Mortal Causes

18

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 turnoff 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.

'Can I help you?’ the male assistant asked, not looking up from his keyboard.

'Is Millie around?’

Rebus asked.

'Through the arch.’

'Thanks.’

There was a single step up to the arch, through which was another part of the shop, specialising in contract work and business packages. Rebus almost didn't recognise Millie, though there was no one else there. She was seated at a terminal, thinking about something, tapping her finger against her lips. It took her a second to place Rebus. She hit a key, the screen went blank, and she rose from her seat.

She was dressed in an immaculate combination of brilliant white skirt and bright yellow blouse, with a single string of crystals around her neck.

'I just can't shake you lot off, can I?’

She did not sound unhappy. Indeed, she seemed almost too pleased to see them, her smile immense. 'Can I fix you some coffee?’

'Not for me, thanks.’

Millie looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shook her head. 'Mind if I make some for myself?’

She went to the arch. 'Steve? Cuppa?’

'Wouldn't say no.’

She came back. 'No, but he might say please, just once.’

There was a cubby-hole at the back of the shop, leading to a toilet cubicle. In the cubbyhole sat a percolator, a packet of ground coffee, and several grim-looking mugs. Millie got to work. While she was occupied, Rebus asked his first question.

'Billy's mum tells us you were good enough to pack up all his stuff.'

'It's still sitting in his room, three bin liners. Not a lot to show for a life, is it?’

'What about his motorbike?’

She smiled. 'That thing. You could hardly call it a bike. A friend of his asked if he could have it. Billy's mum said she didn't mind.’

'You liked Billy?’

'I liked him a lot. He was genuine. You never got bullshit with Billy. If he didn't like you, he'd tell you to your face. I hear his dad's some kind of villain.’

'They didn't know one another.’

She slapped the coffee-maker. 'This thing takes ages. Is that what you want to ask me about, Billy's dad?’

'Just a few general questions. Before he died, did Billy seem worried about anything?’

'I've been asked already, more than once.’

She looked at Clarke. 'You first, and then that big bastard with the voice like something caught in a mousetrap.’

Rebus smiled: it was a fair description of Ken Smylie. 'Billy was just the same as ever, that's all I can say.’

'Did he get along okay with Mr Murdock?’

'What sort of question is that? Christ, you're scraping the barrel if you think Murdock would've done anything to Billy.’

'You know what it's like in mixed flats though, where there's a couple plus one, jealousy can be a problem.’

An electric buzzer announced the arrival of a customer. They could hear Steve talking to someone.

'We've got to ask, Millie,' Clarke said soothingly.

'No you don't. It's just that you like asking!' So much for the good mood. Even Steve and the customer seemed to be listening. The coffee machine started dolloping boiled water into the filter.

'Look,' said Rebus, 'let's calm down, eh? If you like, we can come back. We could come to the flat 'It never ends, does it? What is this? Trying to get a confession out of me?’

She clasped her hands together. 'Yes, I killed him. It was me.’

Slfe held her hands out, wrists prominent. 'I've forgotten my cuff's,' Rebus said, smiling. Millie looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shrugged.

'Great, I can't even get myself arrested.’

She sloshed coffee into a mug. 'And I thought it was the easiest thing in the world.’

'Are we really so bad, Millie?’

She smiled, looked down at her mug. 'I suppose not, sorry about that.’

'You're under a lot of strain,' said Siobhan Clarke, 'we appreciate that. Maybe if we sit down, eh?’

So they sat at Millie's desk, like customers and assistant. Clarke, who liked computers, had actually picked up a couple of brochures.

'That's got a twenty-five megahertz microprocessor,' Millie said, pointing to one of the brochures.

'What size memory?’

'Four meg RAM, I think, but you can select a hard disk up to one-sixty.’

`Does this one have a 486 chip?’

Good girl, thought Rebus. Clarke was calming Millie down, taking her mind off both Billy Cunningham and her recent outburst. Steve brought the customer through to show him a certain screen. He gave the three of them a look full of curiosity.

'Sorry, Steve,' said Millie, 'forgot your coffee.’

Her smile would not have passed a polygraph.

Rebus waited till Steve and the customer had retreated. 'Did Billy ever bring friends back to the flat?’

'I've given you a list.’

Rebus nodded. 'Nobody else you've thought of since?’

'No.’

'Can I try you with a couple of names?. Davey Soutar and Jamesie MacMurray.’

'Last names don't mean much in our flat. Davey and Jamesie… I don't think so.’

Rebus willed her to look at him. She did so then locked away again quickly. You're lying, he thought.

They left the shop ten minutes later. Clarke looked up and down the pavement. 'Want to go see Murdock now?’

'I don't think so. What do you suppose it was she didn't want us to see?’

‘Sorry?’

'You look up, see the police coming towards you, why do you blank your computer screen pronto and then come flying off your seat all bounce and flounce?’

'You think there was something on the computer she didn't want us to see?’

'I thought I just said that,' said Rebus. He got into the Renault's passenger seat and waited for Clarke. 'Jamesie MacMurray knows about The Shield. They killed Billy.’

'So why aren't we pulling him in?’

'We've nothing on him, nothing that would stick. That's not the way to work it.’

She looked at him. 'Too mundane?’

He shook his head. `Like a golf course, too full of holes: We need to get him scared.’

She thought about this. 'Why did they kill Billy?’

'I think he was about to talk, maybe he'd threatened to come to us.’

'Could he be that stupid?’

'Maybe he had insurance, something he thought would save his skin.’

Siobhan Clarke looked at him. 'It didn't work,' she said.

Back at St Leonard's, there was a message for him to call Kilpatrick.

'Some magazine,' Kilpatrick said, 'is about to run with a story about Calumn Smylie's murder, specifically that he was working undercover at the time.’

'How did they get hold of that?’

'Maybe someone talked, maybe they just burrowed deep enohgh. Whatever, a certain local reporter has made no friends for herself.’

'Not Mairle Henderson?’

'That's the name. You know her, don't you?’

'Not particularly,' Rebus lied. He knew Kilpatrick was fishing. If someone in the notoriously tight-upped SCS was blabbing, who better to point the finger at than the new boy? He phoned the news desk while Siobhan fetched them coffee.

'Mairie Henderson, please. What? Since when? Right, thanks.’

He put the phone down. 'She's resigned,' he said, not quite believing it. 'Since last week. She's gone freelance apparently.’

'Good for her,' said Siobhan, handing over a cup. But Rebus wasn't so sure. He called Mairie's home number, but got her answering machine. Its message was succinct: 'I'm busy with an assignment, so I can't promise a quick reply unless you're offering work. If you are offering work, leave your number. You can see how dedicated I am. Here comes the beep.’

Rebus waited for it. 'Mairie, it's John Rebus. Here are three numbers you can get me on.’

He gave her St Leonard's, Fettes, and Patience's flat, not feeling entirely confident about this last, wondering if any message from a woman would reach him with Patience on the intercept.

Then he made an internal call to the station's liaison officer.

'Have you seen Mairie Henderson around?’

'Not for a wee while. The paper seems to have switched her for someone else, a right dozy wee nyafl.’

'Thanks.’

Rebus thought about the last time he'd seen her, in the corridor after Lauderdale's conference. She hadn't mentioned any story, or any plan of going freelance. He made one more call, external this time. It was to DCI Kilpatrick.

'What is it, John?’

'That magazine, sir, the one doing the story about Calumn Smylie, what's it called?’

'It's some London rag…’

There were sounds of papers being shuffled. 'Yes, here it is. Snoop.’

'Snoop?’

Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who nodded, signalling she'd heard of it. 'Right, thank you, sir.’

He put the receiver down before Kilpatrick could ask any questions.

'Want me to phone them and ask?’

Rebus nodded. He saw Brian Holmes come into the room. 'Just the man,' he said. Holmes saw them and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.

'So,' said Rebus, 'what did you get from the builders?’

'Everything but an estimate for repointing my house.’

He took out his notebook. 'Where do you want me to start?’