by Ian Rankin
‘You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.’
Flight picked up a folder, opened it, took out three or four closely typed sheets of paper, and began to read.
‘Typeface used is Helvetica. Unusual for personal correspondence, though used by newspapers and magazines.’ Flight looked up meaningfully.
‘A reporter?’ Rebus said doubtfully.
‘Well, think about it,’ said Flight. ‘Every crime reporter in England knows about Lisa Frazer by now. They could probably find out where she lives, too.’
Rebus considered this. ‘Okay,’ he said at last, ‘go on.’
‘Helvetica can be found on some electronic typewriters and electric golfball machines, but is more commonly found on computers and word processors.’ Flight glanced up. ‘This would correlate with density of type. The type itself is of very even quality . . . blah, blah, blah. Also, the letters line up neatly, suggesting that a good quality printer has been used, probably a daisywheel, suggesting in turn the use of a high quality word processor or word-processing package. However,’ Flight went on, ‘the letter K becomes faint towards the tips of its stem.’ Flight paused to turn the page. Rebus wasn’t really paying a great deal of attention as yet, and neither was George Flight. Labs always came up with more information than was useful. So far, all Rebus had really been hearing was the chaff.
‘This is more interesting,’ Flight went on. ‘Inside the envelope particles were found which appear to be flecks of paint, yellow, green and orange predominating. Perhaps an oil-based paint: tests are still continuing.’
‘So we’ve got a crime reporter who fancies himself as Van Gogh?’
Flight wasn’t rising to the bait. He read through the rest of the report quickly to himself. ‘That’s pretty much it,’ he said. ‘What’s left is more to do with what they failed to find: no prints, no stains, no hair or fibres.’
‘No personalised watermark?’ Rebus asked. In detective novels, the personalised watermark would lead to a small family business run by an eccentric old man, who would recall selling the paper to someone called . . . And that would be it: crime solved. Neat, ingenious, but it seldom happened like that. He thought of Lisa again; of Cousins. No, not Cousins: it couldn’t be Cousins. And besides, he wouldn’t try anything with those two gorillas in attendance.
‘No personalised watermark,’ Flight was saying. ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh well,’ Rebus offered, with a loud sigh, ‘we’re no further forward, are we?’
Flight was looking at the report, as though willing something, some clue, to grab his attention. Then: ‘So what’s all this about Kenny Watkiss?’
‘He’s scarpered under mysterious circumstances. Good riddance, I’d say, but it’s left Sammy in a bit of a state. I said we’d do what we could.’
‘You can’t get involved, John. Leave it to us.’
‘I don’t want to get involved, George. This one’s all yours.’ The voice seemed ingenuous enough, but Flight was long past being fooled by John Rebus. He grinned and shook his head.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ said Rebus, leaning forward in his chair, ‘Sammy did mention one of Kenny’s associates. Someone called Arnold who worked on a market stall, at least she thinks he works in or around a market.’
‘You think it’s my Arnold?’ Flight thought it over. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Too much of a coincidence, you think?’
‘Not in a city as small as this.’ Flight saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘I’m being serious, actually. The small-time crooks, they’re like a little family. If this was Sicily, you could cram every small-timer in London into a village. Everybody knows everybody else. It’s the big-timers we can’t pin. They keep themselves too much to themselves, never go down the pub shooting their mouths off after a couple of Navy Rums.’
‘Can we talk to Arnold?’
‘What for?’
‘Maybe he knows something about Kenny.’
‘Even supposing he does, why should he tell us?’
‘Because we’re police officers, George. And he’s a member of the public. We’re here to uphold law and order, and it’s his duty to help us in that onerous task.’ Rebus was reflective. ‘Plus I’ll slip him twenty quid.’
Flight sounded incredulous. ‘This is London, John. A score can hardly get a round of drinks. Arnold gives good gen, but he’ll be looking for a pony at least.’ Now he was playing with Rebus, and Rebus, realising it, smiled.
‘If Arnold wants a pony,’ he said, ‘tell him I’ll buy him one for Christmas. And a little girl to sit on it. Just so long as he tells me what he knows.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Flight. ‘Come on then, let’s go find ourselves a street market.’
The Gallery
Flight was struggling with half a dozen large brown-paper bags, the fruits – literally – of asking for Arnold at three or four market stalls so far. Rebus had refused the offers of free bananas, oranges, pears and grapes, though Flight had prodded him to accept.
‘It’s a local custom,’ Flight said. ‘They get annoyed if you don’t accept. Like a Glaswegian offering you a drink. Would you turn it down? No, because then you’d offend him. Same with these guys.’
‘What would I do with three pounds of bananas?’
‘Eat them,’ said Flight blandly. Then, cryptically: ‘Unless you were Arnold, of course.’
He refused to explain the meaning of this, and Rebus refused to consider the various possibilities. They moved from stall to stall, passing most, stopping at only a few. In their way, they were like the women who crushed in all around them, feeling this or that mango or aubergine, checking prices at the various stalls, pausing only at a few to make their final purchases.
‘’Allo, George.’
‘Blimey, George, where you been hiding yourself?’
‘All right there, George? How’s your love life?’
It seemed to Rebus that half the stall-holders and most of their box- and tray-carrying assistants knew Flight. At one point, Flight nodded behind one of the stalls, where a young man was disappearing rapidly along the street.
‘Jim Jessop,’ he said. ‘He skipped bail a couple of weeks back.’
‘Shouldn’t we . . .?’
But Flight shook his head. ‘Another time, eh, John? The little bugger was three-A’s standard in the thousand metres. I don’t feel like a run today, what about you?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Rebus, aware that here, in this place, on this ‘patch’, he was very much the bystander, the tourist. This was Flight’s territory. The man moved confidently through the throng, spoke easily with the various vendors, was in every way quite at home. Eventually, after a chat with the man behind the fresh fish counter, Flight returned with a bag of mussels, another of scallops and information on where Arnold might be found. He led Rebus behind the market stalls onto the pavement and then into a narrow alleyway.
‘Moules marinière,’ he said, holding up one of the white polythene bags. ‘Beautiful. Easy to cook, too. It’s the preparation that takes up all the time.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘You’re full of surprises, George. I’d never have taken you for a cordon bleu.’
Flight just smiled, musing. ‘And scallops,’ he said, ‘Marion loves those. I make a sauce with them and serve it with fresh trout. Again, it’s all preparation. The cooking’s the easy part.’
He enjoyed showing Rebus this other side of his personality, though he couldn’t say why. Nor could he exactly say why he hadn’t told John Rebus that Lisa had gone to the Old Bailey; had instead mumbled something about seeing her safely on her way. He thought probably his reasoning had to do with Rebus’s spring-loaded emotions: if the Scotsman thought Lisa Frazer was not in Flight’s place of safety, he’d probably go haring off after her, making a fool of himself ’neath blindfolded Justice herself. And Rebus was still Flight’s responsibility, still the liability he always had been, if not more so.
They had come ou
t of the alley onto a small-scale housing estate. The houses looked fairly new, but already the paint was flaking from the window sills. There were cries and squeals from just ahead. A kiddies’ playground, concrete surrounded by concrete. A huge section of pipe had become a tunnel, a den, a hiding place. There were swings, too, and a see-saw. And a sand-pit which had become second home to the area’s cats and dogs.
The children’s imaginations knew few bounds: Pretend you’re in hospital, and I’m the doctor; And then the spaceman’s ship crashed on the planet; Cowboys don’t have girlfriends; No, you’re chasing me, because I’m the soldier and you’re the guard; Pretend there isn’t a pipe.
Pretend. There was no pretend about the energy they were expending. They couldn’t stand still, couldn’t pause for breath. They had to yell and jump and get involved. It made Rebus tired just to look at them.
‘There he is,’ said Flight. He was pointing towards a bench on the edge of the playground. Arnold was sitting there, his back very straight, hands clasping his knees. He had an intent look on his face, neither happy nor unhappy. The kind of look you sometimes saw at the zoo, when someone was peering into a particular cage or enclosure. It was best described as an interested look. Oh yes, Arnold was interested. It made Rebus’s stomach queasy just to watch him. Flight seemed to take it all quite casually. He walked across to the bench and sat down beside Arnold, who turned, his eyes suddenly taking on a hunted, frightened look, his mouth creasing into an O. Then he exhaled noisily.
‘It’s you, Mister Flight. I didn’t recognise you.’ He gestured towards the bags. ‘Been shopping? That’s nice.’
The voice was flat, lacking emotion. Rebus had heard addicts talk like that. Five percent of their brain was fixed on dealing with the external world, the remaining ninety-five concentrating on other things. Well, he supposed Arnold was a kind of addict too.
‘Yes,’ said Flight, ‘just buying a few bits. You remember Inspector Rebus?’
Arnold followed Flight’s eyes, staring up from his bench to where Rebus stood, his body purposely shielding Arnold from the children.
‘Oh yes,’ Arnold said blandly, ‘he was in the car with you the other day, Mr Flight.’
‘Well done, Arnold. Yes, that’s right. You’ve got a good memory, haven’t you?’
‘It pays to have, Mr Flight. That’s how I remember all the things I tell you.’
‘Actually, Arnold,’ Flight slid along the bench until his thigh was almost touching that of the other man. Arnold angled his own legs away from the policeman, his eyes intent on Flight’s proximity to him. ‘Speaking of memory, maybe you can help me. Maybe you can help Inspector Rebus, too.’
‘Yes?’ The word was stretched almost to breaking point.
‘We were just wondering,’ said Flight, ‘whether you’ve seen Kenny lately. Only, he doesn’t seem to have been around much, does he? I wondered whether he’d maybe gone on holiday?’
Arnold gazed up with milky, childlike eyes. ‘Kenny who?’
Flight laughed. ‘Kenny Watkiss, Arnold. Your mate Kenny.’
For a moment, Rebus held his breath. What if it was another Arnold? What if Sammy had got the name wrong? Then Arnold nodded slowly.
‘Oh, that Kenny. He’s not really a mate, Mr Flight. I mean, I see him now and again.’ Arnold stopped, but Flight was nodding, saying nothing, expecting more. ‘We have a drink together sometimes.’
‘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.
Flight leaned across so that his nose was almost touching Arnold’s. All Arnold could do was lean back against the bench, its hard spars stopping him from escaping.
‘Where is he, Arnold?’
‘Who? Tommy?’
‘You know bloody well who I mean! Kenny! Tell me where he is!’
Rebus half-turned, to see that the children had stopped playing and were watching this grown-up game.
‘You going to fight, mister?’ one of them called. Rebus shook his head and called back, ‘Just pretending.’
Flight still had Arnold pinned to the bench. ‘Arnold,’ he hissed, ‘you know me. I’ve always played fair by you.’
‘I know that, Mr Flight.’
‘But I’m not pretending. What I’m doing is losing my rag. Everything’s going to hell in this city, Arnold, and I’m inclined to just shrug my shoulders and join in. Understand me? Why should I play fair when nobody else does, eh? So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Arnold. I’m going to have to pull you in.’
‘What for?’ Arnold was terrified now. He didn’t think Flight was playing a game. Rebus had the same feeling; either that or Flight was in line for an Oscar.
‘For indecent expos
ure. You were going to expose yourself to those kids. I saw you getting ready. I saw your dick hanging out of your fly.’
‘No, no.’ Arnold was shaking his head. ‘That’s a lie.’
‘Previous convictions don’t lie, Arnold. Inspector Rebus saw you, too. He saw your prick waving in the air like a cocktail sausage. We both saw you, and that’s what we’ll tell the judge. Now who’s he going to believe, eh? Think about that for a moment. Think about solitary. They’ll have to hold you in solitary so the other prisoners don’t kick the shit out of you. But that won’t stop them pissing in your tea and gobbing in your food. You know the score, Arnold. You’ve been there. And then one night, you’ll hear your door being unlocked, and in they’ll come. Maybe the screws, maybe the prisoners. They’ll come in and they’ll hold you down. One of them’ll have a brush-handle, and one’ll have a rusty old razor blade, won’t they, Arnold? Won’t they Arnold?’
But Arnold was trembling too violently to speak, trembling and babbling, bubbles of saliva bursting at either side of his mouth. Flight slid back along the bench away from him, then looked up at Rebus with sad eyes. Rebus nodded solemnly. This wasn’t a nice business that they were in, not nice at all. Flight lit a cigarette. Rebus refused one. Two words were bouncing around the inside of John Rebus’s skull.
Needs must.
And then Arnold started to talk. And when he had finished, Flight dug into a trouser pocket and drew out a pound coin, which he slapped down on the bench beside his shattered victim.
‘There you go, Arnold. Get yourself a cup of tea or something. And stay away from playgrounds, all right?’ Flight picked up his carrier-bags, picked out an apple from one, and tossed it into Arnold’s lap, causing the man to flinch. Then he picked out another one and began to crunch on it, starting off back towards the market.
Needs must.
Back at HQ Rebus thought about Lisa. He felt the need for some human contact, for something clean and warm and separate from this other world he chose to inhabit, something to wash out his badly soiled mind.
Flight had warned him on the way back – ‘no messing about this time, John. Leave it to us. You’ve got to stay out of it. It would look bad in court, copper with a grudge, that sort of line.’