Mortal Causes

by Ian Rankin

  ‘We’ve nothing on him, nothing that would stick. That’s not the way to work it.’

  She looked at him. ‘Too mundane?’

  He shook his head. ‘Like a golf course, too full of holes. We need to get him scared.’

  She thought about this. ‘Why did they kill Billy?’

  ‘I think he was about to talk, maybe he’d threatened to come to us.’

  ‘Could he be that stupid?’

  ‘Maybe he had insurance, something he thought would save his skin.’

  Siobhan Clarke looked at him. ‘It didn’t work,’ she said.

  Back at St Leonard’s, there was a message for him to call Kilpatrick.

  ‘Some magazine,’ Kilpatrick said, ‘is about to run with a story about Calumn Smylie’s murder, specifically that he was working undercover at the time.’

  ‘How did they get hold of that?’

  ‘Maybe someone talked, maybe they just burrowed deep enough. Whatever, a certain local reporter has made no friends for herself.’

  ‘Not Mairie Henderson?’

  ‘That’s the name. You know her, don’t you?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Rebus lied. He knew Kilpatrick was fishing. If someone in the notoriously tight-lipped SCS was blabbing, who better to point the finger at than the new boy?

  He phoned the news desk while Siobhan fetched them coffee. ‘Mairie Henderson, please. What? Since when? Right, thanks.’ He put the phone down. ‘She’s resigned,’ he said, not quite believing it. ‘Since last week. She’s gone freelance apparently.’

  ‘Good for her,’ said Siobhan, handing over a cup. But Rebus wasn’t so sure. He called Mairie’s home number, but got her answering machine. Its message was succinct:

  ‘I’m busy with an assignment, so I can’t promise a quick reply unless you’re offering work. If you are offering work, leave your number. You can see how dedicated I am. Here comes the beep.’

  Rebus waited for it. ‘Mairie, it’s John Rebus. Here are three numbers you can get me on.’ He gave her St Leonard’s, Fettes, and Patience’s flat, not feeling entirely confident about this last, wondering if any message from a woman would reach him with Patience on the intercept.

  Then he made an internal call to the station’s liaison officer.

  ‘Have you seen Mairie Henderson around?’

  ‘Not for a wee while. The paper seems to have switched her for someone else, a right dozy wee nyaff.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Rebus thought about the last time he’d seen her, in the corridor after Lauderdale’s conference. She hadn’t mentioned any story, or any plan of going freelance. He made one more call, external this time. It was to DCI Kilpatrick.

  ‘What is it, John?’

  ‘That magazine, sir, the one doing the story about Calumn Smylie, what’s it called?’

  ‘It’s some London rag …’ There were sounds of papers being shuffled. ‘Yes, here it is. Snoop.’

  ‘Snoop?’ Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who nodded, signalling she’d heard of it. ‘Right, thank you, sir.’ He put the receiver down before Kilpatrick could ask any questions.

  ‘Want me to phone them and ask?’

  Rebus nodded. He saw Brian Holmes come into the room. ‘Just the man,’ he said. Holmes saw them and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.

  ‘So,’ said Rebus, ‘what did you get from the builders?’

  ‘Everything but an estimate for repointing my house.’ He took out his notebook. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  19

  Davey Soutar had agreed to meet Rebus in the community hall.

  On his way to the Gar-B, Rebus tried not to think about Soutar. He thought instead about building firms. All Brian Holmes had been able to tell him was that the two firms were no cowboys, and weren’t admitting to use of casual, untaxed labour. Siobhan Clarke’s call to the office of Snoop magazine had been more productive. Mairie Henderson’s piece, which they intended publishing in their next issue, had not been commissioned specially. It was part of a larger story she was working on for an American magazine. Why, Rebus wondered, would an American magazine be interested in the death of an Edinburgh copper? He thought he had a pretty good idea.

  He drove into the Gar-B car park, bumped his car up onto the grass, and headed slowly past the garages towards the community hall. The theatre group hadn’t bothered with the car park either. Maybe someone had had a go at their van. It was now parked close by the hall’s front doors. Rebus parked next to it.

  ‘It’s the filth,’ someone said. There were half a dozen teenagers on the roof of the building, staring down at him. And more of them sitting and standing around the doors. Davey Soutar had not come alone.

  They let Rebus past. It was like walking through hate. Inside the hall, there was an argument going on.

  ‘I never touched it!’

  ‘It was there a minute ago.’

  ‘You calling me a liar, pal?’

  Three men, who’d been constructing a set on the stage, had stopped to watch. Davey Soutar was talking with another man. They were standing close, faces inches apart. Clenched fists and puffed-out chests.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Rebus said.

  Peter Cave, who’d been sitting with head in hands, now stood up.

  ‘No problem,’ he said lightly.

  The third man thought there was. ‘The wee bastard,’ he said, meaning Davey Soutar, ‘just lifted a packet of fags.’

  Soutar looked ready to hit something. It was interesting that he didn’t hit his accuser. Rebus didn’t know what he’d been expecting from the theatre company. He certainly hadn’t been expecting this. The accuser was tall and wiry with long greasy hair and several days’ growth of beard. He didn’t look in the least scared of Soutar, whose reputation must surely have preceded him. Nor did the workers on the stage look unwilling to enter any fray. He reached into his pocket and brought out a fresh pack of twenty, which he handed to Davey Soutar.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take these, and give the gentleman back his ciggies.’

  Soutar turned on him like a zoo leopard, not happy with its cage. ‘I don’t need your …’ The roar faded. He looked at the faces around him. Then he laughed, a hysterical giggling laugh. He slapped his bare chest and shook his head, then took the cigarettes from Rebus and tossed another pack onto the stage.

  Rebus turned to the accuser. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jim Hay.’ The accent was west coast.

  ‘Well, Jim, why don’t you take those cigarettes outside, have a ten-minute break?’

  Jim Hay looked ready to protest, but then thought better of it. He gestured to his crew and they followed him outside. Rebus could hear them getting into the van. He turned his attention to Davey Soutar and Peter Cave.

  ‘I’m surprised you came,’ said Soutar, lighting up.

  ‘I’m full of surprises, me.’

  ‘Only, last time I saw you here, you were heading for the hills. You owe Peter an apology, by the way.’ Soutar had changed completely. He looked like he was enjoying himself, like he hadn’t lost his temper in weeks.

  ‘I don’t think that’s strictly necessary,’ Peter Cave said into the silence.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ said Rebus. He dragged over a chair and sat down. Soutar decided this was a good idea. He found a chair for himself and sat with a hard man’s slump, legs wide apart, hands stuffed into the tight pockets of his denims, cigarette hanging from his lips. Rebus wanted a cigarette, but he wasn’t going to ask for one.

  ‘So what’s the problem, Inspector?’

  Soutar had agreed to a meeting here, but hadn’t mentioned Peter Cave would be present. Maybe it was coincidence. Whatever, Rebus didn’t mind an audience. Cave looked tired, pale. There was no question who was in charge, who had power over whom.

  ‘I just have a few things to ask, there’s no question of charges or anything criminal, all right?’ Soutar obliged with a grunt, examining the laces of his basketball boots. He was shirtless a
gain, still wearing the worn denim jacket. It was filthy, and had been decorated with pen drawings and dark-inked words, names mostly. Grease and dirt were erasing most of the messages and symbols, a few of which had already been covered with fresh hieroglyphs in thicker, darker ink. Soutar slid a hand from his pocket and ran it down his chest, rubbing the few fair curling hairs over his breast bone. He was giving Rebus a friendly look, his lips slightly parted. Rebus wanted to smash him in the face.

  ‘I can walk any time I want?’ he said to Rebus.

  ‘Any time.’

  The chair grated against the floor as Soutar pushed it back and stood up. Then he laughed and sat down again, wriggling to get comfortable, making sure his crotch was visible. ‘Ask me a question then,’ he said.

  ‘You know the Orange Loyal Brigade?’

  ‘Sure. That was easy, try another.’

  But Rebus had turned to Cave. ‘Have you heard of it, too?’

  ‘I can’t say I –’

  ‘Hey! It’s me the questions are for!’

  ‘In a second, Mr Soutar.’ Davey Soutar liked that: Mr Soutar. Only the dole office and the census taker had ever called him Mr. ‘The Orange Loyal Brigade, Mr Cave, is an extreme hardline Protestant group, a small force but an organised one, based in east central Scotland.’

  Soutar confirmed this with a nod.

  ‘The Brigade were kicked out of the Orange Lodge for being too extreme. This may give you some measure of them. Do you know what they’re committed to, Mr Cave? Maybe Mr Soutar can answer.’

  Mr again! Soutar chuckled. ‘Hating the Papes,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Soutar’s right.’ Rebus’s eyes hadn’t moved from Cave’s since he’d first turned to him. ‘They hate Catholics.’

  ‘Papes,’ said Soutar. ‘Left-footers, Tigs, bogmen, Paddies.’

  ‘And a few more names beside,’ added Rebus. He left a measured pause. ‘You’re a Roman Catholic, aren’t you?’ As if he’d forgotten. Cave merely nodded, while Soutar slid his eyes sideways to look at him. Suddenly Rebus turned to Soutar. ‘Who’s head of the Brigade, Davey?’

  ‘Er … Ian Paisley!’ He laughed, and got a smile from Rebus.

  ‘No, but really.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘No? You don’t know Gavin MacMurray?’

  ‘MacMurray? Is he the one with the garage in Currie?’

  ‘That’s him. He’s the Supreme Commander of the Orange Loyal Brigade.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘And his son’s the Provost-Marshall. Lad called Jamesie, be a year or two younger than you.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Short term memory loss, that’s what a bad diet does.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘All the chips and crisps, the booze you put away, not exactly brain food, is it? I know what it’s like on estates like the Gar-B, you eat rubbish and you inject yourselves with anything you can get your paws on. Your body’ll wither and die, probably before your brain does.’

  The conversation had clearly taken an unexpected turn. ‘What are you talking about?’ Soutar yelled. ‘I don’t do drugs! I’m as fit as fuck, pal!’

  Rebus looked at Soutar’s exposed chest. ‘Whatever you say, Davey.’

  Soutar sprang to his feet, the chair tumbling behind him. He threw off his jacket and stood there, chest inflated, pulling both arms up and in to show the swell of muscle.

  ‘You could punch me in the guts and I wouldn’t flinch.’

  Rebus could believe it, too. The stomach was flat except for ripples of musculature, looking so solid they might have been sculpted from marble. Soutar relaxed his arms, held them in front of him.

  ‘Look, no tracks. Drugs are for mugs.’

  Rebus held up a pacifying hand. ‘You’ve proved your point, Davey.’

  Soutar stared at him for a moment longer, then laughed and picked his jacket up off the floor.

  ‘Interesting tattoos, by the way.’

  They were the usual homemade jobs in blue ink, with one larger professional one on the right upper arm. It showed the Red Hand of Ulster, with the words No Surrender beneath. Below it the self-inflicted tattoos were just letters and messages: UVF, UDA, FTP, and SaS.

  Rebus waited till Soutar had put on his jacket. ‘You know Jamesie MacMurray,’ he stated.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You bumped into him last Saturday when the Brigade was marching on Princes Street. You were there for the march, but you had to leave. However, you said hello to your old friend first. You knew Mr Cave was a Catholic right from the start, didn’t you? I mean, he didn’t hide the fact?’

  Soutar was looking confused. The questions were all over the place, it was hard to keep up.

  ‘Pete was straight with us,’ he admitted. He was staying on his feet.

  ‘And that didn’t bother you? I mean, you came to his club, bringing your gang with you. And the Catholic gang came along too. What did Jamesie say about that?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with him.’

  ‘You could see it was a good thing though, eh? Meeting the Catholic gang, divvying up the ground between you. It’s the way it works in Ulster, that’s what you’ve heard. Who told you? Jamesie? His dad?’

  ‘His dad?’

  ‘Or was it The Shield?’

  ‘I never even –’ Davey Soutar stopped. He was breathing hard as he pointed at Rebus. ‘You’re in shite up past the point of breathing.’

  ‘Then I must be standing on your shoulders. Come on, Davey.’

  ‘It’s Mr Soutar.’

  ‘Mr Soutar then.’ Rebus had his hands open, palms up. He was sitting back in his chair, rocking it on its back legs. ‘Come on, sit down. It’s no big deal. Everybody knows about The Shield, knows you’re part of it. Everybody except Mr Cave here.’ He turned to Peter Cave. ‘Let’s just say that The Shield is even more extreme than the Orange Loyal Brigade. The Shield collects money, mostly by violence and extortion, and it sends arms to Northern Ireland.’ Soutar was shaking his head.

  ‘You’re nothing, you’ve got nothing.’

  ‘But you’ve got something, Davey. You’ve got your hate and your anger.’ He turned to Cave again. ‘See, Mr Cave? You’ve got to be asking, how come Davey puts up with a committed worker for the Church of Rome, or the Whore of Rome as Davey himself might put it? A question that has to be answered.’

  When he looked round, Soutar was on the stage. He pushed over the sets, kicking them, stomping them, then jumped down again and made for the doors. His face was orange with anger.

  ‘Was Billy a friend too, Davey?’ That stopped him dead. ‘Billy Cunningham, I mean.’

  Soutar was on the move.

  ‘Davey! You’ve forgotten your fags!’ But Davey Soutar was out the door and screaming things which were unintelligible. Rebus lit a cigarette for himself.

  ‘That laddie’s got too much testosterone for his own good,’ he said to Cave.

  ‘Look who’s talking.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Just an act, Mr Cave. Method acting, you might say.’ He blew out a plume of smoke. Cave was staring at his hands, which were clasped in his lap. ‘You need to know what you’ve gotten into.’

  Cave looked up. ‘You think I condone sectarian hate?’

  ‘No, my theory’s much simpler. I think you get off on violence and young men.’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘Then maybe all you are, Mr Cave, is misguided. Get out while you can. A policeman’s largesse never lasts.’ He walked over to Cave and bent down, speaking quietly. ‘They’ve swallowed you, you’re in the pit of the Gar-B’s stomach. You can still crawl out, but maybe there’s not as much time as you think.’ Rebus patted Cave’s cheek. It was cold and soft, like chicken from the fridge.

  ‘Look at yourself some time, Rebus. You might find you’d make a bloody good terrorist yourself.’

  ‘Thing is, I’d never be tempted. What about you?’

  Cave stood up and walked past him
towards the doors. Then he walked through them and kept going. Rebus blew smoke from his nose, then sat on the edge of the stage, finishing the cigarette. Maybe he’d tripped Soutar’s fuse too early. If it had come out right, he’d have learned something more about The Shield. At the moment, it was all cables and coiled springs, junctions from which spread different coloured wires. Hard to defuse when you didn’t know which wire to attack first.

  The doors were opening again, and he looked up. Davey Soutar was standing there. Behind him there were others, more than a dozen of them. Soutar was breathing hard. Rebus glanced at his watch and hoped it was right. There was an Emergency Exit at the other end of the hall, but where did Rebus go from there? Instead, he climbed onto the stage and watched them advance. Soutar wasn’t saying anything. The whole procession took place in silence, except for breathing and the shuffle of feet on the floor. They were at the front of the stage now. Rebus picked up a length of wood, part of the broken set. Soutar, his eyes on the wood, began to climb onto the stage.

  He stopped when he heard the sirens. He froze for a moment, staring up at Rebus. The policeman was smiling.

  ‘Think I’d come here without my cavalry, Davey?’ The sirens were drawing closer. ‘Your call, Davey,’ Rebus said, managing to sound relaxed. ‘If you want another riot, here’s your chance.’

  But all Davey Soutar did was ease himself back off the stage. He stood there, eyes wide and unblinking, as if sheer will of thought might cause Rebus to implode. A final snarl, and he turned and walked away. They followed him, all of them. Some looked back at Rebus. He tried not to look too relieved, lit another cigarette instead. Soutar was crazy, a force gone mad, but he was strong too. Rebus was just beginning to realise how very strong he was.

  He went home exhausted that evening, ‘home’ by now being a very loose term for Patience’s flat.

  He was still shaking a bit. When Soutar had left the hall that first time, he’d taken it all out on Rebus’s car. There were fresh dents, a smashed headlamp, a chipped windscreen. The actors in the van looked like they’d witnessed a frenzy. Then Rebus had told them about their sets.

  He’d thought about the theatre group on his way, under police escort, out of the Gar-B. They’d been parked outside the Dell the night he’d seen the Ulsterman there. He still had their flyer, the one that had doubled as a paper plane.