God alone knew how these people could do it every day of their working lives.
He had already rung the doorbell before it struck him that he did not have a pretext for coming here. Think quickly, John.
The door was pulled open. `Oh, it's you.' She sounded disappointed.
`Hello, Rhona.'
`To what do we owe the honour?' She was standing her ground, just inside the front door, keeping him on the doorstep. She was wearing a hint of make-up and her clothes were not after work, work, relaxing-at-home clothes. She was going out somewhere. She was waiting for a gentleman.
`Nothing special,' he said. `Just thought I'd pop round. We didn't get much of a chance to talk the other night.' Would he mention that he had seen her in the British Museum? No, he would not.
Besides, she was shaking her head. `Yes we did, it was just that we had nothing to talk about'.' Her voice wasn't bitter; she was simply stating a fact. Rebus looked at the doorstep.
`I've caught you at a bad time,' he said. `Sorry.'
`No need to apologise.'
'Is Sammy in?'
`She's out with Kenny.'
Rebus nodded. `Well,' he said, `enjoy wherever it is you're' going.' My God, he actually felt jealous. He couldn't believe it of himself after all these years. It was the make-up that did it. Rhona had seldom worn make-up. He half turned to leave, then stopped. `I couldn't use your loo, could I?'
She stared at him, seeking some trick or plan, but he smiled back with his best impersonation of a crippled dog and she relented.
`Go on then,' she said. `You know where it is.'
He left his carrier at the door, squeezed past her and began to climb the steep stairs. `Thanks, Rhona,' he said.
She was lingering downstairs, waiting to let him out again. He walked across the landing to the bathroom, opened and closed the door loudly, then opened it again very quietly and crept back across the landing to where the telephone sat on a small and quite grotesque confection of brass, green glass and red hanging tassels. There were London phone books piled beneath this table, but Rebus went straight to the smaller `Telephone & Addresses' book on the top of the table. Some of the entries were in Rhona's writing. Who, he wondered, were Tony, Tim, Ben and Graeme? But most were in Sammy's grander, more confident script. He flipped to the K section and. found what he wanted.
`KENNY', printed in capitals with a seven figure number scribbled below the name, the whole enclosed by a loving ellipse. Rebus took pen and notepad from his pocket and copied down the number, then closed the book and tiptoed back to the bathroom, where he flushed the toilet, gave his hands a quick rinse and boldly started downstairs again. Rhona was looking along the street, no doubt anxious that her beau should not arrive and find him here.
`Bye,' he said, picking up the carrier, walking past her and setting off in the direction of the main road. He was nearly at the end of her street when a white Ford Escort turned off the main drag and moved slowly past him, driven by a canny-looking man with thin face and thick moustache. Rebus stopped at the corner to watch the man pull up outside Rhona's building. She had already locked the door and fairly skipped to the car. Rebus turned away before she could kiss or hug the man called Tony, Tim, Ben or Graeme.
In a large pub near the tube station,' a barn, of a place with walls painted torrid red, Rebus remembered that he had not tried the local brews since coming south. He'd gone for a drink with George Flight, but had stuck, to whisky. He looked at, the row of pumps, while the barman watched him, a proprietorial hand resting on one pump. Rebus nodded towards this, resting hand.
`Is it any good?'
The man snorted. `It's bloody Fuller's, mate, of course it's good.'
`A pint of that then, please.'
The stuff turned out to have a watery look, like cold tea, but it tasted smooth and malty. The barman was still watching him, so Rebus nodded approval, then took his glass to a distant corner where the public telephone stood. He dialled HQ and asked for Flight.
`He's left for the day,' he was told.
`Well then, put me through to anyone from CID, anyone who's helpful. I've got a telephone number I want tracing.' There were rules and regulations about this sort of thing, rules at one time ignored but of late enforced. Requests had to be made and were not always granted. Some forces could pull more weight than others when it came to number tracing. He reckoned the Met and the Yard ought to carry more weight than most, but just in case he added: `It's to do with the Wolfman case. It might be a very good lead.'
He was told to repeat the number he, wanted tracing. `Call back in half an hour,' said the voice.
He sat at a table and drank his beer. It seemed silly, but it appeared to be going to his head already, with only half a pint missing from 'the glass. Someone had left a folded, smudged copy of the midday Standard. Rebus tried to concentrate on the sports pages and even had a stab at the concise crossword. Then he made the call and was put through to someone he didn't know, who passed him on to someone else he didn't know. A boisterous crowd, looking like a team of bricklayers, had entered the bar. One of them made for the jukebox, and suddenly Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild was booming, from the walls, while the men urged the unwilling barman to 'wick it up a bit'.
`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 bullock-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.'