Mortal Causes

by Ian Rankin

  As a huge firework burst over the Castle, and everyone stared up at the sky and gasped and cheered, Rebus looked for the one person who wasn’t watching. The one person with his head down. The one person shivering like he’d never get warm again. He was sitting on the grass verge, next to a couple of girls who were drinking from cans and waving what looked like luminous rubber tubes. The girls had moved away from him a little, so that he looked the way he was: all alone in the world. Behind him on the grass was a gang of bikers, all muscle and gut. They were shouting and swearing, proclaiming hate of the English and all things foreign.

  Rebus walked up to Davey Soutar, and Davey Soutar looked up.

  And it wasn’t him.

  This kid was a couple of years younger, strung out on something, his eyes unable to focus.

  ‘Hey,’ one of the bikers yelled, ‘you trying to pick up my pal?’

  Rebus held up his hands. ‘My mistake,’ he said.

  He turned around fast. Davey Soutar was behind him. He’d slipped off his jacket and had wound it around his right arm, all the way down to the wrist and the hand. Rebus knew what was in the hand, disguised now by the grubby denim.

  ‘Okay, pigmeat, let’s walk.’

  Rebus knew he had to get Soutar away from the crowd. There were probably five bullets still in the revolver. Rebus didn’t want any more bodies, not if he could help it.

  They walked to the car park. There was a hot-food van doing good business, and a few cars, their drivers and passengers biting into burgers. It was darker here, and quieter. There wasn’t much action here.

  ‘Davey,’ Rebus said, coming to a stop.

  ‘This as far as you want to go?’ Soutar said. He’d turned to face Rebus.

  ‘No point me answering that, Davey, you’re in charge now.’

  ‘I’ve been in charge all along!’

  Rebus nodded. ‘That’s right, skimming without your bosses knowing about it. Planning all this.’ He nodded towards the fireworks. ‘Could have been quite something.’

  Soutar soured his face. ‘You couldn’t let it go, could you? Kilpatrick knew you were trouble.’

  ‘You didn’t have to stab him.’ A car was making its way slowly up to the car park from Regent Road. Soutar had his back to it, but Rebus could see it. It was a marked police car, its headlights off.

  ‘He tried to stop me,’ Soutar sneered. ‘No guts.’

  If the music was anything to go by, the fireworks were coming to their climax. Rebus fixed his eyes on Soutar, watching the face turn from gold to green to blue.

  ‘Put the gun away, Davey. It’s finished.’

  ‘Not till I say so.’

  ‘Look, enough! Just put it down.’

  The police car was at the top of the rise now. Davey Soutar unwound the jacket from his arm and threw it to the ground. A girl at the hot-food van started to scream. Behind Soutar, the police driver switched his headlamps on full-beam, lighting Soutar and Rebus like they were on stage. The passenger door was open, someone leaning out of it. Rebus recognised Abernethy. Soutar pivoted, aiming the gun. It was all the incentive Abernethy needed. The report from his gun was as loud as anything from the Castle. Meantime, the crowd was applauding again, unaware of the drama behind them.

  Soutar was knocked backwards, taking Rebus with him. They fell in a heap, Rebus feeling the young man’s damp hair brushing his face, his lips. He swore impressively as he pulled himself out from under the suddenly prone, suddenly still figure. Abernethy was pulling the revolver from Soutar’s hand, his foot heavy on the youth’s wrist.

  ‘No need for that,’ Rebus hissed. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Looks like,’ said Abernethy, putting away his own gun. ‘So here’s my story: I saw a flash, heard a bang, and assumed he’d fired. Sound reasonable?’

  ‘Are you authorised to carry that cannon?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re …’

  ‘As bad as him?’ Abernethy raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so. And hey, don’t mention it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Saving your fucking life! After that stunt you pulled, leaving me in the Gar-B.’ He paused. ‘You’ve got blood on you.’

  Rebus looked. There was plenty of blood. ‘There goes another shirt.’

  ‘Trust a Jock to make a comment like that.’

  The police driver had got out of the car to look, and a useful crowd was growing, now that the fireworks had finished. Abernethy began to check Soutar’s pockets. Best get it over with while the body was warm. It was more pleasant that way. When he got to his feet again, Rebus was gone, and so was the car. He looked in disbelief at his driver.

  ‘Not again.’

  Yes, again.

  30

  Rebus had the police radio on as he drove. The bomb disposal team were halfway through lifting five small packages from the boot of Soutar’s car. The packages had been fitted with detonators, and the Semtex was of advanced age, possibly unstable. There were pistols, automatic and bolt-action rifles too. God knew what he’d been planning to use them for.

  The fireworks over, the buildings no longer glowed. They’d returned to their normal sooty hue. Crowds were moving through the streets, making their way home or towards last drinks, late suppers. People were smiling, wrapping arms around themselves to keep warm. They’d all enjoyed a good night out. Rebus didn’t like to think about how close the whole night had come to disaster.

  He switched on his siren and emergency lights to clear people from the roadway, then pulled past the line of cars in front of him. It was a few minutes before he realised he was shivering. He pulled the damp shirt away from his back and turned up the heating in the car. Not that heat would stop him shivering. He wasn’t shivering from cold. He was headed for Tollcross, the Crazy Hose. He was headed for final business.

  But when he arrived, siren and lights off, he saw smoke seeping out through the front doors. He pulled his car hard onto the pavement and ran to the doors, kicking them open. It wasn’t rule one in the firefighter’s manual, but he didn’t have much choice. The fire was in the dancehall. Only the smoke had so far reached the foyer and beyond. There was no one about. A sign on the front door gave abrupt notice that the club was closed ‘due to unforeseen circumstances’.

  That’s me, thought Rebus, I’m unforeseen circumstances.

  He headed for Frankie Bothwell’s office. Where else was he going to go?

  Bothwell was sitting in his chair, prevented from movement by a sudden case of death. His neck flopped over to one side in a way necks shouldn’t. Rebus had seen broken necks before. There was bruising on the throat. Strangulation. He hadn’t been dead long, his forehead was still warm. But then it was getting warm in the office. It was getting warm everywhere.

  The new fire station was at the top of the road. Rebus wondered where the fire crew was.

  As he came back into the foyer, he saw that more smoke was belching from the dance hall. The door had been opened. Clyde Moncur was dragging himself into the foyer. He was still alive and wanted to stay that way. Rebus checked Moncur wasn’t carrying a gun, then got hold of him by the neck of his jacket and hauled him across the floor. Moncur was trying hard to breathe. He was having a little trouble. He felt light as Rebus dragged him. He kicked open the doors and deposited Moncur at the top of the steps.

  Then he went in again.

  Yes, the blaze had started here, here in the dance hall. Flames had taken control of the walls and ceiling. All Bothwell’s gewgaws and furnishings were melting or turning to ash. The carpet in the seating area had caught. The bottles of alcohol hadn’t exploded yet, but they would. Rebus looked around, but couldn’t see much. The smoke was too thick, there was too much of it. He wrapped his handkerchief around his face, but even so he couldn’t stop coughing. He could hear a rhythmic thumping sound coming from somewhere. Somewhere up ahead.

  It was the little self-contained box where the DJ sat, over beyond the stage. There was someone in there
now. He tried the door. It was locked, so sign of a key. He took a few steps back so he could run at it.

  Then the door flew open. Rebus recognised the Ulsterman, Alan Fowler. He’s used his head to butt the door open, his arms being tied firmly to the back of a chair. They were still tied to the chair as, head low, he came barrelling from the box. He caught Rebus a blow to the stomach and Rebus went down. Rebus rolled and came to his knees, but Fowler was up too, and he was blind mad. For all he knew, it was Rebus who was trying to roast him. He butted Rebus again, this time in the face. It was a sore one, but Rebus had ridden a Glasgow Kiss before. The blow caught him on his cheek.

  The power of it snapped Rebus’s head back, sending him staggering. Fowler was like a bull, the chair legs sticking up like swords from his back. Now that he was more or less upright, he went for Rebus with his feet. One caught Rebus on his damaged ear, tearing it, sending a white jab of pain bouncing through his brain. That gave Fowler time for another kick, and this one was going to shatter Rebus’s knee … Until a blow in the face with an empty bottle knocked him sideways. Rebus looked up to see his saviour, his knight in shining armour. Big Ger Cafferty was still wearing his funeral suit and open shirt. He was busy making sure Fowler was down and out. Then he took one look at Rebus, and produced the hint of a smile, looking every bit as amused as a butcher who finds the carcass he’s working on is still alive.

  He spent a precious few seconds, life and death seconds, weighing up his options. Then he slung Rebus’s arm over his shoulder and walked with him out of the dance hall, through the foyer, and into the night air, the clean, breathable air. Rebus took in huge gulps of it, falling onto the pavement, sitting there, head bowed, his feet on the road. Cafferty sat down beside him. He seemed to be studying his own hands. Rebus knew why, too.

  And now the fire engines were arriving, men leaping out of cabs, doing things with hoses. One of them complained about the police car. The keys were in the ignition, so the fireman backed it up.

  At last Rebus could speak. ‘You did that?’ he asked. It was a stupid question. Hadn’t he given Cafferty nearly all the information he’d needed?

  ‘I saw you going in,’ Cafferty said, his voice raw. ‘You were gone a long time.’

  ‘You could have let me die.’

  Cafferty looked at him. ‘I didn’t come in for you. I came in to stop you bringing out that bastard Fowler. As it is, Moncur’s done a runner.’

  ‘He can’t run far.’

  ‘He better try. He knows I won’t give up.’

  ‘You knew him, didn’t you? Moncur, I mean. He’s an old pal of Alan Fowler’s. When Fowler was UVF, the UVF laundered money using your salmon farm. Moncur bought the salmon with his good US dollars.’

  ‘You never stop.’

  ‘It’s my business.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cafferty, glancing back at the club, ‘this was business, too. Only, sometimes you have to cut a few corners. I know you have.’

  Rebus was wiping his face. ‘Problem is, Cafferty, when you cut a corner, it bleeds.’

  Cafferty studied him. There was blood on Rebus’s ear, sweat cloying his hair. Davey Soutar’s blood still spattered his shirt, mixed now with smoke. And Kilpatrick’s handprint was still there. Cafferty stood up.

  ‘Not thinking of going anywhere?’ Rebus said.

  ‘You going to stop me?’

  ‘You know I’ll try.’

  A car drew up. In it were Cafferty’s men, the two from the kirkyard plus weasel-face. Cafferty walked to the car. Rebus was still sitting on the pavement. He got up slowly now, and walked towards the police car. He heard Cafferty’s car door shutting, and looked at it, noting the licence plate. As the car passed him, Cafferty was looking at the road ahead. Rebus opened his own car and got on the radio, giving out the licence number. He thought about starting his engine and giving chase, but just sat there instead, watching the firemen go about their business.

  I played it by the rules, he thought. I cautioned him and then I called in. It didn’t say in the rules that you had to have a go when there were four of them and only one of you.

  Yes, he’d played it by the rules. The good feeling started to wear off after only minutes, and damned few minutes at that.

  They finally picked Clyde Moncur up at a ferry port. Special Branch in London were dealing with him. Abernethy was dealing with him. Before he’d left, Rebus had asked a simple question.

  ‘Will it happen?’

  ‘Will what happen?’

  ‘Civil war.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  So much for that. The story was simple. Moncur was visiting town to see how the money from US Shield was being spent. Fowler was around to make sure Moncur was happy. The Festival had seemed the perfect cover for Moncur’s trip. Maybe Billy had been executed to show the American just how ruthless SaS could be …

  In hospital, recovering from his stab wounds, DCI Kilpatrick was smothered to death with his pillow. Two of his ribs had been cracked from the weight of his attacker pressing down on him.

  ‘Must’ve been the size of a grizzly,’ Dr Curt announced.

  ‘Not many grizzlies about these days,’ said Rebus.

  He phoned the Procurator Fiscal’s office, just to check on Caro Rattray. After all, Cafferty had spoken of her. He just wanted to know she was okay. Maybe Cafferty was out there tying up a lot of loose ends. But Caro had gone.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Some private practice in Glasgow offered her a partnership. It’s a big step up, she grabbed it, anyone would.’

  ‘Which office is it?’

  Funny, it was the office of Cafferty’s own lawyers. It might mean something or nothing. After all, Rebus had given Cafferty some names. Mairie Henderson had gone down to London to try to follow up the Moncur story. Abernethy phoned Rebus one night to say he thought she was terrific.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rebus, ‘you’d make a lovely couple.’

  ‘Except she hates my guts.’ Abernethy paused. ‘But she might listen to you.’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Just don’t tell her too much, all right? Remember, Jump Cantona will take most of the credit anyway, and wee Mairie’s been paid upfront. She doesn’t have to bust a gut. Most of what she’d say wouldn’t get past the libel lawyers and the Official Secrets Act anyway.’

  Rebus had stopped listening. ‘How do you know about Jump Cantona?’ He could almost hear Abernethy easing his feet up onto the desk, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘The FBI have used Cantona before to put out a story.’

  ‘And you’re in with the FBI?’

  ‘I’ll send them a report.’

  ‘Don’t cover yourself with too much glory, Abernethy.’

  ‘You’ll get a mention, Inspector.’

  ‘But not star billing. That’s how you knew about Mairie, isn’t it? Cantona told the FBI? It’s how you had all the stuff on Clyde Moncur to hand?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Probably not. Rebus broke the connection anyway.

  He shopped for a coming home meal, pushing the trolley around a supermarket close to Fettes HQ. He wouldn’t be going back to Fettes. He’d phoned his farewell to Ormiston and told him to tell Blackwood to cut off his remaining strands of hair and be done with it.

  ‘He’d have a seizure if I told him that,’ said Ormiston. ‘Here, what about the Chief? You don’t think …?’

  But Rebus had rung off. He didn’t want to talk about Ken Smylie, didn’t want to think about it. He knew as much as he needed to. Kilpatrick had been on the fringe; he was more useful to The Shield that way. Bothwell was the executioner. He’d killed Billy Cunningham and he’d ordered the deaths of Millie Docherty and Calumn Smylie. Soutar had done his master’s bidding in both cases, except Millie had proved messy, and Soutar had left her where he’d killed her. Bothwell must have been furious about that, but of course Davey Soutar had other things on his mind, other plans. Bigger things.

  Rebus bou
ght the makings for the meal and added bottles of rosé champagne, malt whisky and gin to the trolley. A mile and a half to the north, the shops on the Gar-B estate would be closing for the evening, pulling down heavy metal shutters, fixing padlocks, double-checking alarm systems. He paid with plastic at the check-out and drove back up the hill to Oxford Terrace. Curiously, the rust bucket was sounding healthier these days. Maybe that knock from Hay’s van had put something back into alignment. Rebus had replaced the glass, but was still debating the doorframe.

  At the flat, Patience was waiting for him, back from Perth earlier than expected.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said.

  ‘It was meant to be a surprise.’ He put down the bags and kissed her. She drew away from him slowly afterwards.

  ‘You look an absolute mess,’ she said.

  He shrugged. It was true, he’d seen boxers in better shape after fifteen rounds. He’d seen punchbags in better shape.

  ‘So it’s over?’ she said.

  ‘Finishes today.’

  ‘I don’t mean the Festival.’

  ‘I know you don’t.’ He pulled her to him again. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Did I hear a clink from one of those bags?’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Gin or champagne?’

  ‘Gin and orange.’

  They took the bags into the kitchen. Patience got ice and orange juice from the fridge, while Rebus rinsed two glasses. ‘I missed you,’ she said.

  ‘I missed you, too.’

  ‘Who else do I know who tells awful jokes?’

  ‘Seems a while since I told a joke. It’s a while since I heard one.’

  ‘Well, my sister told me one. You’ll love it.’ She arched back her head, thinking. ‘God, how does it go?’

  Rebus unscrewed the top from the gin bottle and poured liberally.

  ‘Whoah!’ Patience said. ‘You don’t want us getting mortal.’

  He splashed in some orange. ‘Maybe I do.’

  She kissed him again, then pulled away and clapped her hands. ‘Yes, I’ve got it now. There’s this octopus in a restaurant, and it’s –’

  ‘I’ve heard it,’ said Rebus, dropping ice into her glass.