Tooth and Nail

And she runs into his arms. He hugs her to him, aware that he does not have to bend too far to accomplish this. Yes, she's grown, and yet she seems more childlike than ever. He kisses the top of her head, smells her clean hair. She is trembling. He can feel the vibrations darting through her chest and arms.

'Sshh,' he says. 'Ssshhh, pet, ssshhh.'

She pulls back and almost smiles, sniffs, then; says, 'You always used to call me that. Your pet. Mum never called me pet. Only you.'

He smiles back and strokes her hair. 'Yes,' he says, 'your mum told me off for that. She said a pet was a possession and that you weren't a possession.' He is remembering now. 'She had some funny ideas, your mum'

'She still does.' Then she remembers why she is here. The tears well up anew in her eyes.

'I know you don't like him,' she says.-

'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 light-bulb 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.''

Lake 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?'