Rebus nodded. `With one slight detour,' he said.
The detour, in Flight's words, turned out to be more than slight. They parked across from Rhona's flat in Gideon Park and Flight pulled on the handbrake.
'Going in?' he said. Rebus had been thinking about it, but shook his head. What could he tell Sammy? Nothing that would help. If he said he'd seen Kenny, she'd only accuse him of scaring him off. No, best leave it.
`George,' he said, `could you maybe have someone drop in and tell her Kenny's left London. But stress that he's okay, that he's not in trouble. I don't want him lingering too long in her memory.'
Flight was nodding. `I'll do it myself,' he said. `Have you seen him yet?'
`I went this morning.'
`And?'
`And I was just in time. But I reckon he'll be all right.'
Flight studied the face next to him. `I think I believe you,' he said.
`Just one thing.'
`Yes?'
`Kenny told me one of your men is involved. The baby faced redneck.'
`Lamb?'
`That's the one. He's on Tommy Watkiss's payroll, according to Kenny.'
Flight pursed his lips' and was silent for a moment. `I think I believe that, too,' he said at last, very quietly. `Don't worry, John. I'll deal with it.'
Rebus said nothing. He was still staring out at the windows of Rhona's flat, willing Sammy to come to one of them and see him. No, not see him, just so that he might see her. But there was no one at home. The ladies were out for the day with Tim or Tony or Graeme or Ben.
And it was none of Rebus's business anyway.
`Let's go,' he said.
So Flight drove him to King's Cross. Drove him through streets paved with nothing so very different from any other city. Streets ancient and modem, breathing with envy and excitement. And with evil. Not much evil, perhaps. But enough. Evil, after all, was pretty well a constant. He thanked God that it touched so few lives.' He thanked God that his friends and family were safe. And he thanked God he was going home.
`What are you thinking about?' Flight asked as they idled at yet another set of traffic lights.
`Nothing,' said Rebus.
He was still thinking about nothing when he boarded the busy Inter City 125, and sat down with his newspapers and his magazines. As the train was about to move off, someone squeezed into the seat opposite him and deposited four large cans of strong lager on the table. The youth was tall and hard-looking with shorn hair. He glared at Rebus and turned up his personal cassette player. Tscchh-tscchh-tscchh it went, so loud Rebus could almost make out the words. The youth was grasping a ticket denoting Edin?burgh as his destination. He put the ticket down and pulled on a ring-pull. Rebus shook his head wearily and smiled.
His own personal hell. As the train pulled away, he caught its rhythm and beat that rhythm out silently in his head.
FYTP
FYTP
FYTP
FYTP
FYTP
FYTP
All the way home.
The End