`What do you mean?'
`Policemen. You're not all as bad as they say.'
`You're a copper's daughter, Sammy. Remember that. And you're a straight copper's daughter. Be sure to stick up for your old dad. Okay?'
She smiled again. `You're not old, Dad.'
He smiled, too, but did not reply. In truth, he was basking in the compliment, whether it was mere flattery ? HYPERLINK “http://or.no/”??or no?. What mattered was that Sammy, his daughter Sammy, had said it.
`Right,' he said at last, `let's get you into a car. And don't worry, pet, we'll track down your missing beau.'
`You called me pet again.'
'Did I? Don't tell your mother.'
`I won't. And, Dad?'
`What?' He half-turned towards her just in time to receive her peck on the cheek.
`Thanks,' she said. `Whatever happens, thanks.'
Flight was in the small office of the Murder Room. After the close confines of the interview cupboard, this space had suddenly taken on a new, much larger dimension. Rebus sat himself down and swung one leg over the other.
`So what's this about the Wolfman letter?' he said.
`So,' replied Flight, `what's this about Kenny Watkiss disappearing?'
`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?' Rebu 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 . . . blab, 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,
