Mortal Causes

  ‘So,’ said Abernethy at last, rubbing his hands, ‘where’s this slaughterhouse?’

  ‘A butcher’s actually,’ Mr Blair-Fish explained.

  ‘I know what I mean,’ said Abernethy.

  Mr Blair-Fish led the way. But Kilpatrick held Rebus back.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t like this bastard being here any more than you do, but if we’re tolerant we’ll get rid of him all the quicker, agreed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Kilpatrick’s was a Glaswegian accent, managing to be deeply nasal even when reduced to a whisper, and managing, too, to be full of irony and a belief that Glasgow was the centre of the universe. Usually, Glaswegians somehow added to all this a ubiquitous chip on their shoulder, but Kilpatrick didn’t seem the type.

  ‘So no more bloody cracks about biscuits.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  Kilpatrick waited a moment. ‘It was you who noticed the paramilitary element, wasn’t it?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Good work.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Yes, and Glaswegians could be patronising bastards, too.

  When they rejoined the group, Holmes gave Rebus a questioning look, to which Rebus replied with a shrug. At least the shrug was honest.

  ‘So they strung him up here,’ Abernethy was saying. He looked around at the setting. ‘Bit melodramatic, eh? Not the IRA’s style at all. Give them a lock-up or a warehouse, something like that. But someone who likes a bit of drama set this up.’

  Rebus was impressed. It was another possible reason for the choice of venue.

  ‘Bang-bang,’ Abernethy continued, ‘then back upstairs to melt into the crowd, maybe take in a late-night revue before toddling home.’

  Clarke interrupted. ‘You think there’s some connection with the Festival?’

  Abernethy studied her openly, causing Brian Holmes to straighten up. Not for the first time, Rebus wondered about Clarke and Holmes.

  ‘Why not?’ Abernethy said. ‘It’s every bit as feasible as anything else I’ve heard.’

  ‘But it was a six-pack.’ Rebus felt obliged to defend his corner.

  ‘No,’ Abernethy corrected, ‘a seven-pack. And that’s not paramilitary style at all. A waste of bullets for a start.’ He looked to Kilpatrick. ‘Could be a drug thing. Gangs like a bit of melodrama, it makes them look like they’re in a film. Plus they do like to send messages to each other. Loud messages.’

  Kilpatrick nodded. ‘We’re considering it.’

  ‘My money’d still be on terrorists,’ Rebus added. ‘A gun like that –’

  ‘Dealers use guns, too, Inspector. They like guns. Big ones to make a big loud noise. I’ll tell you something, I’d hate to have been down here. The report from a nine-millimetre in an enclosed space like this. It could blow out your eardrums.’

  ‘A silencer,’ Siobhan Clarke offered. It wasn’t her day. Abernethy just gave her a look, so Rebus provided the explanation.

  ‘Revolvers don’t take silencers.’

  Abernethy pointed to Rebus, but his eyes were on Clarke’s. ‘Listen to your Inspector, darling, you might learn something.’

  Rebus looked around the room. There were six people there, four of whom would gladly punch another’s lights out.

  He didn’t think Mr Blair-Fish would enter the fray.

  Abernethy meantime had sunk to his knees, rubbing his fingers over the floor, over ancient dirt and husks.

  ‘The SOCOs took off the top inch of earth,’ Rebus said, but Abernethy wasn’t listening. Bags and bags of the stuff had been taken to the sixth floor of Fettes HQ to be sieved and analysed and God knew what else by the forensics lab.

  It occurred to Rebus that all the group could now see of Abernethy was a fat arse and brilliant white Reeboks. Abernethy turned his face towards them and smiled. Then he got up, brushing his palms together.

  ‘Was the deceased a drug user?’

  ‘No signs.’

  ‘Only I was thinking, SaS, could be Smack and Speed.’

  Again, Rebus was impressed, thoroughly despite himself. Dust had settled in the gel of Abernethy’s hair, small enough motes of comfort.

  ‘Could be Scott and Sheena,’ offered Rebus. In other words: could be anything. Abernethy just shrugged. He’d been giving them a display, and now the show was over.

  ‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ he said. Kilpatrick nodded with relief. It must be hard, Rebus reflected, being a top cop in your field, a man with a rep, sent to act as tour guide for a junior officer … and a Sassenach at that.

  Galling, that was the word.

  Abernethy was speaking again. ‘Might as well drop in on the Murder Room while I’m here.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Rebus coldly.

  ‘No reason I can think of,’ replied Abernethy, all sweetness and bite.

  5

  St Leonard’s police station, headquarters of the city’s B Division, boasted a semi-permanent Murder Room. The present inquiry looked like it had been going on forever. Abernethy seemed to favour the scene. He browsed among the computer screens, telephones, wall charts and photographs. Kilpatrick touched Rebus’s arm.

  ‘Keep an eye on him, will you? I’ll just go say hello to your Chief Super while I’m here.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Chief Inspector Lauderdale watched him leave. ‘So that’s Kilpatrick of the Crime Squad, eh? Funny, he looks almost mortal.’

  It was true that Kilpatrick’s reputation – a hard one to live up to – preceded him. He’d had spectacular successes in Glasgow, and some decidedly public failures too. Huge quantities of drugs had been seized, but a few terrorist suspects had managed to slip away.

  ‘At least he looks human,’ Lauderdale went on, ‘which is more than can be said for our cockney friend.’

  Abernethy couldn’t have heard this – he was out of earshot – but he looked up suddenly towards them and grinned. Lauderdale went to take a phone call, and the Special Branch man sauntered back towards Rebus, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

  ‘It’s a good operation this, but there’s not much to go on, is there?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘And what you’ve got doesn’t make much sense.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You worked with Scotland Yard on a case, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘With George Flight?’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘He’s gone for retraining, you know. I mean, at his age. Got interested in computers, I don’t know, maybe he’s got a point. They’re the future of crime, aren’t they? Day’s coming, the big villains won’t have to move from their living rooms.’

  ‘The big villains never have.’

  This earned a smile from Abernethy, or at least a lopsided sneer. ‘Has my minder gone for a jimmy?’

  ‘He’s gone to say hello to someone.’

  ‘Well tell him ta-ta from me.’ Abernethy looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘I don’t think DCI Kilpatrick will be sorry to see the back of me.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Abernethy chuckled. ‘Listen to you. If your voice was any colder you could store cadavers in it. Still think you’ve got terrorists in Edinburgh?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘Well, it’s your problem. I’m well shot of it. Tell Kilpatrick I’ll talk to him before I head south.’

  ‘You’re supposed to stay here.’

  ‘Just tell him I’ll be in touch.’

  There was no painless way of stopping Abernethy from leaving, so Rebus didn’t even try. But he didn’t think Kilpatrick would be happy. He picked up one of the phones. What did Abernethy mean about it being Rebus’s problem? If there was a terrorist connection, it’d be out of CID’s hands. It would become Special Branch’s domain, M15’s domain. So what did he mean?

  He gave Kilpatrick the message, but Kilpatrick didn’t seem bothered after all. There was relaxation in his voice, the sort that came with a large whisky. The Farmer had stopped drinking for a while, but was back off the wagon ag
ain. Rebus wouldn’t mind a drop himself …

  Lauderdale, who had also just put down a telephone, was staring at a pad on which he’d been writing as he took the call.

  ‘Something?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘We may have a positive ID on the victim. Do you want to check it out?’ Lauderdale tore the sheet from the pad.

  ‘Do Hibs fans weep?’ Rebus answered, accepting it.

  Actually, not all Hibs fans were prone to tears. Siobhan Clarke supported Hibernian, which put her in a minority at St Leonard’s. Being English-educated (another minority, much smaller) she didn’t understand the finer points of Scottish bigotry, though one or two of her fellow officers had attempted to educate her. She wasn’t Catholic, they explained patiently, so she should support Heart of Midlothian. Hibernian were the Catholic team. Look at their name, look at their green strip. They were Edinburgh’s version of Glasgow Celtic, just as Hearts were like Glasgow Rangers.

  ‘It’s the same in England,’ they’d tell her. ‘Wherever you’ve got Catholics and Protestants in the same place.’ Manchester had United (Catholic) and City (Protestant), Liverpool had Liverpool (Catholic) and Everton (Protestant). It only got complicated in London. London even had Jewish teams.

  Siobhan Clarke just smiled, shaking her head. It was no use arguing, which didn’t stop her trying. They just kept joking with her, teasing her, trying to convert her. It was light-hearted, but she couldn’t always tell how light-hearted. The Scots tended to crack jokes with a straight face and be deadly serious when they smiled. When some officers at St Leonard’s found out her birthday was coming, she found herself unwrapping half a dozen Hearts scarves. They all went to a charity shop.

  She’d seen the darker side of football loyalty, too. The collection tins at certain games. Depending on where you were standing, you’d be asked to donate to either one cause or the other. Usually it was for ‘families’ or ‘victims’ or ‘prisoners’ aid’, but everyone who gave knew they might be perpetuating the violence in Northern Ireland. Fearfully, most gave. One pound sterling towards the price of a gun.

  She’d come across the same thing on Saturday when, with a couple of friends, she’d found herself standing at the Hearts end of the ground. The tin had come round, and she’d ignored it. Her friends were quiet after that.

  ‘We should be doing something about it,’ she complained to Rebus in his car.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Get an undercover team in there, arrest whoever’s behind it.’

  ‘Behave.’

  ‘Well why not?’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t solve anything and there’d be no charge we could make stick other than something paltry like not having a licence. Besides, if you ask me most of that cash goes straight into the collector’s pocket. It never reaches Northern Ireland.’

  ‘But it’s the principle of the thing.’

  ‘Christ, listen to you.’ Principles: they were slow to go, and some coppers never lost them entirely. ‘Here we are.’

  He reversed into a space in front of a tenement block on Mayfield Gardens. The address was a top floor flat.

  ‘Why is it always the top floor?’ Siobhan complained.

  ‘Because that’s where the poor people live.’

  There were two doors on the top landing. The name on one doorbell read MURDOCK. There was a brown bristle welcome-mat just outside the door. The message on it was GET LOST!

  ‘Charming.’ Rebus pressed the bell. The door was opened by a bearded man wearing thick wire-framed glasses. The beard didn’t help, but Rebus would guess the man’s age at mid-twenties. He had thick shoulder-length black hair, through which he ran a hand.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebus. This is –’

  ‘Come in, come in. Mind out for the motorbike.’

  ‘Yours, Mr Murdock?’

  ‘No, it’s Billy’s. It hasn’t worked since he moved in.’

  The bike’s frame was intact, but the engine lay disassembled along the hall carpet, lying on old newspapers turned black from oil. Smaller pieces were in polythene bags, each bag tied at the neck and marked with an identifying number.

  ‘That’s clever,’ said Rebus.

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Murdock, ‘he’s organised is Billy. In here.’ He led them into a cluttered living area. ‘This is Millie, she lives here.’

  ‘Hiya.’

  Millie was sitting on the sofa swathed in a sleeping bag, despite the heat outside. She was watching the television and smoking a cigarette.

  ‘You phoned us, Mr Murdock.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s about Billy.’ Murdock began to pad around the room. ‘See, the description in the paper and on the telly, well … I didn’t think about it at the time, but as Millie says, it’s not like Billy to stay away so long. Like I say, he’s organised. Usually he’d phone or something, just to let us know.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Murdock looked to Millie. ‘When was it, Thursday night?’

  ‘I saw him Friday morning.’

  ‘So you did.’

  Rebus turned to Millie. She had short fair hair, dark at the roots, and dark eyebrows. Her face was long and plain, her chin highlighted by a protruding mole. Rebus reckoned she was a few years older than Murdock. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything. There’s not a lot of conversation in this flat at that hour.’

  ‘What hour?’

  She flicked ash into the ashtray which was balanced on her sleeping bag. It was a nervous habit, the cigarette being tapped even when there was no ash for it to surrender. ‘Seven thirty, quarter to eight,’ she said.

  ‘Where does he work?’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said Murdock, resting his hand on the mantelpiece. ‘He used to work in the Post Office, but they laid him off a few months back. He’s on the dole now, along with half of Scotland.’

  ‘And what do you do, Mr Murdock?’

  ‘I’m a computer consultant.’

  Sure enough, some of the living room’s clutter was made up of keyboards and disk drives, some of them dismantled, piled on top of each other. There were piles of fat magazines too, and books, hefty operating manuals.

  ‘Did either of you know Billy before he moved in?’

  ‘I did,’ said Millie. ‘A friend of a friend, casual acquaintance sort of thing. I knew he was looking for a room, and there was a room going spare here, so I suggested him to Murdock.’ She changed channels on the TV. She was watching with the sound turned off, watching through a squint of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Can we see Billy’s room?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Murdock. He’d been glancing nervously towards Millie all the time she’d been talking. He seemed relieved to be in movement. He took them back into where the narrow entrance hall became a wider rectangle, off which were three doors. One was a cupboard, one the kitchen. Back along the narrow hall they’d passed the bathroom on one side and Murdock’s bedroom on the other. Which left just this last door.

  It led them into a very small, very tidy bedroom. The room itself would be no more than ten feet by eight, yet it managed to contain single bed, wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a writing desk and chair. A hi-fi unit, including speakers, sat atop the chest of drawers. The bed had been made, and there was nothing left lying around.

  ‘You haven’t tidied up, have you?’

  Murdock shook his head. ‘Billy was always tidying. You should see the kitchen.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of Billy?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I might have some from one of our parties. You want to look at them?’

  ‘Just the best one will do.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it then.’

  ‘Thank you.’ When Murdock had gone, Siobhan squeezed into the room beside Rebus. Until then, she’d been forced to stay just outside the door.

  ‘Initial thoughts?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Neurotically tidy,’ she said, the comment of one whose own flat looked like a cross between a pizza
franchise and a bottle bank.

  But Rebus was studying the walls. There was a Hearts pennant above the bed, and a Union Jack flag on which the Red Hand of Ulster was centrally prominent, with above it the words ‘No Surrender’ and below it the letters FTP. Even Siobhan Clarke knew what those stood for.

  ‘Fuck the Pope,’ she murmured.

  Murdock was back. He didn’t attempt to squeeze into the narrow aisle between bed and wardrobe, but stood in the doorway and handed the photo to Siobhan Clarke, who handed it to Rebus. It showed a young man smiling manically for the camera. Behind him you could see a can of beer held high, as though someone were about to pour it over his head.

  ‘It’s as good a photo as we’ve got,’ Murdock said by way of apology.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Murdock.’ Rebus was almost sure. Almost. ‘Billy had a tattoo?’

  ‘On his arm, aye. It looked like one of those things you do yourself when you’re a daft laddie.’

  Rebus nodded. They’d released details of the tattoo, looking for a quick result.

  ‘I never really looked at it close up,’ Murdock went on, ‘and Billy never talked about it.’

  Millie had joined him in the doorway. She had discarded the sleeping bag and was wearing a modestly long t-shirt over bare legs. She put an arm around Murdock’s waist. ‘I remember it,’ she said. ‘SaS. Big S, small a.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you what it stood for?’

  She shook her head. Tears were welling in her eyes. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? He’s the one you found dead?’

  Rebus tried to be non-committal, but his face gave him away. Millie started to bawl, and Murdock hugged her to him. Siobhan Clarke had lifted some cassette tapes from the chest of drawers and was studying them. She handed them silently to Rebus. They were collections of Orange songs, songs about the struggle in Ulster. Their titles said it all: The Sash and other Glories, King Billy’s Marching Tunes, No Surrender. He stuck one of the tapes in his pocket.

  They did some more searching of Billy Cunningham’s room, but came up with little excepting a recent letter from his mother. There was no address on the letter, but it bore a Glasgow postmark, and Millie recalled Billy saying something about coming from Hillhead. Well, they’d let Glasgow deal with it. Let Glasgow break the news to some unsuspecting family.