Tooth & Nail

'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, never go down the pub shooting their mouths off after a couple of Navy Rums.'

`Can we talk to Arnold?'

`What for?'

`Maybe he knows something about Kenny.

'Even supposing he does why should he tell us?'

`Because we're police officers, George. And he's a member of the public. We're here to uphold law and order, and it's his duty to help us in that onerous task.' Rebus was reflective. `Plus I'll slip him twenty quid.'

Flight sounded incredulous. `This is London, John. A score can hardly get a round of drinks. Arnold gives good gen, but he'll be looking for a pony at least.' Now he was playing with Rebus, and Rebus, realising it, smiled.

`If Arnold wants a pony,' he said, `tell him I'll buy him one for Christmas. And a little girl to sit on it. Just so long as he tells me what he knows.'

`Fair enough,' said Flight. `Come on then, let's go find ourselves a street market.'

The Gallery

Flight was struggling with half a dozen large brown paper bags, the fruits—literally—of asking for Arnold at three or four market stalls so far. Rebus had refused the offers of free bananas, oranges, pears and grapes, though Flight had prodded him to accept.

`It's a local custom,' Flight said. `They get annoyed if you don't accept. Like a Glaswegian offering you a drink. Would you turn it down? No, because then you'd offend him. Same with these guys.'

`What would I do with three pounds of bananas?'

`Eat them,' said Flight blandly, Then, cryptically: `Unless you were Arnold, of course.'

He refused to explain the meaning of this, and Rebus refused to consider the various possibilities. They moved from stall to stall, passing most, stopping at only a few. In their way, they were like the women who crushed in all around them, feeling this or that mango or aubergine, checking prices at the various stalls, pausing only at a few to make their final purchases.

"Allo, George.'