Mortal Causes (21 page)

‘What do you want to drink?’

‘Tea, please.’

‘Sure? I’ve only got decaf.’

‘That’s perfect.’ He meant it. While she made noises in the kitchen, he walked through the living room. Dining-table and chairs and wall units at the back, sofa, chairs, bookcases towards the front. It was a nice room. From the small front window, he looked down onto slow-walking tourists and a shop selling tartan teddy-bears.

‘This is a nice part of town,’ he said, not really meaning it.

‘Are you kidding? Ever tried parking round here in the summer?’

‘I never try parking anywhere in the summer.’

He moved away from the window. A flute and some sheet music sat on a spindly music-stand in one corner. On a unit were small framed photos of the usual gap-toothed kids and kind-looking old people.

‘Family,’ she said, coming back into the room. She lit a cigarette, took two deep puffs on it, then stubbed it into an ashtray, exhaling and wafting the smoke away with her hand. ‘I hate smoking indoors,’ she explained.

‘Then why do it?’

‘I smoke when I’m nervous.’ She smiled slyly and returned to the kitchen, Rebus following. The aroma of the cigarette mingled with the richer aroma of the perfume she wore. Had she just applied some? It hadn’t been this strong before.

The kitchen was small, functional. The whole flat had the look of recent but not radical redecoration.

‘Milk?’

‘Please. No sugar.’ Their conversation, he realised, was assuming a studied banality.

The kettle clicked off. ‘Can you take the mugs?’

She had already poured a splash of milk into either plain yellow mug. There wasn’t much room at all in the kitchen, something Rebus realised as he went to pick up the mugs. He was right beside her as she stirred the teabags in the pot. Her head was bent down, affording a view of the long black hairs curling from her nape, and the nape of her neck itself. She half turned her face towards him, smiling, her eyes finally finding his. Then she moved her body around too. Rebus kissed her forehead first, then her cheek. She had closed her eyes. He burrowed his face in her neck, inhaling deeply: shampoo and perfume and skin. He kissed her again, then came up for air. Caroline opened her eyes slowly.

‘Well now,’ she said.

He felt suddenly as though he’d been flung down a tunnel, watching the circle of light at the entrance shrink to a full stop. He tried desperately to think of something to say. There was perfume in his lungs.

‘Well now,’ she repeated. What did that mean? Was she pleased, shocked, bemused? She turned back to the teapot and put its lid on.

‘I better go,’ Rebus said. She became very still. He couldn’t see her face, not enough of it. ‘Hadn’t I?’

‘I’ve no commitments, John.’ Her hands were resting lightly on the work surface, either side of the pot. ‘What about you?’

He knew what she meant; she meant Patience. ‘There’s someone,’ he said.

‘I know, Dr Curt told me.’

‘I’m sorry, Caroline, I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘What?’ She turned to him.

‘Kissed you.’

‘I didn’t mind.’ She gave him her smile again. ‘I’ll never drink a whole pot of tea on my own.’

He nodded, realising he was still holding the mugs. ‘I’ll take them through.’

He walked out of the kitchen on unsteady legs, his heart shimmying. He’d kissed her. Why had he kissed her? He hadn’t meant to. But it had happened. It was real now. The photographs smiled at him as he put the mugs down on a small table which already had coffee-rings on it. What was she doing in the kitchen? He stared at the doorway, willing her to come, willing her not to come.

She came. The teapot was on a tray now, a tea-cosy in the shape of a King Charles spaniel keeping in the heat.

‘Is Sandy a King Charles?’

‘Some days. How strong do you like it?’

‘As it comes.’

She smiled again and poured, handed him a mug, then took one herself and sat in her chair. She didn’t look very comfortable. Rebus sat opposite her on the sofa, not resting against the back of it but leaning forward.

‘There’s some shortbread,’ she said.

‘No, thanks.’

‘So,’ she said, ‘any progress on Nemo?’

‘I think so.’ This was good; they were talking. ‘SaS is a loyalist support group. They’re buying and shipping arms.’

‘And the victim in Mary King’s Close, he was killed by paramilitaries, nothing to do with his father?’

Rebus shrugged again. ‘There’s been another murder. It could be linked.’

‘That man they found in the cellar?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Nobody told me they were connected.’

‘It’s being kept a bit quiet. He was working undercover.’

‘How was he found?’

‘The flat was having some building work done. One of the labourers opened the cellar door.’

‘That’s a coincidence.’

‘What?’

‘There was building work going on in Mary King’s Close too.’

‘Not the same firm.’

‘You’ve checked?’

Rebus frowned. ‘Not me personally, but yes, we’ve checked.’

‘Oh well.’ She took another cigarette from her packet and made to light it, but stopped herself. She took the cigarette from her mouth and examined it. ‘John,’ she said, ‘if you’d like to, we can make love any time you want.’

There were none of Cafferty’s men waiting for him outside Patience’s flat, nothing to delay him. He’d been hoping for the Weasel. Right now, he felt ready for some hands-on with the Weasel.

But it wasn’t Cafferty’s man he was angry with.

Inside, the long hallway was cool and dark, the only light coming from three small panes of glass above the front door. ‘Patience?’ he called, hoping she’d be out. Her car was outside, but that didn’t mean anything. He wanted to run a bath, steep in it. He turned on both taps, then went to the bedroom, picked up the phone, and rang Brian Holmes at home. Holmes’s partner Nell picked up the call.

‘It’s John Rebus,’ he told her. She said nothing, just put the receiver to one side and went off to fetch Brian. There was no love lost these days between Rebus and Nell Stapleton, something Holmes himself realised but couldn’t bring himself to query …

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Brian, those two building companies.’

‘Mary King’s Close and St Stephen Street?’

‘How thoroughly have we checked them?’

‘Pretty well.’

‘And we’ve cross-referenced? There’s no connection between them.’

‘No, why?’

‘Can you check them again yourself?’

‘I can.’

‘Humour me then. Do it Monday.’

‘Anything in particular I should be looking for?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘Yes, start with casual labour.’

“I thought you wanted Siobhan and me to go see Murdock?’

‘I did. I’ll take your place. Have a nice evening.’ Rebus put down the phone and went back to the bathroom. There was good pressure in the pipes, and the bath was practically full already. He turned off the cold and reduced the hot to a trickle. The kitchen was through the living room, and he fancied some milk from the fridge.

Patience was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ Rebus said.

‘I live here, remember? This is my flat.’

‘Yes, I know.’ She was angry with him. He opened the fridge door, took out the milk, and managed to pass her without touching her. He put the milk on the breakfast table and got a glass from the draining board. ‘What are you cooking?’

‘Why the interest? You never eat here.’

‘Patience …’

She came to the sink, scraping peelings into a plastic container. It would all go onto her compost heap. She turned to him. ‘Running a bath?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Giorgio, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘That perfume.’ She leaned close, sniffed his shirt. ‘Giorgio of Beverly Hills.’

‘Patience …’

‘You’ll have to tell me about her one of these days.’

‘You think I’m seeing someone?’

She threw the small sharp kitchen knife at the sink and ran from the room. Rebus stood there, listening until he heard the front door slam. He poured the milk down the sink.

He took back the videos – still unwatched – then went for a drive. The Dell Bar sat on an unlovely stretch of main road outside the Gar-B. It didn’t get much passing trade, but there was a line of cars parked outside. Rebus slowed as he drove past. He could go in, but what good would it do? Then he saw something, and pulled his car up kerbside. Next to him a van was parked, with fly-posters pasted on its sides. The posters advertised the play which was soon to go on in the Gar-B gang hut. The theatre group was called Active Resistance. Some of them must be drinking inside. A few vehicles further on was the car he wanted. He bent down at the driver’s side window. Ken Smylie tried to ignore him, then wound the window down angrily.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I was about to ask the same,’ said Rebus.

Smylie nodded towards the Dell. He had his hands on the steering-wheel. They weren’t just resting on it, they were squeezing it. ‘Maybe there’s someone drinking in there killed Calumn.’

‘Maybe there is,’ Rebus said quietly: he didn’t fancy being Smylie’s punchbag. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

Smylie stared at him. ‘I’m going to sit here.’

‘And then what? Break the neck of every man who comes out? You know the score, Ken.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Look, Ken –’ Rebus broke off as the Dell’s door swung open and two punters sauntered out, cigarettes in mouths, sharing some joke between them. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know how you feel. I’ve got a brother too. But this isn’t doing any good.’

‘Just go away.’

Rebus sighed, straightened up. ‘Fair enough then. But if there’s any hassle, radio for assistance. Just do that for me, okay?’

Smylie almost smiled. ‘There won’t be any trouble, believe me.’

Rebus did, the way he believed TV advertising and weather reports. He walked back towards his car. The two drinkers were getting into their Vauxhall. As the passenger yanked open his door, it nearly caught Rebus.

The man didn’t bother to apologise. He gave Rebus a look like it was Rebus’s fault, then got into his seat.

Rebus had seen the man before. He was about five-ten, broad in the chest, wearing jeans and black t-shirt and a denim jacket. He had a face shiny with drink, sweat on his forehead and in his wavy brown hair. But it wasn’t until Rebus was back in his own car and halfway home that he put a name to the face.

The man Yates had told him about, shown him a photo of, the ex-UVF man they’d lost in Glasgow. Alan Fowler. Drinking in the Gar-B like he owned the place.

Maybe he did at that.

Rebus retraced his route, cruising some of the narrow streets, checking parked cars. But he’d lost the Vauxhall. And Ken Smylie’s car was no longer outside the Dell.

Monday morning at St Leonard’s, Chief Inspector Lauderdale was having to explain a joke he’d just made.

‘See, the squid’s so meek, Hans can’t bring himself to thump it either.’ He caught sight of Rebus walking into the Murder Room. ‘The prodigal returns! Tell us, what’s it like working with the glamour boys?’

‘It’s all right,’ said Rebus. ‘I’ve already had one return flight out of them.’

Lauderdale clearly had not been expecting this …

‘So it’s true then,’ he said, recovering well, ‘they’re all high flyers over at SCS.’ He captured a few laughs for his trouble. Rebus didn’t mind being the butt. He knew the way it was. In a murder inquiry, you worked as a team. Lauderdale, as team manager, had the job of boosting morale, keeping things lively. Rebus wasn’t part of the team, not exactly, so he was open to the occasional low tackle with studs showing.

He went to his desk, which more than ever resembled a rubbish tip, and tried to see if any messages had been left for him. He had spent the rest of his weekend, when not avoiding Patience, trying to track down Abernethy or anyone else in Special Branch who’d talk to him. Rebus had left message after message, so far without success.

DI Flower, teeth showing, advanced on Rebus’s desk.

‘We’ve got a confession,’ he said, ‘to the stabbing in St Stephen Street. Want to talk to the man?’

Rebus was wary. ‘Who is it?’

‘Unstable from Dunstable. He’s off his trolley this time, keeps asking for a curry and talking about cars. I told him he’d have to settle for a bridie and his bus fare.’

‘You’re all heart, Flower.’ Rebus saw that Siobhan Clarke had finished getting ready. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Ready, sir?’ Clarke asked.

‘Plenty ready. Let’s go before Lauderdale or Flower can think of another gag at my expense. Not that
their
jokes ever cost me more than small change.’

They took Clarke’s cherry-red Renault 5, following bus after bus west through the slow streets until they could take a faster route by way of The Grange, passing the turn-off to Arch Gowrie’s residence.

‘And you said The Grange didn’t lead anywhere,’ Clarke said, powering through the gears. True enough, it was the quickest route between St Leonard’s and Morningside. It was just that as a policeman, Rebus had never had much cause to heed Morningside, that genteel backwater where old ladies in white face powder, like something out of a Restoration play, sat in tea shops and pondered aloud their next choice from the cake-stand.

Morningside wasn’t exclusive the way Grange was. There were students in Morningside, living at the top of roadside tenements, and people on the dole, in rented flats housing too many bodies, keeping the rent down. But when you thought of Morningside you thought of old ladies and that peculiar pronunciation they had, like they’d all understudied Maggie Smith in
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
. The Glaswegians joked about it. They said Morningside people thought sex was what the coal came in. Rebus doubted there were coal fires in Morningside any longer, though there would certainly be some wood-burning stoves, brought in by the young professionals who probably outnumbered the old ladies these days, though they weren’t nearly so conspicuous.

It was to serve these young professionals, as well as to cater for local businesses, that a thriving little computer shop had opened near the corner of Comiston Road and Morningside Drive.