Mortal Causes

  ‘You should see me with mustard and mayonnaise. I hear you got moved to SCS.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were keeping an eye on me.’

  ‘Only, they were there at Mary King’s Close, a murder that looks like an execution. Then next thing you’re off to SCS, and I know SCS are investigating gun-running with an Irish slant.’ Maggie arrived with two cans of Irn-Bru. Mairie checked hers was cold enough before opening it. ‘Are we working on the same story?’

  ‘The police don’t have stories, Mairie, we have cases. And it’s hard to answer your question without seeing your story.’

  She slipped a hand into her shoulder-bag and pulled out several sheets of neatly typed paper. The document had been stapled and folded in half. Rebus could see it was a photocopy.

  ‘Not very long,’ he said.

  ‘You can read it while I eat.’

  He did. But all it did was put a lot of speculative meat on the bones he already had. Mostly it concentrated on the North American angle, mentioning the IRA fundraising in passing, though the Orange Loyal Brigade was mentioned, as was Sword and Shield.

  ‘No names,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘I can give you a few, off the record.’

  ‘Gavin and Jamesie MacMurray?’

  ‘You’re stealing my best lines. Do you have anything on them?’

  ‘What do you think we’ll find, a garden shed full of grenade launchers?’

  ‘That could be pretty close.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘We can’t put anything in print yet, but we think there’s an Army connection.’

  ‘You mean stuff from the Falklands and the Gulf? Souvenirs?’

  ‘There’s too much of it for it to be souvenirs.’

  ‘What then? The stuff from Russia?’

  ‘Much closer to home. You know stuff walks out of Army bases in Northern Ireland?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it happening.’

  ‘Same thing happened in the ’70s in Scotland, the Tartan Army got stuff from Army bases. We think it’s happening again. At least, Jump thinks it is. He’s spoken to someone who used to be in American Shield, sending money over here. It’s easier to send money here than arms shipments. This guy told Jump the money was buying British armaments. See, the IRA has good links with the East and Libya, but the loyalist paramilitaries don’t.’

  ‘You’re telling me they’re buying guns from the Army?’ Rebus laughed and shook his head. Mairie managed a small smile.

  ‘There’s another thing. I know there’s nothing to back this up. Jump knows it too. It’s just one man’s word, and that man isn’t even willing to go public. He’s afraid American Shield would get to him. Anyway, who’d believe him: he’s being paid to tell Jump this stuff. He could be making it all up. Journalists like a juicy conspiracy, we lap them up like cream.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Mairie?’

  ‘A policeman, a detective, someone high up in The Shield.’

  ‘In America?’

  She shook her head. ‘At the UK end, no name or anything. Like I say, just a story.’

  ‘Aye, just a story. How did you find out we had a man undercover?’

  ‘That was strange. It was a phone call.’

  ‘Anonymous of course?’

  ‘Of course. But who could have known?’

  ‘Another policeman, obviously.’

  Mairie pushed her plate away. ‘I can’t eat all these chips.’

  ‘They should put up a plaque above the table.’

  Rebus needed a drink, and there was a good pub only a short walk away. Mairie went with him, though she complained she didn’t have room for a drink. Still, when they got there she found space for a white wine and soda. Rebus had a half-pint and a nip. They sat by the window, with a view out over the Forth. The water was battleship grey, reflecting the sky overhead. Rebus had never seen the Forth look other than forbidding.

  ‘What did you say?’ He’d missed it completely.

  ‘I said, I forgot to say.’

  ‘Yes, but the bit after that?’

  ‘A man called Moncur, Clyde Moncur.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Jump has him pegged as one of The Shield’s hierarchy in the US. He’s also a big-time villain, only it’s never been proven in a court of law.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he flies into Heathrow tomorrow.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘So why aren’t you down in London waiting for him?’

  ‘Because he’s booked on a connecting flight to Edinburgh.’

  Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘You weren’t going to tell me.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  She gnawed her bottom lip. ‘It may be I’ll need a friend sometime soon.’

  ‘You’re going to confront him?’

  ‘Yes … I suppose so.’

  ‘Jesus, Mairie.’

  ‘It’s what journalists do.’

  ‘Do you know anything about him? I mean anything?’

  ‘I know he’s supposed to run drugs into Canada, brings illegal immigrants in from the Far East, a real Renaissance man. But on the surface, all he does is own a fish-processing plant in Seattle.’ Rebus was shaking his head. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suppose I just feel … gutted.’

  It took her a moment to get the joke.

  21

  ‘Caro, thank God.’

  Rebus was back in Fettes, at his desk, on the phone, having finally tracked Caroline Rattray to ground.

  ‘You’re calling off our drink,’ she said coldly.

  ‘I’m sorry, something’s cropped up. Work, you know how it is. The hours aren’t always social.’ The phone went dead in his hand. He replaced the receiver like it was spun sugar. Then, having requested five minutes of his boss’s time, he went to Kilpatrick’s office. As ever there was no need to knock; Kilpatrick waved him in through the glass door.

  ‘Take a seat, John.’

  ‘I’ll stand, sir, thanks all the same.’

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘When you spoke to the FBI, did they mention a man called Clyde Moncur?’

  ‘I don’t think any names were mentioned.’ Kilpatrick wrote the name on his pad. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a Seattle businessman, runs his own fish-processing plant. Possibly also a gangster. He’s coming to Edinburgh on holiday.’

  ‘Well, we need the tourist dollars.’

  ‘And he may be high up in The Shield.’

  ‘Oh?’ Kilpatrick casually underlined the name. ‘What’s your source?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘I see.’ Kilpatrick underlined the name one last time. ‘I don’t like secrets, John.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, what do you want to do?’

  ‘Put a tail on him.’

  ‘Ormiston and Blackwood are good.’

  ‘I’d prefer someone else.’

  Kilpatrick threw down his pen. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just would.’

  ‘You can trust me, John.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’

  ‘Then tell me why you don’t want Ormiston and Blackwood on the tail.’

  ‘We don’t get on. I get the feeling they might muck things up just to make me look bad.’ Lying was easy with practice, and Rebus had years of practice at lying to superiors.

  ‘That sounds like paranoia to me.’

  ‘Maybe it is.’

  ‘I’ve got a team here, John. I need to know that they can work as a team.’

  ‘You brought me in, sir. I didn’t ask for secondment. Teams always resent the new man, it just hasn’t worn off yet.’ Then Rebus played his ace. ‘You could always move me back to St Leonard’s.’ Not that he wanted this. He liked the free
dom he had, flitting between the two stations, neither Chief Inspector knowing where he was.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ Kilpatrick asked.

  ‘It’s not down to me, it’s what you want that matters.’

  ‘Quite right, and I want you in SCS, at least for the time being.’

  ‘So you’ll put someone else on the tail?’

  ‘I take it you’ve got people in mind?’

  ‘Two more from St Leonard’s. DS Holmes and DC Clarke. They work well together, they’ve done this sort of thing before.’

  ‘No, John, let’s keep this to SCS.’ Which was Kilpatrick’s way of reasserting his authority. ‘I know two good men over in Glasgow, no possible grudge against you. I’ll get them over here.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Sound all right to you, Inspector?’

  ‘Whatever you think, sir.’

  When Rebus left the office, the two typists were discussing famine and Third World debt.

  ‘Ever thought of going into politics, ladies?’

  ‘Myra’s a local councillor,’ one of them said, nodding to her partner.

  ‘Any chance of getting my drains cleared?’ Rebus asked Myra.

  ‘Join the queue,’ Myra said with a laugh.

  Back at his desk Rebus phoned Brian Holmes to ask him a favour, then he went to the toilets down the hall. The toilet was one of those design miracles, like Dr Who’s time machine. Somehow two urinals, a toilet cubicle, and washhand basin had been squeezed into a space smaller than their total cubic volume.

  So Rebus wasn’t thrilled when Ken Smylie joined him. Smylie was supposed to be taking time off work, only he insisted on coming in.

  ‘How are you doing, Ken?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Good.’ Rebus turned from his urinal and headed for the sink.

  ‘You seem to be working hard,’ Smylie said.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You’re never here, I assume you’re working.’

  ‘Oh, I’m working.’ Rebus shook water from his hands.

  ‘Only I never see any notes.’

  ‘Notes?’

  ‘You never write down your case notes.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Rebus dried his hands on the cotton roller-towel. This was his lucky day: a fresh roll had just been fitted. He still had his back to Smylie. ‘Well, I like to keep my notes in my head.’

  ‘That’s not procedure.’

  ‘Tough.’

  He’d just got the word out, and was preparing for another intake of breath, when Smylie’s arms gripped him with the force of a construction crane around his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and felt himself being lifted off the ground. Smylie pushed his face against the wall next to the roller-towel. His whole weight was sandwiching Rebus against the wall.

  ‘You’re on to something, aren’t you?’ Smylie said in his high whistling voice. ‘Tell me who it is.’ He released his bear hug just enough so Rebus could speak.

  ‘Get the fuck off me!’

  The grip tightened again, Rebus’s face pressing harder into the wall. I’ll go through it in a minute, he thought. My head’ll be sticking out into the corridor like a hunting trophy.

  ‘He was my brother,’ Smylie was saying. ‘My brother.’

  Rebus’s face was full of blood which wanted to be somewhere else. He could feel his eyes bulging out of their sockets, his eardrums straining. My last view, he thought, will be of this damned roller-towel. Then the door swung inwards, and Ormiston was standing there, cigarette gawping. The cigarette dropped to the floor as Ormiston flung his own arms around Smylie’s. He couldn’t reach all the way round, but enough to dig his thumbs into the soft flesh of the inner elbows.

  ‘Let go, Smylie!’

  ‘Get off me!’

  Rebus felt the pressure on him ease, and used his own shoulders to throw Smylie off. There was barely room for all three men, and they danced awkwardly, Ormiston still holding Smylie’s arms. Smylie threw him off with ease. He was on Rebus again, but now Rebus was ready. He kneed the big man in the groin. Smylie groaned and slumped to his knees. Ormiston was picking himself up.

  ‘What the hell sparked this?’

  Smylie pulled himself to his feet. He looked angry, frustrated. He nearly took the handle off the door as he pulled it open.

  Rebus looked in the mirror. His face was that sunburnt cherry colour some fair-skinned people go, but at least his eyes had retreated back into their sockets.

  ‘Wonder what my blood pressure got up to,’ he said to himself. Then he thanked Ormiston.

  ‘I was thinking of me, not you,’ Ormiston retorted. ‘With you two wrestling,’ he stooped to pick up his cigarette, ‘there wasn’t room for me to have a quiet puff.’

  The cigarette itself survived the mêlée, but after inspecting it Ormiston decided to flush it anyway and light up a fresh one.

  Rebus joined him. ‘That may be the first time smoking’s saved someone’s life.’

  ‘My grandad smoked for sixty years, died in his sleep at eighty. Mind you, he was bedridden for thirty of them. So what was all that about?’

  ‘Filing. Smylie doesn’t like my system.’

  ‘Smylie likes to know everything that’s going on.’

  ‘He shouldn’t even be here. He should be at home, bereaving.’

  ‘But that’s what he is doing,’ argued Ormiston. ‘Just because he looks like a big cuddly bear, a gentle giant, don’t be fooled.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Let me tell you about Smylie.’

  And he did.

  Rebus was home at six o’clock, much to Patience Aitken’s surprise. He had a shower rather than a bath and came into the living room dressed in his best suit and wearing a shirt Patience had given him for Christmas. It wasn’t till he’d tried it on that they both discovered it required cuff links, so then he’d had to buy some.

  ‘I can never do these up by myself,’ he said now, flapping his cuffs and brandishing the links. Patience smiled and came to help him. Close up, she smelt of perfume.

  ‘Smells wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mean me or the kitchen?’

  ‘Both,’ said Rebus. ‘Equally.’

  ‘Something to drink?’

  ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Fizzy water till the cooking’s done.’

  ‘Same for me.’ Though really he was dying for a whisky. He’d lost the shakes, but his ribs still hurt when he inflated his lungs. Ormiston said he’d once seen Smylie bear-hug a recalcitrant prisoner into unconsciousness. He also told Rebus that before Kilpatrick had come on the scene, the Smylie brothers had more or less run the Edinburgh Crime Squad.

  He drank the water with ice and lime and it tasted fine. When the preparations were complete and the table laid and the dishwasher set to work on only the first of the evening’s loads, they sat down together on the sofa and drank gin with tonic.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  And then Patience led him by the hand out into the small back garden. The sun was low over the tops of the tenements, the birds easing off into evensong. She examined every plant as she passed it, like a general assessing her troops. She’d trained Lucky the cat well; it now went over the wall into the neighbouring garden when it needed the toilet. She named some of the flowers for him, like she always did. He could never remember them from one day to the next.

  The ice clinked in Patience’s glass as she moved. She had changed into a long patterned dress, all flowing folds and squares of colour. With her hair up at the back, the dress worked well, showing off her neck and shoulders and the contours of her body. It had short sleeves to show arms tanned from gardening.

  Though the bell was a long way off, he heard it. ‘Front door,’ he said.

  ‘They’re early.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Well, not much actually. I’d better get the potatoes on.’

  ‘I’ll let them in.’

  She squeezed his arm as they separated, and Rebus made his way down
the hallway towards the front door. He straightened himself, readying the smile he’d be wearing all evening. Then he opened the door.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Something hissed, a spray-can, and his eyes stung. He’d closed them a moment too late, but could still feel the spray dotting his face. He thought it must be Mace or something similar, and swiped blindly, trying to knock the can out of his assailant’s hand. But the feet were already on the stone steps, shuffling upwards and away. He didn’t want to open his eyes, so staggered blindly towards the bathroom, his hands feeling the hallway walls, past the bedroom door then hitting the lightswitch. He slammed the door and locked it as Patience was coming into the hall.

  ‘John? John, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said through his teeth. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Are you sure? Who was at the door?’

  ‘They were looking for the upstairs neighbours.’ He was running water into the sink. He got his jacket off and plunged his head into the warm water, letting the sink fill, wiping at his face with his hands.

  Patience was still waiting on the other side of the bathroom door. ‘Something’s wrong, John, what is it?’

  He didn’t say anything. After a few moments, he pried open one eye, then shut it again. Shit, that stung! He swabbed again with the water, opening his eyes underwater this time. The water seemed murky to him. And when he looked at his hands, they were red and sticky.

  Oh Christ, he thought. He forced himself to look in the mirror above the sink. He was bright red. It wasn’t like earlier in the day when Smylie had attacked him. It was … paint. That’s what it was, red paint. From an aerosol can. Jesus Christ. He staggered out of his clothes and got into the shower, turning his face up to the spray, shampooing his hair as hard as he could, then doing it again. He scrubbed at his face and neck. Patience was at the door again, asking him what the hell he was up to. And then he heard her voice change, rising on the final syllable of a name.

  The Bremners had arrived.

  He got out of the shower and rubbed himself down with a towel. When he looked at himself again, he’d managed to get a lot of the colour off, but by no means all of it. Then he looked at his clothes. His jacket was dark, and didn’t show the paint too conspicuously; conspicuously enough though. As for his good shirt, it was ruined, no question about that. He unlocked the bathroom door and listened. Patience had taken the Bremners into the living room. He padded down the hall into the bedroom, noticing on the way that his hands had left red smears on the wallpaper. In the bedroom he changed quickly into chinos, yellow t-shirt and a linen jacket Patience had bought him for summer walks by the river which they never took.