whisky. He looked at, the row of pumps, while the barman watched him, a proprietorial hand resting on one pump. Rebus nodded towards this, resting hand.
'Is it any good?'
The man snorted. 'It's bloody Fuller's, mate, of course it's good.'
'A pint of that then, please.'
The stuff turned out to have a watery look, like cold tea, but it tasted smooth and malty. The barman was still watching him, so Rebus nodded approval, then took his glass to a distant corner where the public telephone stood. He dialled HQ and asked for Flight.
'He's left for the day,' he was told.
'Well then, put me through to anyone from CID, anyone who's helpful. I've got a telephone number I want tracing.' There were rules and regulations about this sort of thing, rules at one time ignored but of late enforced. Requests had to be made and were not always granted. Some forces could pull more weight than others when it came to number tracing. He reckoned the Met and the Yard ought to carry more weight than most, but just in case he added: 'It's to do with the Wolfman case. It might be a very good lead.'
He was told to repeat the number he, wanted- tracing. 'Call back in half an hour,' said the voice.
He sat at a table and drank his beer. It seemed silly, but it appeared to be going to his head already, with only half a pint missing from 'the glass. Someone had left a folded, smudged- copy of the midday Standard. Rebus tried to concentrate on the sports pages and even had a stab at the concise crossword. Then he made the call and was put through to someone he didn't know, who passed him on to someone else he didn't know. A boisterous crowd, looking like a team of bricklayers, had entered the bar. One of them made for the jukebox, and suddenly Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild was booming, from the walls, while the men urged the unwilling barman to wick it up a bit'.
'If you'll just hold a minute, Inspector Rebus, 'I believe Chief Inspector Laine wants a word.'
'But, Christ, I don't want To late, the voice at the other end had gone. Rebus held the receiver away from him and scowled.
Eventually, Howard Laine came on the line. Rebus pushed a finger into one ear, pressing his other ear hard against the earpiece.
'Ah, Inspector Rebus. I wanted a quiet word. You're a hard man to catch. About that business last night.' Laine's was the voice of reasoned sanity. 'You're, about a bullock-hair's breadth away from an official reprimand, understand? Pull a stunt like that again and I'll personally see to it that you're shipped back to Jockland in the boot of a National Express bus. Got that?'
Rebus was silent, listening closely. He could almost hear Cath Farraday sitting in Laine's office, smirking.
'I said, have you got that?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good.' A rustling of paper. 'Now, you want an address I believe?'
'Yes, sir.'
'It's a lead, you say?'
'Yes, sir.' Rebus suddenly wondered if this would be worth it. He hoped so. If they found out he was abusing the system like, this, they'd have him in the dole office with prospects roughly equivalent to those of a shoeshine boy on a nudist beach.
But Laine gave him the address and as a bonus, supplied Kenny's surname.
'Watkiss,' said Laine. 'The address is Pedro Tower, Churchill Estate, E5, I think that's Hackney.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Rebus.
'Oh by the way,' said Laine, 'Inspector Rebus?' 'Yes, sir?'
'From what I've been told of Churchill Estate, if you're intending to visit, tell us first. We'll arrange for an SPG escort. All right?'
'Bit rough is it then, sir?'
'Rough doesn't begin to tell the story, son. We train the SAS in there, pretend it's a mock-up of Beirut.'
'Thanks for the advice, sir.' Rebus wanted to add that he'd been in the SAS and he doubted Pedro Tower could throw anything at him that the SAS HQ in Hereford hadn't. All the same, it paid to be cautious. The brickies were playing pool, their accents a mix of Irish and Cockney. Born to be Wild had finished. Rebus finished his pint and ordered another.
Kenny Watkiss. So there was a connection and rather a large one at that, between Tommy Watkiss and Samantha's boyfriend. How was it that in a city of ten million souls, Rebus had suddenly begun to feel an overwhelming sense, of claustrophobia? He felt like someone had wrapped a muffler around his mouth and pulled a Balaclava down over his head.
'I'd be careful, mate,' said the barman as Rebus took delivery of his second pint. 'That stuff can kill you.'
'Not if I kill it first,' said Rebus, winking as he raised the glass to his lips.
The taxi driver wouldn't take him as far as the Churchill Estate. 'I'll drop you off a couple of streets away and show you where to go, but there's no way I'm going in there.'
'Fair enough,' said Rebus.
So he took the taxi as far as the taxi would take him, then walked the remaining distance. It didn't look so' bad. He'd seen worse on the outskirts of Edinburgh. A lot of dull concrete, nuggets of glass underfoot, boarded windows and spray-painted gang names on every wall. Jeez Posse seemed to be the main gang, though there were other names so fantastically contrived that he could not make them out. Young boys skateboarded through an arena constructed from milk-crates, wooden planks and bricks. You couldn't muzzle the creative mind. Rebus stopped to watch for a moment; it only took a moment to appreciate that these boys were masters of their craft.
Rebus came to the entrance of one of the estate's four high-rises. He was busy looking for an identifying mark when something went splat on the pavement beside him. He looked down. It was a sandwich, a salami sandwich by the look of it. He craned his neck to look up at the various levels of the tower block, just in time to catch sight of something large and dark growing larger and darker as it hurtled towards him.
'Jesus Christ!' He leapt into the safety of the block's entrance hall, just as the TV set landed, flattening itself with an explosion of plastic, metal and glass. From their arena, the boys cheered. Rebus moved outside again, but more warily now, and craned his neck. There was no one to be seen. He whistled- under his breath. He was impressed, and a little scared. Despite the thunderous sound, nobody seemed curious or interested.
He wondered which television show had so- angered the person somewhere above him. 'Everyone's — a critic,' he said. And then: 'FYTP '
He heard a lift opening. A young woman, greasy dyed-blonde hair, gold stud in her nose and three in each ear; spider-web tattoo across her throat. She wheeled a pushchair out onto the concrete. Seconds earlier she would have been beneath the television.'
'Excuse me,' said Rebus above the noise of her wailing passenger.
'Yeah?'
'Is this Pedro Tower?'
'Over there,' she said, pointing a sharpened fingernail towards one of the remaining blocks.
'Thank you.'
She glanced towards where the television had landed'. 'It's the kids,' she said. 'They break into a flat, and throw a sandwich out of the window, A dog comes to eat it, and they chuck a telly after it: Makes a helluva mess.' She sounded almost amused. Almost.
'Lucky I don't like salami,' Rebus said.
But she was already manoeuvring the pushchair past the fresh debris. 'If you don't shut up I'll fucking kill, you!' she yelled at her child. Rebus walked on unsteady legs towards Pedro Tower.
Why was he here?
It had all seemed to make sense, had seemed logical. But now that he stood in the sour-smelling ground- floor hallway of Pedro Tower he found that he had no reason at all to be here. Rhona had said that Sammy was out with Kenny. The chances of them choosing to spend the evening in Pedro Tower must be slim, mustn't they?
Even supposing Kenny were here, how would Rebus locate the flat? The locals would sniff an enquiring copper from fifty paces. Questions would go unanswered, knocked doors would stay unopened. Was this what intellectuals — called an impasse? He could, always wait, of course. Kenny would be sure to return at some point.
