Tooth and Nail

'What do you talk about?'

The question was unexpected.' 'What do you mean?)

'It's a simple enough question,' said Flight with a smile. 'What do you talk about? I wouldn't have thought the two of you would have much in.common.'

'We just, we talk. I don't know.'

'Yes, but what do you talk about? Football?' 'Sometimes, yes.'

'What team does he support?'

'I don't know, Mr Flight.?

'You talk about football with him — and yet you don't know what team he supports?'

'Maybe he told me and I forgot!

Flight looked dubious. 'Maybe,' he agreed. Rebus knew his part in the drama now. Let Flight do the talking. Just keep quiet but look ominous, standing over Arnold like a thundercloud, staring down like an avenger onto that gleaming bald dome of a head. Flight knew exactly what he was doing. Arnold was growing nervous, his body jerking, unable to keep his head still, his right knee bobbing up and down.

'So what-else do you talk about? He likes motorbikes, doesn't he?'

'Yes,'' Arnold answered, guardedly now, for he knew what: was happening to him.

'So do you talk about bikes?'

'I don't' like bikes. Too noisy.'

'Too noisy? Yes, you've got a, point there.' Flight nodded towards the play area. 'But this place is noisy, too, Arnold, isn't it? Yet you don't seem 'to-mind the noise here. Why's that?'

Arnold turned on him, eyes burning. But Flight was ready with a smile, a.smile more serious than any grimace.

'What I mean is,' he went on, 'you like; some noises but not others. That's fair, isn't it? But you don't like motorbikes. So what else do you talk about with Kenny?'

'We just talk,' said Arnold, his face creased with anguish. 'Gossip, how the city's changing, the East End. This used to be all rows of cottages. There was a field and allotments. The families all used to have picnics on the field. They'd bring tomatoes or potatoes or a cabbage to your mum, saying they grew too much, and the;. kids would all play in the street. There weren't any. Bangladeshis or what have you. Just proper East Enders. Kenny's mum and dad didn't live far from here. Two streets away from where I lived. Course, I was older than him. We never played together or anything.'

'And where did Uncle Tommy live?'

'He was over that way.' Arnold pointed with a finger. He had grown a little more confident now. Reminiscences couldn't do any harm, could they? And to talk freely came as such, a relief after, the careful duel he'd just gone through. So he opened up’ to them. The good old days. But between his words, Rebus could, see a› truer picture, a picture of how the other kids used to;beat. him› up, play tricks on him, of how his father used to lock him in his room, starve him. The, family breaking apart. Drifting into petty crime. Painfully shy, unable to form relationships.

'Do you ever see Tommy around?' Flight asked suddenly.

'Tommy Watkiss? Yes, I see him.' Arnold was, still basking in the past.

'Does Kenny see him?'

'Of course' he does. He works for him sometimes.'

'What? Deliveries, that sort of thing?'

'Deliveries, pick-ups — ' Arnold halted, aware of what he was saying. This wasn't the past they were talking about any longer. This wasn't: safe.

'But,' Rebus had, replied, 'I do have a grudge, George. This guy Kenny' might have been shagging my' daughter!'

Flight had 'glanced from the windscreen into Rebus's face, then had looked away.

'I said leave it to us, John. If you can't play it that way, I'll personally see that you go bouncing back down the ' ranks= like a ball down a fucking stairwell. Got that?'

'Loud and clear.'

'It's not a threat, John. It's a promise.'

'And you always keep your promises, George, don't you? You seem to be forgetting: something. It's your fault that I'm down here in the first place. You sent for me.'

Flight had nodded. 'And I can send you back just as quick. Is that what you want?'

Rebus had stayed silent, though he knew the answer. Flight knew it too, and smiled at, this small triumph. They drove in silence after that, both men tainted by the memory of a playground and of a silent man, hands clasping his knees, staring, ahead of him, his thoughts sweet with corruption.

Now Rebus was thinking of Lisa, 'thinking of how. it would feel to take a; shower with her, to scrub away a layer of London from them both. Maybe he would' ask George again for the secret address; Maybe he could visit her. He remembered a conversation they'd had in bed. He'd asked if he could see her office in University College sometime.

'Sometime,' she'd said. 'Mind you, it's not a very nice room, nothing like those huge antique Oxbridge rooms you see in television dramas. It's a pokey little hole, to be honest. I hate it.'

'I'd still like you to show me around.'

'And I-said okay.' She sounded on edge. Why was, that? Why had she been so nervous of letting him see- her room? Why had the secretary — Millicent, Lisa had called her been so vague the day Rebus had visited? No, not just vague. Uncooperative. Downright uncooperative, now that he thought of it. What the hell was it they were keeping from him? He knew one way he could find out the answer, one sure and certain way. What the helclass="underline" Lisa was safe, and he'd been told to stay' out of the Watkiss case, so what was stopping him from following up this latest mystery? He got to his feet. The answer was: nothing was stopping him, nothing at all.

'Where are you going?'

It was Flight, yelling at him from an open door as Rebus stalked down, the hall.

'It's personal,' Rebus called back:

'I warned you, John! Don't get involved!'

'It's not what you. think!' He stopped, turning to face George Flight.

'Well, what is it then?'

'Like I- said, George, it's personal, okay?'

'No:'

'Look,' said Rebus, his, emotions suddenly getting the better' of him, all those thoughts he'd- been keeping on a tight rein Sammy, Kenny Watkiss, the Wolfman, the threat against Lisa — all boiling up. He swallowed, breathing hard. 'Look, George, you've got plenty to keep you busy, okay?' His finger stabbed at Flight's chest. 'Remember what I said: it could be a copper. Why don't you do some of your careful, precious, nit-picking investigation on that. The Wolfman could be here in this building. He could be working on the bloody case, hunting himself!' Rebus heard his voice growing hysterical and calmed quickly, regaining control over his vocal chords: if nothing else.

'A sort of wolf in the fold, you mean?'

'I'm serious.' Rebus paused. 'He might even know where you've sent Lisa.'

'For Christ's sake, John, only three people know where Lisa's going. Me, and the two men I sent with her. Now you don't know those guys, but 'I do. We go back all the way to training college. I'd trust them with my life.' Flight paused. 'Will you trust me?'

Rebus said nothing. Flight's eyes narrowed disbelievingly, and he whistled. 'Well,' he said, 'that certainly answers my question.' He shook his head slowly. 'This case, John. I've been in the force God knows how many years, but this case, it's the worst. It's like every victim was somebody close to me.' He paused again, gathering strength. Now his finger jabbed at Rebus. 'So don't you dare think what I know you're thinking! It's the ultimate fucking insult!'

There was a long silence in the corridor. Typewriters chattered somewhere. Male voices were raised in laughter. A hummed. tune floated down the hall towards and past them. It was as though the whole world were indifferent to this quarrel. And there they stood, not quite friends, not quite; enemies, and not quite sure what to do any more.