Tooth & Nail

The psychology books told him that coppers read the worst into every situation. It was true. He didn't like the fact that Kenny Watkiss was dating his daughter. If Kenny had been heir apparent to the throne, Rebus would still have been suspicious. She was his daughter. He'd hardly seen her since she had entered her teens. In his mind she was still a child, a thing to be cosseted, loved, and protected. But she was a big girl now, with ambition, drive, good, looks and a grown-up, body. She was grown-up, there was no escaping it, and it scared him. Scared him because she was Sammy, his Sammy. Scared him because he hadn't been there all these years to warn her, to tell her how to cope, what to do.

Scared because he was getting old.

There, it was out. He was growing old. He had a sixteen-year old daughter and she was old enough to leave school and get a job, to have sex, to get married. Not old enough to go into pubs, but that wouldn't stop her. Not old enough for street-wise eighteen-year-olds like Kenny Watkiss. But grown-up all the same, grown up without him, and now he too was old.

And by God he felt it.

He plunged his left hand deep into his pocket, his right hand still wrapped around the handle of the carrier-bag, and turned from the pub. There was a bus stop near where the taxi had dropped him. He'd go where the bus would take him. The skateboarders were coming along the path in front of him. One of them seemed very proficient, weaving without losing balance. As the boy approached, he suddenly flipped the board up so that it spun in the air, in front of him. Both hands neatly grabbed the board by its running tail and swung the board itself in a backward arc. Too late, Rebus saw the manoeuvre for what it was. He tried to duck but the heavy wooden board hit the side of his head with a sharp crack.

He staggered, dropped to his knees. They were on him immediately, seven or eight of them, hands gouging into his pockets.

'Fuckin’ split my board, man. Lookatit. Fuckin’ six inch split.'

A training shoe caught Rebus on the chin and sent him flying. He was concentrating on not losing consciousness, so much so that he forgot to fight or to scream or to defend himself. Then a loud voice.

'Oi! What the fuck d'you think you're up to?'

And they ran, rolling their boards until they had gained enough speed, the hard wheels crackling on the tarmac as they fled. Like a posse in an old western, Rebus thought with a smile. Like a posse.

`You all right, mate? Come on, let's get you up.'

The man helped Rebus to his feet. When his eyes regained their powers of focus, he saw, blood on the man's lip, smeared across his, chin. The man noticed him looking.

`My bird,' he said, his breath rich with alcohol. `She fuckin’ clocked me, didn't she? Got me a good one, too. Couple of loose teeth. Still, they was rotten anyway, probably saved me a ? HYPERLINK “http://fortune.at/”??fortune at? the dentist's.' He laughed. `Come on, let's get you into the Cock. A couple of brandies'll see you right.'

`Took my money,' Rebus said He was clutching the carrier-bag to him like a shield.

`Never mind that,' said his Samaritan.

They were kind to him. They sat him down at a table, and every now and again a drink would appear, and someone would say, `That one's from Bill’, or `That one's from Tessa’, or `That one's from Jackie', or `That one's from . . . '

They were kind to him. They collected a fiver so he could get a taxi back to his hotel. He explained that he was a tourist, down here for a bit of sightseeing. He'd managed to get lost, had jumped off a bus and ended up here. And they, kind souls, believed him.

They didn't bother phoning the police.

`Those bastards,' they spat. `Waste of time. Wouldn't turn up till tomorrow morning and then they'd do nothing. It's the cops round here that are behind half the crimes, believe me.'

And he did. He did believe them. And another drink arrived, another brandy in a small schooner.

`All the best, eh?'

And they were playing cards and dominoes, a lively crowd, a regular crowd. The TV blared a musical quiz show and the jukebox sang and the one-armed bandit bleeped and buzzed and spat out an occasional win. He thanked God Sammy and Kenny weren't here. How would it have looked to them? He dreaded to think.

At one point he excused himself and went to the toilet. There was a jagged triangle of mirror nailed to one wall. The side of his head, jaw and ear, were red and would probably bruise. The jaw would ache for some time. Where the shoe had connected, there was already a red and purple welt. Nothing more. Nothing worse. No knives or razor blades'. No massed, assault. It had been a clean, professional hit. The way that kid had flipped the board, caught it and swung it. Professional. An absolute pro. If Rebus ever caught him, he would congratulate him on one of the sweetest moves he had ever seen.

Then he'd kick the little bastard's teeth so far down his throat they'd bite his small intestine.