘I’ll take you to them,’ Flight said. ‘But first I need to make a phone call.’

Cousins nodded towards the corridor. ‘And I must visit the WC. Be back in a tick.’

They watched him leave. Flight was grinning, shaking his head in wonderment. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘he’s been like that ever since I met him? I mean, the sort of ambassadorial air, the aged aristocrat. Ever since I’ve known him.’

‘He’s a gentleman all right,’ said Rebus.

‘But that’s just the thing,’ said Flight. ‘His background is every bit as ordinary as yours or mine.’ He turned to the lab man. ‘All right if I use your phone?’

He did not wait for an answer, but started dialling straight away. ‘Hello?’ he said into the receiver when he was finally connected. ‘Who’s that? Oh, hello, Deakin, is Lamb there? Yes, put him on, will you? Thanks.’ While he was waiting, Flight picked invisible threads from his trousers. The trousers were shiny from too many wearings. Everything about Flight, Rebus noticed, seemed worn: his shirt collar had an edge of grime to it and the collar itself was too tight, constricting the loose flesh of the neck, pinching it into vertical folds. Rebus found himself transfixed by that neck, by the tufts of grey sprouting hair where the razor had failed in its duty. Signs of mortality, as final as a hand around a throat. When Flight got off the phone, Rebus would protest about sending Cousins off with Lisa.
Ambassadorial. Aristocrat
. One of the earlier mass killers had been an aristocrat, too.

‘Hello, Lamb? What have you found on Miss Crawford?’ Flight listened, his eyes on Rebus, ready to communicate anything of interest. ‘Uh-huh, okay. Mm, I see. Yes. Right.’ All the time his eyes told Rebus that everything was checking out, that Jan Crawford was reliable, that she was telling the truth. Then Flight’s eyes widened a little. ‘What’s that again?’ And he listened more intently, moving his eyes from Rebus to study the telephone apparatus itself. ‘Now that is interesting.’