John.'
'Rhona.'
She had been reading a book. He looked at its cover: To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf. 'Tom Wolfe's more my style,' he said. The living-room was small, cramped even, but a, lot of clever work with shelves and wall-mirrors gave the impression of space. It was a strange sensation, seeing things he recognised, that chair, a cushion-cover, a lamp, things from his life with Rhona, now transported to this pokey flat. But he praised the interior decoration, the snug feel of the place and then they sat down to drink tea. Rebus had brought gifts: record tokens for Samantha, chocolates for Rhona — received with a knowing, coded look between the two women.
Two women. Samantha was no longer a child. Her figure might retain a child's suppleness, but her way of moving, her actions, her face were all fully formed and adult.
'You look good, Rhona.'
She paused, accepting the compliment. 'Thank you, John,' she said at last. He noted her inability to say the same of him. Mother and daughter shared another of their secret looks. It was as though their time together had led to a kind of telepathy between them, so that during the course of the evening Rebus was to do most of the talking, nervously filling the many silent gaps in the conversation.
None of it was very important anyway. He spoke of Edinburgh, without going into detail about his work. This wasn't easy, since work apart he did very little. Rhona asked about mutual friends and he had to admit that he saw none of the old crowd. She talked about her teaching, of property prices in London. (Rebus heard nothing in her tone to suggest that he should pay something towards a bigger place for his kin. After all, it had been her idea to leave him. No real grounds, except, as, she'd put it, that she'd loved a man but married a job.) Then Samantha told him about her secretarial course.
'Secretarial?' said Rebus, trying to sound enthusiastic. Samantha's reply was cool.
'I told you about it in one of my letters.'
'Oh.' There was — another- break in the conversation. Rebus wanted to burst out: I read your letters, Sammy! I devour your letters! And I'm sorry I so seldom write back, but you know what a lousy letter-writer I am, how much effort it takes, how little time and energy I have. So many cases to solve, so many people depending on me.
But he said nothing. Of course he said nothing. Instead, they played out this little sham scenario. Polite chit- chat in a tiny living-room off Bow Road. Everything to say. Saying nothing. It was unbearable. Truly unbearable. Rebus moved his hands to his knees, spreading the fingers, ready to rise to his feet in the expected manner of one about to leave. Well, it's been nice seeing you, but there's a starched hotel bed waiting for me, and a machine to dispense ice, and another to shine shoes. He started to rise.
And the buzzer sounded. Two short, two long. Samantha fairly flew to the stairs. Rhona smiled.
'Kenny,' she explained.
'Oh?'
'Samantha's current gentleman.'
Rebus nodded slowly, the understanding father. Sammy was sixteen., She'd left school.' A secretarial course at college. Not a boyfriend, a gentleman. 'What about you, Rhona?' he said.
She opened her mouth, forming a reply, when the thump of feet climbing the stairs closed it for her. Samantha's face was flushed as she led her gentleman by his hand into the room. Instinctively, Rebus stood up.
'Dad, this is Kenny.'
Kenny was clad in black leather zip-up jacket and black leather trousers, with boots reaching almost to his knees. He squeaked as he moved and in his free hand he carried an upturned crash-helmet, from which poked the fingers of a pair of black leather gloves. Two fingers were prominent, and appeared to be pointing directly at Rebus. Kenny removed his hand from Samantha's grip and held it out towards her father.
'Wotcher.'
The voice was abrupt, the tone deep and confident. He had lank black hair, almost parted at centre, some residual acne on cheeks and neck, a day's growth of stubble. Rebus shook the hot hand with little, enthusiasm.
'Hello, Kenny,' Rhona said. Then, for Rebus's benefit 'Kenny's a motorcycle messenger.'
'Oh,' said Rebus, taking his' seat again:
'Yeah, that's right,' Kenny enthused, 'down the City.' He turned to Rhona. 'Made a fair old packet today, Rhona,' he said, winking. Rhona smiled warmly. This young gentleman, this lad of eighteen or so (so much older, so much more worldly than Samantha) had obviously charmed his way into mother's heart as well as daughter's. He turned now to Rebus with that same winning way. 'I make a hundred quid on a good day. Course, it used to be better,' back at Big Bang. There were a lot of new companies then, all of them trying to show off how much dosh they had. Still, there's a killing to be made if you're fast and reliable. A lot of the customers ask for me by name now. That shows I'm getting somewhere.' He sat down on, the sofa beside Samantha and waited, as did they all, for Rebus to say something.
He knew what was expected of him. Kenny had thrown down a gauntlet, and the message was, just; you dare disapprove of me now. What did the kid want? A pat on the ego? Rebus's permission to deflower his daughter? A few tips on how to avoid speed-traps? Whatever, Rebus wasn't about to knuckle under.
'Can't be good for your lungs,' he said instead. 'All those exhaust fumes.'
Kenny seemed perplexed by this turn in the conversation. 'I keep myself fit,' he said, sounding slightly piqued. Good, thought Rebus, I can nettle this little bastard. He knew Rhona was warning him to lay off, warning him with her piercing eyes, but Rebus kept his attention on Kenny.
'Must be a lot of prospects for a lad like you.'
Kenny cheered up immediately: 'Yeah;' he said, 'I might even set up' my own fleet. All you need's — ' He fell silent as he belatedly noticed that use of 'lad' as though he were dressed in shorts and school-cap. But, it was too late to go back and correct it, way too late. He had to push on, but now it all sounded like pipe-dreams and playground fantasies. This rozzer might be from Jockland, but he was every bit as oily as an East End old-timer. He'd have to watch his step. And what was happening now? This Jock, this rough-looking tosser in the ill-fitting gear, the completely uncoordinated gear, this 'man at C & A' type, was reminiscing about a grocery shop from his youth. For a time, Rebus had been the grocer's 'message boy'. (He explained that in Scotland 'messages' meant 'groceries'.) He'd run about- on a heavy-framed black bicycle, with a metal rectangle in front of the handlebars. The box of groceries would be held in this rectangle and off he would pedal to do his deliveries.
'I thought I was rich,' Rebus said, obviously coming to a punch line'. 'But when I wanted more money, there wasn't any to be had. I had to wait till I was old enough to get a proper job, but I loved running around on that bike, doing errands and delivering messages to the old folk. Sometimes they'd even give me a tip, a piece of fruit or a jar of jam:'
There was silence in the room. A police siren sped past outside. Rebus sat back and folded his arms, a sentimental smile spread across his face. And then it dawned on Kenny: Rebus was comparing the two of them. His eyes widened. Everyone knew it. Rhona knew it. Sam knew it. For tuppence, he'd get up and stick the nut on the copper, Sam's dad or not. But he held back and the moment passed. Rhona got up to make more tea, and the big bastard got up, and said he had to be, going.
It had all happened so fast. Kenny was still trying to unravel Rebus's story and Rebus could see it. The poor half-educated runt was trying to work out just how far Rebus had put him down. Rebus could answer that as far as was necessary. Rhona hated him for it, of course, and Samantha looked embarrassed. Well to hell with them. He'd done his duty, he'd paid his respects. He wouldn't bother them any more. Let them live in the cramped flat visited by this gentleman, this mock adult. Rebus had more important things to do. Books to read. Notes to make And another busy day ahead. It was ten o'clock. He could be back at his hotel by eleven. An early night, that's what was needed. Eight hours' sleep in the last two days. No wonder he was ratty, looking for a fight.
He began to feel a little bit ashamed.. Kenny was too easy a target. He'd crushed a tiny fly beneath a tower- block o resentment. Resentment, John, or plain jealousy?' That was not a question for a tired man. Not a question for a man like John Rebus. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he might start getting some answers. He was determined to pay for hi keep now that he had been brought to London. Tomorrow the task began in earnest.
He shook. Kenny's hand again and gave him a man-to man half-wink before leaving the flat. Rhona offered to see him to the, door. They went into the hall, leaving Samantha and Kenny in the living-room, behind a closed
