Mortal Causes (8 page)

‘Inspector Rebus?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He told me to tell you he’s already gone to Bannerman’s.’

‘Thanks.’ Rebus headed off towards the pub.

Bannerman’s had been just cellarage at one time, and hadn’t been altered much since. Its vaulted rooms were unnervingly like those of the shops in Mary King’s Close. Cellars like these formed connecting burrows beneath the Old Town, worming from the Lawnmarket down to the Canongate and beyond. The bar wasn’t busy yet, and Dr Curt was sitting by the window, his beer glass resting on a barrel which served as table. Somehow, he’d found one of the few comfortable chairs in the place. It looked like a minor nobleman’s perch, with armrests and high back. Rebus bought a double whisky for himself, dragged over a stool, and sat down.

‘Your health, John.’

‘And yours.’

‘So what can I do for you?’

Even in a pub, Rebus would swear he could smell soap and surgical alcohol wafting up from Curt’s hands. He took a swallow of whisky. Curt frowned.

‘Looks like I might be examining your liver sooner than I’d hoped.’

Rebus nodded towards the pack of cigarettes on the table. They were Curt’s and they were untipped. ‘Not if you keep smoking those.’

Dr Curt smiled. He hadn’t long taken up smoking, having decided to see just how indestructible he was. He wouldn’t call it a death wish exactly; it was merely an exercise in mortality.

‘How long have you and Ms Rattray been an item then?’

Curt laughed. ‘Dear God, is that why I’m here? You want to ask me about Caroline?’

‘Just making conversation. She’s not bad though.’

‘Oh, she’s quite something.’ Curt lit a cigarette and inhaled, nodding to himself. ‘Quite something,’ he repeated through a cloud of smoke.

‘We may have a name for the victim in Mary King’s Close. It’s up to fingerprints now.’

‘Is that why you wanted to see me? Not just to discuss Caro?’

‘I want to talk about guns.’

‘I’m no expert on guns.’

‘Good. I’m not after an expert, I’m after someone I can talk to. Have you seen the ballistics report?’ Curt shook his head. ‘We’re looking at something like a Smith and Wesson model 547, going by the rifling marks – five grooves, right-hand twist. It’s a revolver, takes six rounds of nine millimetre parabellum.’

‘You’ve lost me already.’

‘Probably the version with the three-inch rather than four-inch barrel, which means a weight of thirty-two ounces.’ Rebus sipped his drink. There were whisky fumes in his nostrils now, blocking any other smells. ‘Revolvers don’t accept silencers.’

‘Ah.’ Curt nodded. ‘I begin to see some light.’

‘A confined space like that, shaped the way it was …’ Rebus nodded past the bar to the room beyond. ‘Much the same size and shape as this.’

‘It would have been loud.’

‘Bloody loud. Deafening, you might say.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I’m just wondering how professional all of this really was. I mean, on the surface, if you look at the
style
of execution, then yes, it was a pro job, no question. But then things start to niggle.’

Curt considered. ‘So what now? Do we scour the city for recent purchasers of hearing-aids?’

Rebus smiled. ‘It’s a thought.’

‘All I can tell you, John, is that those bullets did damage. Whether meant to or not, they were messy. Now, we’ve both come up against messy killers before. Usually the facts of the mess make it easier to find them. But this time there doesn’t seem to be much evidence left lying around, apart from the bullets.’

‘I know.’

Curt slapped his hand on the barrel. ‘Tell you what, I’ve got a suggestion.’

‘What is it?’

He leaned forward, as if to impart a secret. ‘Let me give you Caroline Rattray’s phone number.’

‘Bugger off,’ said Rebus.

That evening, a marked patrol car picked him up from Patience’s Oxford Terrace flat. The driver was a Detective Constable called Robert Burns, and Burns was doing Rebus a favour.

‘I appreciate it,’ said Rebus.

Though Burns was attached to C Division in the west end, he’d been born and raised in Pilmuir, and still had friends and enemies there. He was a known quantity in the Gar-B, which was what mattered to Rebus.

‘I was born in one of the pre-fabs,’ Burns explained. ‘Before they levelled them to make way for the high-rises. The high-rises were supposed to more “civilised”, if you can believe that. Bloody architects and town planners. You never find one admitting he made a mistake, do you?’ He smiled. ‘They’re a bit like us that way.’

‘By “us” do you mean the police or the Wee Frees?’ Burns was more than just a member of the Free Church of Scotland. On Sunday afternoons he took his religion to the foot of The Mound, where he spouted hellfire and brimstone to anyone who’d listen. Rebus had listened a few times. But Burns took a break during the Festival. As he’d pointed out, even his voice would be fighting a losing battle against steel bands and untuned guitars.

They were turning into the Gar-B, passing the gable end again with its sinister greeting.

‘Drop me as close as you can, eh?’

‘Sure,’ said Burns. And when they came to the dead end near the garages, he slowed only fractionally as he bumped the car up first onto the pavement and then onto the grass. ‘It’s not my car,’ he explained.

They drove beside the path past the garages and a high-rise, until there was nowhere else to go. When Burns stopped, the car was resting about twelve feet from the community centre.

‘I can walk from here,’ said Rebus.

Kids who’d been lying on the centre’s roof were standing now, watching them, cigarettes hanging from open mouths. People watched from the path and from open windows, too. Burns turned to Rebus.

‘Don’t tell me you wanted to sneak up on them?’

‘This is just fine.’ He opened his door. ‘Stay with the car. I don’t want us losing any tyres.’

Rebus walked towards the community centre’s wide open doors. The teenagers on the roof watched him with practised hostility. There were paper planes lying all around, some of them made airborne again temporarily by a gust of wind. As Rebus walked into the building, he heard grunting noises above him. His rooftop audience were pretending to be pigs.

There was no preliminary chamber, just the hall itself. At one end stood a high basketball hoop. Some teenagers were in a ruck around the grounded ball, feet scraping at ankles, hands pulling at arms and hair. So much for non-contact sports. On a makeshift stage sat a ghetto blaster, blaring out the fashion in heavy metal. Rebus didn’t reckon he’d score many points by announcing that he’d been in at the birth. Most of these kids had been born after
Anarchy in the UK
, never mind
Communication Breakdown
.

There was a mix of ages, and it was impossible to pick out Peter Cave. He could be nodding his head to the distorted electric guitar. He could be smoking by the wall. Or in with the basketball brigade. But no, he was coming towards Rebus from the other direction, from a tight group which included black t-shirt from Rebus’s first visit.

‘Can I help?’

Father Leary had said he was in his mid-twenties, but he could pass for late-teens. The clothes helped, and he wore them well. Rebus had seen church people before when they wore denim. They usually looked as if they’d be more comfortable in something less comfortable. But Cave, in faded denim jeans and denim shirt, with half a dozen thin leather and metal bracelets around his wrists, he looked all right.

‘Not many girls,’ Rebus stated, playing for a little more time.

Peter Cave looked around. ‘Not just now. Usually there are more than this, but on a nice night …’

It was a nice night. He’d left Patience drinking cold rose wine in the garden. He had left her reluctantly. He got no initial bad feelings from Cave. The young man was fresh-faced and clear-eyed and looked level headed too. His hair was long but by no means untidy, and his face was square and honest with a deep cleft in the chin.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cave said, ‘I’m Peter Cave. I run the youth club.’ His hand shot out, bracelets sliding down his wrist. Rebus took the hand and smiled. Cave wanted to know who he was, a not unreasonable request.

‘Detective Inspector Rebus.’

Cave nodded. ‘Davey said a policeman had been round earlier. I thought probably he meant uniformed. What’s the trouble, Inspector?’

‘No trouble, Mr Cave.’

A circle of frowning onlookers had formed itself around the two of them. Rebus wasn’t worried, not yet.

‘Call me Peter.’

‘Mr Cave,’ Rebus licked his lips, ‘how are things going here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A simple question, sir. Only, crime in Pilmuir hasn’t exactly dropped since you started this place up.’

Cave bristled at that. ‘There haven’t been any gang fights.’

Rebus accepted this. ‘But housebreaking, assaults … there are still syringes in the playpark and aerosols lying –’

‘Aerosols to you too.’

Rebus turned to see who had entered. It was the boy with the naked chest and denim jacket.

‘Hello, Davey,’ said Rebus. The ring had broken long enough to let denim jacket through.

The youth pointed a finger. ‘I thought I said you didn’t want to know my name?’

‘I can’t help it if people tell me things, Davey.’

‘Davey Soutar,’ Burns added. He was standing in the doorway, arms folded, looking like he was enjoying himself. He wasn’t of course, it was just a necessary pose.

‘Davey Soutar,’ Rebus echoed.

Soutar had clenched his fists. Peter Cave attempted to intercede. ‘Now, please. Is there a problem here, Inspector?’

‘You tell me, Mr Cave.’ He looked around him. ‘Frankly, we’re a little bit concerned about this gang hut.’

Colour flooded Cave’s cheeks. ‘It’s a youth centre.’

Rebus was now studying the ceiling. Nobody was playing basketball any more. The music had been turned right down. ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Look, you come barging in here –’

‘I don’t recall barging, Mr Cave. More of a saunter. I didn’t ask for trouble. If Davey here can be persuaded to unclench his fists, maybe you and me can have a quiet chat outside.’ He looked at the circle around them. ‘I’m not one for playing to the cheap seats.’

Cave stared at Rebus, then at Soutar. He nodded slowly, his face drained of anger, and eventually Soutar let his hands relax. You could tell it was an effort. Burns hadn’t put in an appearance for nothing.

‘There now,’ said Rebus. ‘Come on, Mr Cave, let’s you and me go for a walk.’

They walked across the playing fields. Burns had returned to the patrol car and moved it to a spot where he could watch them. Some teenagers watched from the back of the community centre and from its roof, but they didn’t venture any closer than that.

‘I really don’t see, Inspector –’

‘You think you’re doing a good job here, sir?’

Cave thought about it before answering. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘You think the experiment is a success?’

‘A limited success so far, but yes, once again.’ He had his hands behind his back, head bowed a little. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.

‘No regrets?’

‘None.’

‘Funny then …’

‘What?’

‘Your church doesn’t seem so sure.’

Cave stopped in his tracks. ‘Is that what this is about? You’re in Conor’s congregation, is that it? He’s sent you here to … what’s the phrase? Come down heavy on me?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘He’s paranoid.
He
was the one who wanted me here. Now suddenly he’s decided I should leave,
ipso facto
I
must
leave. He’s used to getting his way after all. Well, I don’t choose to leave. I like it fine here. Is that what he’s afraid of? Well there’s not much he can do about it, is there? And as far as I can see, Inspector, there’s nothing you can do about it either, unless someone from the club is found breaking the law.’ Cave’s face had reddened, his hands coming from behind his back so he could gesture with them.

‘That lot break the law every day.’

‘Now just a –’

‘No, listen for a minute. Okay, you got the Jaffas and the Tims together, but ask yourself why they were amenable. If they’re not divided, they’re united, and they’re united for a
reason
. They’re the same as before, only stronger. You must see that.’

‘I see nothing of the sort. People can change, Inspector.’

Rebus had been hearing the line all his professional life. He sighed and toed the ground.

‘You don’t believe that?’

‘Frankly, sir, not in this particular case, and the crime stats back me up. What you’ve got just now is a truce of sorts, and it suits them because while there’s a truce they can get busy carving up territory between them. Anyone threatens them, they can retaliate in spades … or even
with
spades. But it won’t last, and when they split back into their separate gangs, there’s going to be blood spilled, no way round it. Because now there’ll be more at stake. Tell me, in your club tonight, how many Catholics were there?’

Cave didn’t answer, he was too busy shaking his head. ‘I feel sorry for you, really I do. I can smell cynicism off you like sulphur. I don’t happen to believe anything you’ve just said.’

‘Then you’re every bit as naive as I am cynical, and that means they’re just using you. Which is good, because the only way of looking at this is that you’ve been sucked into it and you accept it, knowing the truth.’

Cave’s cheeks were red again. ‘How dare you say that!’ And he punched Rebus in the stomach, hard. Rebus had been punched by professionals, but he was unprepared and felt himself double over for a moment, getting his wind back. There was a burning feeling in his gut, and it wasn’t whisky. He could hear cheering in the distance. Tiny figures were dancing up and down on the community centre roof. Rebus hoped they’d fall through it. He straightened up again.

‘Is that what you call setting a good example, Mr Cave?’

Then he punched Cave solidly on the jaw. The young man stumbled backwards and almost fell.

He heard a double roar from the community centre. The youth of the Gar-B were clambering down from the roof, starting to run in his direction. Burns had started the car and was bumping it across the football pitch towards him. The car was outpacing the crowd, but only just. An empty can bounced off its rear windscreen. Burns barely braked as he caught up with Rebus. Rebus yanked the door open and got in, grazing a knee and an elbow. Then they were off again, making for the roadway.