Ian Rankin - Tooth and Nail

Flight shook' his head. 'No, nothing like that. But there's a security firm, they've offered to take me on. More money, nine till five. You know how it is.'

Rebus nodded. He'd seen some of the best of his elders drawn like moths to a lightbulb when security firms and the like came to call. He drained his glass.

'When will you be leaving?' Flight asked.

'I thought I'd go back tomorrow. I can come back down again when they need me to give evidence.'

Flight nodded. 'Next time you come, we've got a spare bedroom here.'

'Thanks, George.' Rebus rose to his feet.

'I'll drive you back,' said Flight. But Rebus shook his head.

'Call me a cab,' he insisted. 'I don't want you done for D and D.' Think what it would do to your pension.'

Flight stared into his brandy glass. 'You've got a point,' he said. 'Okay then, a cab it is.' He slipped a hand into his pocket. 'By the way, I've' got you a little present.'

He held the clenched fist out to Rebus, who placed- his own open palm beneath 'it. A slip of paper dropped from Flight's hand into his. Rebus unfolded the note. It was an address. Rebus looked up at Flight and nodded his understanding.

'Thanks, George,' he said.

'No rough stuff, eh, John?'

'No rough stuff,' agreed Rebus.

He slept deeply that night, but woke at six the next morning and sat up in bed immediately. His stomach hurt, a burning sensation as though he had, just swallowed a measure of spirits. The doctors had, told him not to drink alcohol Last night he had drunk just the one glass of wine and two glasses of brandy. He rubbed the area around' the, wound, willing the ache to go away, then took two more painkillers with a glass of, tap-water before dressing and putting on his shoes.

His taxi driver, though sleepy, was full of tales' of yesterday's action.

'I was on Whitehall, wasn't I? An hour and a quarter in the cab before the traffic got moving again. Hour and a bleedin' quarter. Didn't see the chase either, but I heard the smash.'

Rebus sat back in silence, all the way to the block of flats in Bethnal Green. He paid the driver and looked again at the slip of paper Flight had given him. Number 46, fourth floor, flat six. The elevator smelled of vinegar. A crumpled paper package in one corner was oozing under-cooked chips and a tail-end of batter. Flight was right: it made all the difference having a good network of informers. It-made for quick information. But what a good copper's network could get, so too could a good villain's. Rebus hoped he'd be in time.

He walked quickly across the small landing from the open lift to the door of one of the flats where two empty milk bottles stood to attention in a plastic holder. He picked up one bottle and hurried back to the lift just as its doors were shuddering to a close to place the milk bottle in the remaining gap. The doors stayed where they were. So did the lift.

You never knew when a quick getaway would be needed.

Then he walked along the narrow- corridor to flat six,' braced himself against' the wall and kicked at the doorhandle with the heel of his shoe. - The door flew open and he walked into a 'stuffy hall. Another door, another kick and he was face to face with Kenny Watkiss.

Watkiss had been asleep on a mattress on the floor. He was standing now, clad only in underpants and shivering, against the furthest wall from the door. He pushed his hair back when he saw who 'it was.

Jee Jesus,' he stammered. 'What are you doing here?'

'Hello, Kenny,' said Rebus, stepping into the room. 'I thought we'd have a little chat.'

'What about?' You didn't get as frightened as Kenny Watkiss was by having your door kicked in at half, past six in the morning. You only got that frightened by the idea of who was, doing it and why.

'About Uncle Tommy.'

'Uncle Tommy?' Kenny Watkiss smiled unconvincingly. He moved back to the mattress and started pulling on a pair of torn denims. 'What about him?'

'What are you so scared of, Kenny? Why,are, you hiding?',

'Hiding?' That smile again. 'Who said I was hiding?'

Rebus shook his.head, his own smile one of apparent sympathy. 'I feel sorry for you, Kenny, really I do. I see your kind a hundred times a- week. All ambition and no brain. All talk; but no guts. I've only been in London a week, and already. I know how to find you when I want you.

Do you think' Tommy can't? You think maybe he'll lay off? No, he's going to nail your head to the wall!

'Don't talk daft.' Now that he was dressed, having pulled on. a black T-shirt, Kenny's voice had lost some of its trembling. But he couldn't hide the look in his eyes, the haunted, hunted look. Rebus decided to make it easy for him. He reached into a pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes, offered one to Kenny and lit it for him before taking one himself. He rubbed at his stomach. Jesus, it was hurting. He hoped the stitches were holding.

'You've been ripping him off,' Rebus said casually. 'He handled. stolen goods, you were his courier, passing it down the chain.. But you've been skimming a little off the top, haven't you? And with each job you'd take a little more than he knew about. Why? Saving for that Docklands flat? So you could start your own business? Maybe you got greedy, I don't know. But Tommy got suspicious. You were in court that day because you wanted to. see him go down. It was the only thing that could have saved you. When he didn't, you still tried putting one over on him, yelling out from the public gallery. But by then it was only a matter of time. And when you heard that the case had been dropped altogether, well, you knew he'd come straight after you. So you ran. You didn't run far enough, Kenny.'

'What's it to you?' The words were angry. But it was, the anger that came of fear. It wasn't directed at Rebus. He was merely the messenger.

'Just this,' Rebus said calmly: 'keep away from Sammy. Don't ever go near her again, don't even try to talk to her. In fact, your best bet right now is to get on a train or a bus or whatever and get the hell out of London. Don't worry, we'll pin Tommy for something sooner' or later. Then maybe you can come back.' He had slipped a hand into his pocket again. It came out holding a: fold of ten pound notes, four of which he peeled off and threw: onto the mattress.

'I'm offering you a one-way ticket, and I'm suggesting you take it right now, this morning.'

The eyes and voice were wary. 'You're not going to take me in?'

'Why should IF'

The smile this time was more confident still. He looked at the money. 'It's just family, Rebus. That's all. I can take care of myself.'

'Can you?' Rebus nodded, taking in the room with its peeling wallpaper and boarded-up window, the mattress with its single rumpled sheet. 'Fair enough.' He turned to go.

'It wasn't just me, you know.'

Rebus stopped but didn't turn. 'What?' He tried not to sound interested.

'There was a copper, too. He was on a cut from the robberies.'

Rebus sucked in air. Did he need to know? Did he want to know?: Kenny Watkiss didn't give him' the choice.

'A detective called Lamb,' he said. Rebus exhaled silently, but, saying nothing, showing nothing, walked back out of the flat and, pulling open the lift doors, kicking away the milk' bottle, pressed the button for the ground floor and waited for the slow descent.

Outside the block, he paused to stub out his cigarette. He rubbed at his stomach again. Stupid not to have brought the painkillers with him. From the corner of his eye, he could see the unmarked transit van in the car park. Six forty-five. There could be a perfectly rational' explanation for it, for the fact that two men' sat stonily in its front seats. They might be about to go to work, mightn't- they?