For now, the room had a musty, barren feel, but it still boasted a light-bulb hanging from the ceiling, a table and two chairs. On the table sat a glass ashtray full of stubs and two plastic coffee cups containing a layer of green and black mould. On the floor lay a crushed cigarette packet. Rebus kicked the packet beneath some of the stacked chairs.
`It's not much,' he said, `but it's home. Sit down. Do you want anything?''
She seemed not to understand' the question. `Like what?'
`I don't know, coffee, tea?'
`Diet Coke?'
Rebus shook his head.
`What about Irn Bru?'
Now he laughed: she was joking with him. He couldn't bear to see her upset, especially over someone as undeserving as Kenny Watkiss.
`Sammy,' he asked, 'does Kenny have an uncle?'
`Uncle Tommy?'
Rebus nodded. `That's the one.'
'What about him?'
`Well,' said Rebus, crossing his legs, `what do you know about him?'
`About Kenny's Uncle Tommy? Not a lot.'
`What does he do for a living?'
`I think Kenny said he's got a stall somewhere, you know in a market.''
Lake Brick Lane market? Did he sell false teeth?
`Or maybe he just delivers to market stalls, I can't really remember.'
Delivers stolen goods? Goods given to him by thieves like the one they'd picked up, the one who had pretended to be the Wolfman?
`Anyway, he's got a few bob.'
`How do you know that?'
`Kenny told me. At least, I think he did. Otherwise how would I know?'
`Where does Kenny work, Sammy?'
`In the City.'
`Yes, but for which firm?'
`Firm?'
`He's a courier, isn't he? He must work for a company?'
But she shook her head. `He went freelance when he had enough regular clients. I remember he said that his boss at the old place was pissed off—' She broke off suddenly and looked up at him, her face going red. She'd forgotten for a moment that she was talking to her father, and not just to some copper. `Sorry, Dad,' she, apologised, `His boss was angry with him for taking away so much of the trade. Kenny was good, see, he knows all the shortcuts, knows which buildings are which. Some drivers get confused when they can't find some tiny alleyway, or when the numbers on a street don't seem to make sense.' Yes. Rebus had noticed that; how sometimes the street numbers seemed illogical, as though numbers had been skipped. `But not Kenny. He knows London like the back of his hand.'
Knows London well, the roads, the shortcuts. On a motorbike, you could cut across London in a flash. Tow- paths, alleys—in a flash.
`What kind of bike does he have, Sammy?'
`I don't know. A Kawasaki something-or-other. He's got one that he uses for work, because it's not too heavy, and another he keeps for weekends, a really big bike.'
`Where does he keep them? There can't be too many safe places around the Churchill Estate?'
`There are some garages nearby. They get vandalised, but Kenny's put a reinforced door on. It's like Fort Knox. I keep kidding him about it. It's better guarded than his. ' Her voice falls flat. `How did you know he lives on Churchill?'
`What?'
Her voice is stronger now, curious 'How did you know Kenny lives on Churchill?'
Rebus shrugged. `I suppose he told me, that night I met him round at your place.'
She's thinking back, trying to recall the conversation. But there's nothing there, nothing she can latch onto. Rebus is thinking, too.
Like Fort Knox. A handy place to store stolen gear. Or a corpse.
`So,' he says, pulling his chair a little further in to the table. 'Tell me what you think has happened. What do you think he's been keeping from you?'
She stared at the table-top, shaking her head slowly, staring, shaking, until finally: `I don't know.'
`Well, had you fallen out over anything? Maybe you'd been arguing?'
