Mortal Causes

  ‘Busy, busy, busy,’ Curt said, when Rebus reached his office. ‘You know, most of the university staff are on holiday. I’ve had postcards from the Gambia, Queensland, Florida.’ He sighed. ‘I am cursed with a vocation while others get a vacation.’

  ‘I bet you were awake all night thinking up that one.’

  ‘I was awake half the night thanks to your discovery at the Crazy Hose Saloon.’

  ‘Post-mortem?’

  ‘Not yet complete. It was a corrosive of some kind, the lab will tell us exactly which. I am constantly surprised by the methods murderers will resort to. The fire hose was new to me.’

  ‘Well, it stops the job becoming routine, I suppose.’

  ‘How’s Caroline?’

  ‘I’d forgotten all about her.’

  ‘You must pray that she’ll let you.’

  ‘I stopped praying a long time ago.’

  He walked back down the stairs and out into the quadrangle, wondering if it was too soon in the day for a drink at Sandy Bell’s. The pub was just round the corner, and he hadn’t been there in months. He noticed someone standing in front of the Frozen Sections boxes. They had the flap open, like they’d just made a deposit. Then they turned around towards Rebus and smiled.

  It was Cafferty.

  ‘Dear God.’

  Cafferty closed the flap. He was dressed in a baggy black suit and open-necked white shirt, like an undertaker on his break. ‘Hello, Strawman.’ The old nickname. It was like an ice-pack on Rebus’s spine. ‘Let’s talk.’ There were two men behind Rebus, the two from the churchyard, the two who’d watched him taking a beating. They escorted him back to a newish Rover parked in the quadrangle. He caught the licence number, but felt Cafferty’s hand land on his shoulder.

  ‘We’ll change plates this afternoon, Strawman.’ Someone was getting out of the car. It was weasel-face. Rebus and Cafferty got into the back of the car, weasel-face and one of the heavies into the front. The other heavy stood outside, blocking Rebus’s door. He looked towards where the scaffolding stood. The workmen had vanished. There was a sign on the scaffolding, just the name of a firm and their telephone number. A light came on in practically the last dark room in Rebus’s head.

  Big Ger Cafferty had made no effort at disguise. His clothes didn’t look quite right – a bit large and not his style – but his face and hair were unchanged. A couple of students, one Asian and one Oriental, walked across the quadrangle towards the Pathology building. They didn’t so much as glance at the car.

  ‘I see your stomach cleared up.’

  Cafferty smiled. ‘Fresh air and exercise, Strawman. You look like you could do with both.’

  ‘You’re crazy coming back here.’

  ‘We both know I had to.’

  ‘We’ll have you inside again in a matter of days.’

  ‘Maybe I only need a few days. How close are you?’

  Rebus stared through the windscreen. He felt Cafferty’s hand cover his knee.

  ‘Speaking as one father to another …’

  ‘You leave my daughter out of this!’

  ‘She’s in London, isn’t she? I’ve a lot of friends in London.’

  ‘And I’ll tear them to shreds if she so much as stubs a toe.’

  Cafferty smiled. ‘See? See how easy it is to get worked up when it’s family?’

  ‘It’s not family with you, Cafferty, you said so yourself. It’s business.’

  ‘We could do a trade.’ Cafferty looked out of his window, as though thinking. ‘Say someone’s been bothering you, could be an old flame. Let’s say she’s been disrupting your life, making things awkward.’ He paused. ‘Making you see red.’

  Rebus nodded to himself. So weasel-face had witnessed the little scene with the spray-can.

  ‘My problem, not yours.’

  Cafferty sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder how hard you really are.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘I’d like to find out.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I will, Strawman, one day. Trust me on that.’

  ‘Why not now? Just you and me?’

  Cafferty laughed. ‘A square go? I haven’t the time.’

  ‘You used to shuffle cash around for the UVF, didn’t you?’

  The question caught Cafferty unaware. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Till Jinky Johnson disappeared. You were in pretty tight with the terrorists. Maybe that’s where you heard of the SaS. Billy was a member.’

  Cafferty’s eyes were glassy. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘No, but you know what I’m talking about. Ever heard the name Clyde Moncur?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That sounds like another lie to me. What about Alan Fowler?’

  Now Cafferty nodded. ‘He was UVF.’

  ‘Not now he isn’t. Now he’s SaS, and he’s here. They’re both here.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’ Rebus didn’t answer. Cafferty moved his face closer. ‘It’s not because you’re scared. There’s something else … What’s on your mind, Rebus?’ Rebus stayed silent. He saw Dr Curt coming out of the Pathology building. Curt’s car, a blue Saab, was parked three cars away from the Rover.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ Cafferty said.

  Now Curt was looking over towards the Rover, at the big man standing there and the men seated inside.

  ‘Any more names?’ Cafferty was beginning to sound impatient, losing all his cool veneer. ‘I want all of them!’ His right hand lashed around Rebus’s throat, his left hand pushing him deep into the corner of the seat. ‘Tell me all of it, all of it!’

  Curt had turned as though forgetting something, and was walking back towards the building. Rebus blinked away the water in his eyes. The stooge outside thumped on the bodywork. Cafferty released his grip and watched Curt going back into Pathology. He used both hands to grasp Rebus’s face, turning it towards his, holding Rebus with the pressure of his palms on Rebus’s cheekbones.

  ‘We’ll meet again, Rebus, only it won’t be like in the song.’ Rebus felt like his head was going to crack, but then the pressure stopped.

  The heavy outside opened the door and he got out fast. As the heavy got in, the driver gunned the engine. The back window went down, Cafferty looking at him, saying nothing.

  The car sped off, tyres screeching as it turned into the one-way traffic on Teviot Place. Dr Curt appeared in the Pathology doorway, then came briskly across the quadrangle.

  ‘Are you all right? I’ve just phoned the police.’

  ‘Do me a favour, when they get here tell them you were mistaken.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell them anything, but don’t tell them it was me.’

  Rebus started to move off. Maybe he’d have that drink at Sandy Bell’s. Maybe he’d have three.

  ‘I’m not a very good liar,’ Dr Curt called after him.

  ‘Then the practice will be good for you,’ Rebus called back.

  Frankie Bothwell shook his head again.

  ‘I’ve already spoken with the gentlemen from Torphichen Place. You want to ask anyone, ask them.’

  He was being difficult. He’d had a difficult night, what with being dragged from his bed and then staying up till all hours dealing with the police, answering their questions, explaining the stash of cased spirits they’d found on the first floor. He didn’t need this.

  ‘But you knew Miss Murdoch was upstairs,’ Rebus persisted.

  ‘Is that right?’ Bothwell wriggled on his barstool and tipped ash onto the floor.

  ‘You were told she was upstairs.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Your manager told you.’

  ‘You’ve only got his word for that.’

  ‘You deny he said it? Maybe if we could get the two of you together?’

  ‘You can do what you like, he’s out on his ear anyway. I sacked him first thing. Can’t have people dossing upstairs like that, bad for the club’s image. Let them sleep on the streets like everyone else.’

  Rebus tried to imagine
what resemblance the kid at the Gar-B had seen between himself and Frankie Bothwell. He was here because he was feeling reckless. Plus he’d put a few whiskies away in Sandy Bell’s. He was here because he quite fancied beating Lee Francis Bothwell to a bloody mush on the dance floor.

  Stripped of music and flashing lights and drink and dancers, the Crazy Hose had as much life as a warehouse full of last year’s fashions. Bothwell, appearing to dismiss Rebus from his mind, lifted one foot and began to rub some dust from a cowboy boot. Rebus feared the white trousers would either split or else eviscerate their wearer. The boot was black and soft with small puckers covering it like miniature moon craters. Bothwell caught Rebus looking at it.

  ‘Ostrich skin,’ he explained.

  Meaning the craters were where each feather had been plucked. ‘Look like a lot of little arseholes,’ Rebus said admiringly. Bothwell straightened up. ‘Look, Mr Bothwell, all I want are a couple of answers. Is that so much to ask?’

  ‘And then you’ll leave?’

  ‘Straight out the door.’

  Bothwell sighed and flicked more ash onto the floor. ‘Okay then.’

  Rebus smiled his appreciation. He rested his hand on the bar and leaned towards Bothwell.

  ‘Two questions,’ he said. ‘Why did you kill her and who’s got the disk?’

  Bothwell stared at him, then laughed. ‘Get out of here.’

  Rebus lifted his hand from the bar. ‘I’m going,’ he said. But he stopped at the doors to the foyer, holding them open. ‘You know Cafferty’s in town?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is, has he heard of you? Your father was a minister. Did you ever learn Latin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nemo me impune lacessit.’ Bothwell didn’t even blink. ‘Never mind, it won’t worry Cafferty one way or the other. See, you didn’t just meddle with him, you meddled with his family.’

  He let the doors swing shut behind him. This was the way he should have worked it throughout, using Cafferty – the mere threat of Cafferty – to do his work for him. But would Cafferty be enough to scare the American and the Ulsterman?

  Somehow, John Rebus doubted it.

  Back at St Leonard’s, Rebus first phoned the scaffolding company, then placed a call to Peter Cave.

  ‘Something I’ve been meaning to ask you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ Cave sounded tired, deep down inside.

  ‘Since the Church stopped supporting the youth club, how do you survive?’

  ‘We manage. Everyone who comes along has to pay.’

  ‘Is it enough?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not subsidising the place out of your own pocket?’ Cave laughed at this. ‘What then? Sponsorship?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘What sort of way?’

  ‘Just someone who saw the good the club was doing.’

  ‘Someone you know?’

  ‘Never met him, as a matter of fact.’

  Rebus took a stab. ‘Francis Bothwell?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Someone told me,’ Rebus lied.

  ‘Davey?’

  So Davey Soutar did know Bothwell. Yes, it figured. Maybe from a district lodge football team, maybe some other way. Time to change track.

  ‘What does Davey do by the way?’

  ‘Works in an abattoir.’

  ‘He’s not a builder then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One last thing, Mr Cave. I got a name from a scaffolding company: Malky Haston. He’s eighteen, lives in the Gar-B.’

  ‘I know Malky, Inspector. And he knows you.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Heavy metal fan, always wears a band t-shirt. You’ve spoken with him.’

  Black t-shirt, thought Rebus, Davey Soutar’s pal. With white flecks in his hair that Rebus had mistaken for dandruff.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Cave,’ Rebus said, ‘I think that’s everything.’

  Everything he needed.

  A uniform approached as he put down the phone, and handed Rebus the information he’d requested on recent and not-so-recent break-ins. Rebus knew what he was looking for, and it didn’t take long. Acid wasn’t that easy to come by, not unless you had a plausible reason for wanting it. Easier to steal the stuff if you could. And where could you find acid?

  Break-ins at Craigie Comprehensive School were fairly standard. It was like pre-employment training for the unrulier pupils. They learned to slip a window-catch and jemmy open a door, some graduated to lock-picking, and others became fences for the stolen goods. It was always a buyers’ market, but then economics was not a strong point with these junior careerists. Three months back, Craigie had been entered at the dead of night and the tuck shop emptied.

  They’d also broken into the science rooms, physics and chemistry. The chemistry stock room had a different lock, but they took that out too, and made off with a large jar of methylated spirits, a few other choice cocktail ingredients, and three thick glass jars of various acids.

  The caretaker, who lived in a small pre-fabricated house on the school grounds, saw and heard nothing. He’d been watching a special comedy night on the television. Probably he wouldn’t have ventured out of doors anyway. Craigie Comprehensive wasn’t exactly full of pupils with a sense of humour or love for their elders.

  What could you expect from a school whose catchment area included the infamous Garibaldi Estate?

  He was putting the pieces together when Chief Inspector Lauderdale came over.

  ‘As if we’re not stretched thin enough,’ Lauderdale complained.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Another anonymous threat, that’s twice today. He says our time’s up.’

  ‘Shame, I was just beginning to enjoy myself. Any specifics?’

  Lauderdale nodded distractedly. ‘A bomb. He didn’t say where. He says it’s so big there’ll be no hiding place.’

  ‘Festival’s nearly over,’ Rebus said.

  ‘I know, that’s what worries me.’ Yes, it worried Rebus too.

  Lauderdale turned to walk away, just as Rebus’s phone rang.

  ‘Inspector, my name’s Blair-Fish, you won’t remember me …’

  ‘Of course I remember you, Mr Blair-Fish. Have you called to apologise about your grand-nephew again?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that. But I’m a bit of a local historian, you see.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I was contacted by Matthew Vanderhyde. He said you wanted some information about Sword and Shield.’

  Good old Vanderhyde: Rebus had given up on him. ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘It’s taken me a while. There was thirty years of detritus to wade through …’

  ‘What have you got, Mr Blair-Fish?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got notes of some meetings, a treasurer’s report, minutes and things like that. Plus the membership lists. I’m afraid they’re not complete.’

  Rebus sat forward in his chair. ‘Mr Blair-Fish, I’d like to send someone over to collect everything from you. Would that be all right?’ Rebus was reaching for pen and paper.

  ‘Well, I suppose … I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Let’s look on it as final atonement for your grand-nephew. Now if you’ll just give me your address …’

  Locals called it the Meat Market, because it was sited close to the slaughterhouse. Workers from the slaughterhouses wandered in at lunchtime for pints, pies and cigarettes. Sometimes they wore flecks of blood; the owner didn’t mind. He’d been one of them once, working the jet-air gun at a chicken factory. The pistol, hooked up to a compressor, had taken the heads off several hundred stunned chickens per hour. He ran the Meat Market with the same unruffled facility.

  It wasn’t lunchtime, so the Market was quiet – two old men drinking slow half pints at opposite ends of the bar, ignoring one another so studiously that there had to be a grudge between them, and two unemployed youths shooting pool an
d trying to make each game last, their pauses between shots the stuff of chess games. Finally, there was a man with sparks in his eyes. The proprietor was keeping a watch on him. He knew trouble when he saw it. The man was drinking whisky and water. He looked the sort of drinker, when he was mortal you wouldn’t want to get in his way. He wasn’t getting mortal just now; he was making the one drink last. But he didn’t look like he was enjoying anything about it. Finally he finished the quarter gill.

  ‘Take care,’ the proprietor said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said John Rebus, heading for the door.

  Slaughterhouse workers are a different breed.

  They worked amid brain and offal, thick blood and shit, in a sanitised environment of whitewash and piped radio music. A huge electrical unit reached down from the ceiling to suck the smell away and pump in fresh air. The young man hosing blood into a drain did so expertly, spraying none of the liquid anywhere other than where he wanted it. And afterwards he turned down the pressure at the nozzle and hosed off his black rubber boots. He wore a white rubberised apron round his neck and stretching down to his knees, as did most of those around him. Aprons to Rebus meant barmen, masons and butchers. He was reminded only of this last as he walked across the floor.

  They were working with cattle. The cows looked young and fearful, eyes bulging. They’d probably already been injected with muscle relaxants, so moved drunkenly along the line. A jolt of electricity behind either ear numbed them, and quickly the wielder of the bolt-gun took aim with the cold muzzle hard against each skull. Their back legs seemed to crumple first. Already the light was vanishing from behind their eyes.

  He’d been told Davey Soutar was working near the back of the operation, so he had to pick his way around the routine. Men and women speckled with blood smiled and nodded as he passed. They all wore hats to keep their hair off the meat.

  Or perhaps to keep the meat off their hair.

  Soutar was by the back wall, resting easily against it, hands tucked into the front of his apron. He was talking to a girl, chatting her up perhaps.

  So romance isn’t dead, thought Rebus.

  Then Soutar saw him, just as Rebus slipped on a wet patch of floor. Soutar placed him immediately, and seemed to raise his head and roll his eyes in defeat. Then he ran forward and picked something up from a shiny metal table. He was fumbling with it as Rebus advanced. It was only when Soutar took aim and the girl screamed that Rebus realised it was a bolt-gun. There was the sound of a two-pound hammer hitting a girder. The bolt flew, but Rebus dodged it. Soutar threw the gun at him and dived for the rear wall, hitting the bar of the emergency exit. The door swung open then closed again behind him. The girl was still screaming as Rebus ran towards her, pushed the horizontal bar to unlock the door, and stumbled into the abattoir’s back yard.