`I just can't find a motive, John. I mean, Chambers had everything. Why the hell did he need to . . . ? I mean, why would he just . . . ?' They were in the flat's living-room. No clues were being offered up. Chambers's private life seemed as tidy and innocuous as the rest of his home. Just that one room, that one secret corner. That apart, they might have been in any successful barrister's apartment, poring over his books, his desk, his correspondence, his computer files.
It didn't really bother Rebus. It wouldn't bother him supposing they never found out why. He shrugged.
`Wait till the biography's published, George,' said Rebus, `maybe then you'll get your answer.' Or ask a psychologist, he thought to himself. He didn't doubt there would be plenty of theories.
But Flight was shaking his head, rubbing at his head, his face, his neck. He still couldn't believe it had come to an end. Rebus touched a hand to his arm. Their eyes met. Rebus nodded slowly, then winked.
`You should have been in that jag, George. It was magic.
Flight managed to pull a smile out of the air. `Tell that to the judge,' he said. `Tell that to the judge.'
Rebus ate that night at George Flight's home, a meal cooked by Marion. So at last they were having the promised dinner together, but, it was a fairly sombre occasion, enlivened only by an interview with some art historian on the late-night news. He was talking about the damage, to the paintings in the National Gallery's Spanish Room.
`Such pointless waste . . . vandalism . . . sheer, wanton priceless . . . perhaps irreparable . . . thousands of pounds . . . heritage.'
`Blab, blah, blah,' said Flight sneeringly. `At least you can patch up a bloody painting. These people talk half the time out of their arses.'
'George!'
`Sorry, Marion,' said Flight sheepishly. He glanced towards Rebus, who winked back at him.
Later, after she had gone to bed, the two men sat together drinking a final brandy.
`I've decided to retire,' said Flight. `Marion's been nagging me for ages. My health's not what it was.'
'Not serious, I hope?'
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.
Family
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 door?handle 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.'