Tooth and Nail

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 as 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 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.