Mortal Causes

  ‘Slainte,’ said Rebus.

  ‘Slainte,’ said husband and wife.

  ‘Am I late?’ said Patience Aitken, running her hands up Rebus’s spine. She slipped onto the stool which separated Rebus from the tourists. For some reason, the man now removed his cap, showing a good amount of hair slicked back from the forehead.

  ‘Patience,’ Rebus said, ‘I’d like to introduce you to …’

  ‘Clyde Moncur,’ said the man, visibly relaxing. Rebus obviously posed no threat. ‘This is my wife Eleanor.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Dr Patience Aitken, and I’m John.’

  Patience looked at him. He seldom used ‘Dr’ when introducing her, and why had he left out his own surname?

  ‘Listen,’ Rebus was saying, staring right past her, ‘wouldn’t we be more comfortable at a table?’

  They took a table for four, the waitress appearing with a little tray of nibbles, not just nuts but green and black olives and chipsticks too. Rebus tucked in. The drinks might be expensive, but you had to say the food was cheap.

  ‘You’re on holiday?’ Rebus said, opening the conversation.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Eleanor Moncur. ‘We just love Scotland.’ She then went on to list everything they loved about it, from the skirl of the bagpipes to the windswept west coast. Clyde let her run on, taking sips from his drink, occasionally swirling the ice around. He sometimes looked up from the drink to John Rebus.

  ‘Have you ever been to the United States?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘No, never,’ said Rebus.

  ‘I’ve been a couple of times,’ Patience said, surprising him. ‘Once to California, and once to New England.’

  ‘In the fall?’ Patience nodded. ‘Isn’t that just heaven?’

  ‘Do you live in New England?’ Rebus asked.

  Eleanor smiled. ‘Oh no, we’re way over the other side. Washington.’

  ‘Washington?’

  ‘She means the state,’ her husband explained, ‘not Washington DC.’

  ‘Seattle,’ said Eleanor. ‘You’d like Washington, it’s wild.’

  ‘As in wilderness,’ Clyde Moncur added. ‘I’ll put that on our room, miss.’

  Patience had ordered lager and lime, which the waitress had just brought. Rebus watched as Moncur took a room key from his pocket. The waitress checked the room number.

  ‘Clyde’s ancestors came from Scotland,’ Eleanor was saying. ‘Somewhere near Glasgow.’

  ‘Kilmarnock.’

  ‘That’s right, Kilmarnock. There were four brothers, one went to Australia, two went to Northern Ireland, and Clyde’s great-grandfather sailed from Glasgow to Canada with his wife and children. He worked his way across Canada and settled in Vancouver. It was Clyde’s grandfather who came down into the United States. There are still offshoots of the family in Australia and Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Where in Northern Ireland?’ Rebus asked casually.

  ‘Portadown, Londonderry,’ she went on, though Rebus had directed the question at her husband.

  ‘Ever visit them?’

  ‘No,’ said Clyde Moncur. He was interested in Rebus again. Rebus met the stare squarely.

  ‘The north west’s full of Scots,’ Mrs Moncur rattled on. ‘We have ceilidhs and clan gatherings and Highland Games in the summer.’

  Rebus lifted his glass to his lips and seemed to notice it was empty. ‘I think we need another round,’ he said. The drinks arrived with their own scalloped paper coasters, and the waitress took away with her nearly all the money John Rebus had on him. He’d used the anonymous message to get Moncur down here, and Patience to put him off his guard. In the event, Moncur was sharper than Rebus had given him credit for. The man didn’t need to say a word, his wife spoke enough for two, and nothing she said could prove remotely useful.

  ‘So you’re a doctor?’ she asked Patience now.

  ‘General practice, yes.’

  ‘I admire doctors,’ said Eleanor. ‘They keep Clyde and me alive and ticking.’ And she gave a big grin. Her husband had been watching Patience while she’d been speaking, but as soon as she finished he turned his gaze back to Rebus. Rebus lifted his glass to his lips.

  ‘For some time,’ Eleanor Moncur was saying now, ‘Clyde’s grandaddy was captain of a clipper. His wife gave birth on board while the boat was headed to pick up … what was it, Clyde?’

  ‘Timber,’ Clyde said. ‘From the Philippines. She was eighteen and he was in his forties. The baby died.’

  ‘And know what?’ said Eleanor. ‘They preserved the body in brandy.’

  ‘Embalmed it?’ Patience offered.

  Eleanor Moncur nodded. ‘And if that boat had been a temperance vessel, they’d’ve used tar instead of brandy.’

  Clyde Moncur spoke to Rebus. ‘Now that was hard living. Those are the people who built America. You had to be tough. You might be conscientious, but there wasn’t always room for a conscience.’

  ‘A bit like in Ulster,’ Rebus offered. ‘They transplanted some pretty hard Scots there.’

  ‘Really?’ Moncur finished his drink in silence.

  They decided against a third round, Clyde reminding his wife that they had yet to take their pre-prandial walk down to Princes Street Gardens and back. They exchanged handshakes outside, Rebus taking Patience’s arm and leading her downhill, as though they were heading into the New Town.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ he asked.

  ‘Back on George Street. Where’s yours?’

  ‘Same place.’

  ‘Then where are we going?’

  He checked over his shoulder, but the Moncurs were out of sight. ‘Nowhere,’ he said, stopping.

  ‘John,’ said Patience, ‘next time you need me as a cover, have the courtesy to ask first.’

  ‘Can you lend me a few quid, save me finding a cashpoint?’

  She sighed and dug into her bag. ‘Twenty enough?’

  ‘Hope so.’

  ‘Unless you’re thinking of returning to the Playfair bar.’

  ‘I’ve been up braes that weren’t as steep as that place.’

  He told her he’d be back late, perhaps very late, and pecked her on the cheek. But she pulled him to her and took her fair share of mouth to mouth.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘did you talk to the action painter?’

  ‘I told her to get lost. That doesn’t mean she will.’

  ‘She better,’ said Patience, pecking him a last time on the cheek before walking away.

  He was unlocking his car when a heavy hand landed on his own. Clyde Moncur was standing next to him.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ the American spat, looking around him.

  ‘Nobody,’ Rebus said, shaking off the hand.

  ‘I don’t know what all that shit was about at the hotel, but you better stay far away from me, friend.’

  ‘That might not be easy,’ said Rebus. ‘This is a small place. My town, not yours.’

  Moncur took a step back. He’d be in his late-60s, but the hand he’d placed on Rebus’s had stung. There was strength there, and determination. He was the sort of man who normally got his own way, whatever the cost.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Rebus pulled open the car door. He drove away without saying anything at all. Moncur watched him go. The American stood legs apart, and raised a hand to pat his jacket at chest height, nodding slowly.

  A gun, Rebus thought. He’s telling me he’s got a gun.

  And he’s telling me he’d use it, too.

  23

  Mairie Henderson had a flat in Portobello, on the coast east of the city. In Victorian times a genteel bathing resort, ‘Porty’ was still used by day trippers in summer. Mairie’s tenement was on one of the streets between High Street and the Promenade. With his window rolled down, Rebus caught occasional wafts of salt air.

  When his daughter Sammy was a kid they’d come to Porty beach for walks. The beach had been cleaned up by then, or at least covered with tons of sand from elsewhere. Rebus
used to enjoy those walks, trouser legs rolled up past the ankles, feet treading the numbing water at the edge of the louring North Sea.

  ‘If we kept walking, Daddy,’ Sammy would say, pointing to the skyline, ‘where would we go?’

  ‘We’d go to the bottom of the sea.’

  He could still see the dreadful look on her face. She’d be twenty this year. Twenty. He reached under his seat and let his hand wander till it touched his emergency pack of cigarettes. One wouldn’t do any harm. Inside the pack, nestling amongst the cigarettes, was a slim disposable lighter.

  The light was still on in Mairie’s first-floor window. Her car was parked right outside the tenement’s front door. He knew the back door led to a small enclosed drying-green. She’d have to come out the front. He hoped she’d bring Millie Docherty with her.

  He didn’t quite know why he thought Mairie was hiding Millie; it was enough that he thought it. He’d had wrong hunches before, enough for a convention of the Quasimodo fan club, but you always had to follow them up. If you stopped being true to instinct, you were lost. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that olives and chipsticks did not a meal make. He thought of the Portobello chip shops, but sucked on his cigarette instead. He was across the road from the tenement and about six cars down. It was eleven o’clock and dark; no chance of Mairie spotting him.

  He thought he knew why Clyde Moncur was in town. Same reason the ex-UVF man was here. He just didn’t want to go public with his thoughts, not when he didn’t know who his friends were.

  At quarter past eleven, the tenement door opened and Mairie came out. She was alone, wearing a Burberry-style raincoat and carrying a bulging shopping bag. She looked up and down the street before unlocking her car and getting in.

  ‘What are you nervous about, kid?’ Rebus asked, watching her headlights come on. He lit another cigarette, just to wash down the first, and started his engine.

  She took the Portobello Road back into the city. He hoped she wasn’t going far. Tailing a car, even in the dark, wasn’t as easy as the movies made it look, especially when the person you were tailing knew your car. The roads were quiet, making things trickier still, but at least she stuck to the main routes. If she’d used side streets and rat runs, she’d have spotted him for sure.

  On Princes Street, the bikers were out in summer-night force, hitting the late-opening burger bars and revving up and down the straight. He wondered if Clyde Moncur was out for a post-prandial stroll. With the burgers and bikes, he’d probably feel right at home. Moncur was tough the way old people could get; seeming to shrink as they got older but that was only because they were losing juice, becoming rock-hard as a result. There was nothing soft left of Clyde Moncur. He had a handshake like a saloon-bar challenge. Even Patience had complained of it.

  The night was delicious, perfect for a walk, and that’s what most people were enjoying. Too bad for the Fringe shows: who wanted to sit in an airless, dark theatre for two hours while the real show was outside, continuous and absolutely free?

  Mairie turned left at the west end, heading up Lothian Road. The street was already reeling with drunks. They’d probably be heading for a curry house or pizza emporium. Later, they’d regret this move. You saw the evidence each morning on the pavements. Just past the Tollcross lights, Mairie signalled to cross the oncoming traffic. Rebus wondered where the hell she was headed. His question was soon answered. She parked by the side of the road and turned off her lights. Rebus hurried past while she was locking her door, then stopped at the junction ahead. There was no traffic coming, but he sat there anyway, watching in his rearview.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said as Mairie crossed the road and went into the Crazy Hose Saloon. He put the car into reverse, brought it back, and squeezed in a few cars ahead of Mairie. He looked across at the Crazy Hose. The sign above was yellow and red flashing neon, which must be fun for the people in the tenement outside which Rebus was parked. A short flight of steps led to the main doors, and on these steps stood two bouncers. The Hose’s wild west theme had passed the bouncers by, and they were dressed in regulation black evening suits, white shirts and black bow ties. Both had cropped hair to match their IQs, and held their hands behind their backs, swelling already prodigious chests. Rebus watched them open the doors for a couple of stetson-tipping cowpokes and their mini-dressed partners.

  ‘In for a dime, I suppose.’ He locked his car and walked purposefully across the road, trying to look like a man looking for a good time. The bouncers eyed him suspiciously, and did not open the door. Rebus decided he’d played enough games today, so he opened his ID and stuck it in the tallest bouncer’s face. He wondered if the man could read.

  ‘Police,’ he said helpfully. ‘Don’t I get the door opened for me?’

  ‘Only on your way out,’ the smaller bouncer said. So Rebus pulled open the door and went in. The admission desk had been done up like an old bank, with vertical wooden bars in front of the smiling female face.

  ‘Platinum Cowpoke Card,’ Rebus said, again showing his ID. Past the desk was a fair-sized hallway where people were playing one-armed bandits. There was a large crowd around an interactive video game, where some bearded actor on film invited you to shoot him dead if you were quick enough on the draw. Most of the kids in front of the machine were dressed in civvies, though a few sported cowboy boots and bootlace ties. Big belt-buckles seemed mandatory, and both males and females wore Levi and Wrangler denims with good-sized turn-ups. The toilets were out here too, always supposing you could work out which you were, a Honcho or Honchette.

  A second set of doors led to the dance hall and four bars, one in each corner of the vast arena. Plenty of money had been spent on the decor, with the choicest pieces being spotlit behind Perspex high up out of reach on the walls. There was a life-size cigar-store Indian, a lot of native headdresses and jackets and the like, and what Rebus hoped was a replica of a Gatling-gun. Old western films played silently on a bank of TV screens set into one wall, and there was a bucking bronco machine against another wall. This was disused now, ever since a teenager had fallen from it and been put in a coma. They’d nearly shut the place down for that. Rebus didn’t like to think about why they hadn’t. He kept coming up with friends in the right places and money changing hands. There was something that looked like a font near one of the bars, but Rebus knew it was a spittoon. He noticed that the bar closest to it wasn’t doing great business.

  Rebus wasn’t hard to pick out in a crowd. Although there were people there his own age, they were all wearing western dress to some degree, and they were nearly all dancing. There was a stage which was spotlit and full of instruments but empty of bodies. Instead the music came through the PA. A DJ in an enclosed box next to the stage babbled between songs; you could have heard him halfway to Texas.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Not hard to pick out in the crowd, and of course the bouncers had sent word to the floor manager. He was in his late-twenties with slick black hair and a rhinestone waistcoat. The accent was strictly Lothian.

  ‘Is Frankie in tonight?’ If Bothwell were in the dancehall, he’d have spotted him. Bothwell’s clothes would have drowned out the PA.

  ‘I’m in charge.’ The smile told Rebus he was as welcome as haemorrhoids at a rodeo.

  ‘Well, there’s no trouble, son, so I can put your mind at rest straight off. I’m just looking for a friend, only I didn’t fancy paying the admission.’

  The manager looked relieved. You could see he hadn’t been in the job long. He’d probably been promoted from behind the bar. ‘My name’s Lorne Strang,’ he said.

  ‘And mine’s Lorne Sausage.’

  Strang smiled. ‘My real name’s Kevin.’

  ‘Don’t apologise.’

  ‘Drink on the house?’

  ‘I’d rather drink on a bar-stool, if that’s all right with you.’

  Rebus had given the dance floor a good look, and Mairie wasn’t there, which meant she was either trapped in the Honchettes’ or
was somewhere behind the scenes. He wondered what she could be doing behind the scenes at Frankie Bothwell’s club.

  ‘So,’ said Kevin Strang, ‘who are you looking for?’

  ‘Like I say, a friend. She said she’d be here. Maybe I’m a bit late.’

  ‘The place is only just picking up now. We’re open another two hours. What’ll you have?’ They were at the bar. The bar staff wore white aprons covering chest and legs and gold-coloured bands around their sleeves to keep their cuffs out of the way.

  ‘Is that so they can’t palm any notes?’ asked Rebus.

  ‘Nobody cheats the bar here.’ One of the staff broke off serving someone to attend to Kevin Strang.

  ‘Just a beer, please,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Draught? We only serve half pints.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘There’s more profit in it.’

  ‘An honest answer. I’ll have a bottle of Beck’s.’ He looked back to the dance floor. ‘The last time I saw this many cowboys was at a builders’ convention.’

  The record was fading out. Strang patted Rebus’s back. ‘That’s my cue,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  Rebus watched him move through the dancers. He climbed onto the stage and tapped the microphone, sending a whump through the on-stage PA. Rebus didn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe Strang would call out the steps of the next barn dance. But instead all he did was speak in a quiet voice, so people had to be quiet to hear him. Rebus didn’t think Kevin Strang had much future as floor manager at the Crazy Hose.

  ‘Dudes and womenfolk, it’s a pleasure to see you all here at the Crazy Hose Saloon. And now, please welcome onto the Deadwood Stage our band for this evening’s hoedown … Chaparral!’

  There was generous applause as the band emerged through a door at the back of the stage. A few of the arcade junkies had come in from the foyer. The band was a six-piece, barely squeezing onto the stage. Guitar/vocals, bass, drums, another guitar and two backing singers. They started into their first number a little shakily, but had warmed up by the end, by which time Rebus was finishing his drink and thinking about heading back to the car.