Mortal Causes

20

They had breakfast together, talking around things, their conversation that of acquaintances rather then lovers. Neither spoke his or her thoughts. We Scots, Rebus thought, we're not very good at going public. We store up our true feelings like fuel for long winter nights of whisky and recrimination. So little of us ever reaches the surface, it's a wonder we exist at all.

'Another cup?’

'Please, Patience.’

'You'll be here tonight,' she said. 'You won't be working.’

It was neither question nor order, not explicitly.

So he tried phoning Caro from Fettes, but now she was the one having messages left for her: one on her answering machine at home, one with a colleague at her office. He couldn't just say, 'I'm not coming', not even to a piece of recording tape. So he'd just asked her to get in touch. Caro Rattray, elegant, apparently available, and mad about him. There was something of the mad in her, something vertiginous. You spent time with her and you were standing on a cliff edge. And where was Caro? She was standing right behind you.

When his phone rang, he leapt for it.

'Inspector Rebus?’

The voice was male, familiar.

‘Speaking.’

'It's Lachlan Murdock.’

Lachlan: no wonder he used his last name.

'What can I do for you, Mr Murdock?’

'You saw Millie recently, didn't you?’

'Yes, why?’

`She's gone.’

`Gone where?’

'I don't know. What the hell did you say to her?’

'Are you at your flat?’

`Yes.’

'I'm coming over.’

He went alone, knowing he should take some back-up, but loath to approach anyone. Out of the four – Ormiston, Blackwood, `Bloody' Claverhouse, Smylie – Smylie would still be his choice, but Smylie was as predictable as the Edinburgh weather, even now turning overcast. The pavements were still Festival busy, but not for much longer, and as recompense September would be quiet. It was the city's secret month, a retreat from public into private.

As if to reassure him, the cloud swept away again and the sun appeared. He wound down his window, until the bus fumes made him roll it back up again. The back of the bus advertised the local newspaper, which led him to thoughts of Mairie Henderson. He needed to find her, and it wasn't often a policeman thought that about a reporter.

He parked the car as close to Murdock's tenement as he could find a space, pressed the intercom button beside the main door, and got the answering buzz which unlocked the door.

Your feet made the same sound on every tenement stairwell, like sandpaper on a church floor. Murdock had opened the door to his flat. Rebus walked in, Lachlan Murdock did not look in good fettle. His hair was sprouting in clumps from his head, and he pulled on his beard like it was a fake he'd glued on too well. They were in the living room. Rebus sat down in front of the TV. It was where Millie had been sitting the first time he'd visited. The ashtray was still there, but the sleeping bag had gone.,And so had Millie.

`I haven't seen her since yesterday.’

Murdock was standing, and showed no sign of sitting down. He walked to the window, looked out, came back to the fireplace. -His eyes were everywhere that wasn't Rebus.

`Morning or evening?’

`Morning. I got back last night and she'd packed and left.’

`Packed?’

'Not everything, just a holdall. I thought maybe she'd gone to see a pal, she does that sometimes.’

'Not this time?’

Murdock shook his head. 'I phoned Steve at her work this morning; and he said the police had been to see her yesterday, a young woman and an older man. I thought of you. Steve said she was in a terrible state afterwards, she'd to come home early. What did you say to her?’

`Just a few questions about Billy.’

'Billy.’

The dismissive shake of the head told Rebus something.

`She got on better with Billy than you did, Mr Murdock?’

'I didn't dislike the guy.’

`Was there anything between the two of them?’

But Murdock wasn't about to answer that. He paced the room again, flapping his arms as though attempting flight. `She hasn't been the same since he died.’

'It was upsetting for her.’

`Yes, it was. But to run off…’

'Can I see her room?’

`What?’

Rebus smiled. 'It's what we usually do when someone goes missing.’

Murdock shook his head again. `She wouldn't want that. What if she comes back, and sees someone's been through her- stuff? No, I can't let you do that.’

Murdock looked ready for physical resistance if necessary.

'I can't force you,' Rebus said calmly. 'Tell me a bit more about Billy.’

This quietened Murdock. 'Like what?’

'Did he like computers?’

'Billy? He liked video games, so long as they were violent. I don't know, I suppose he was interested in computers.’

'He could work one?’

'Just about. What are you getting at?’

'Just interested. Three people sharing a flat, two of them work with computers, the third doesn't.’

Murdock nodded. 'You're wondering what we had in common. Look around the city, Inspector, you'll see flats full of people who're only there because they need a room or the rent money. In an ideal world, I wouldn't have needed someone in the spare room at all.’

Rebus nodded. 'So what should we do about Miss Docherty?’

'What?’

'You called me, I came, where do we go from here?’

Murdock shrugged. 'Normally we'd wait another day or so before listing her missing.’

He paused. 'Unless there's reason to suspect foul play.’

Murdock seemed lost in thought, then recovered. 'Let's wait another day then.’

He started nodding. 'Maybe I'm overreacting. I just… when Steve told me…’

'I'm sure it wasn't anything I said to her,,' Rebus lied, getting to his feet. 'Can I have another look at Billy's room while I'm here?’

'It's been gutted.’

'Just to refresh my memory.’

Murdock said nothing. 'Thanks,' said Rebus.

The small room had indeed been gutted, the bed stripped of duvet and sheet and pillowcase, though the pillow still lay there. It was stained brown, leaking feathers. The bare mattress was pale blue with similar brown patches. There seemed a little more space in the room, but not much. Still, Rebus doubted Murdock would have any trouble finding a new tenant, not with the student season approaching.

He opened the wardrobe to a clanging of empty wire hangers. There was a fresh sheet of newspaper on the floor. He closed the wardrobe door. Between the corner of the bed and the wardrobe there was a clear patch of carpet. It lay hard up against the skirting-board beneath the still unwashed window. Rebus crouched down and tugged at the carpet's edge. It wasn't tacked, and lifted an inch or so. He ran his fingers underneath it, finding nothing. Still crouched, he lifted the mattress, but saw only bedsprings and the carpet beneath, thick balls of dust and hair marking the furthest reach of the hoover.

He stood up, glancing at the bare walls. There were small rips in the wallpaper where Blu-Tak had been removed. He looked more closely at one small pattern of these. The wallpaper had come away in two longer strips. Wasn't this where the pennant had hung? Yes, you could see the hole made by the drawing-pin. The pennant had hung from a maroon cord which had been pinned to the wall. Meaning the pennant had been hiding these marks. They didn't look so old. The lining paper beneath was clean and fresh, as though the Sellotape had been peeled off recently.

Rebus put his fingers to the two stripes. They were about three inches apart and three inches long. Whatever had been taped there, it had been square and thin. Rebus knew exactly what would fit that description.

Out in the hall, Murdock was waiting to leave.

`Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,' Rebus said.

The Canton sounded like another old ladies' tea-room, but in fact was a transport cafe with famed large helpings. When Mairie Henderson finally got back to Rebus, he suggested taking her to lunch there. It was on the shore at Newhaven, facing the Firth of Forth just about where that broad inlet became inseparable from the North Sea.

Lorries bypassing Edinburgh or heading to Leith from the north would usually pause for a break outside the Carlton. You saw them in a line by the sea wall, between Starbank Road and Pier Place. The drivers thought the Carlton well worth a detour, even if other road users and the police didn't always appreciate their sentiments.

Inside, the Carlton was a clean well-lit place and as hot as a truck engine. For air conditioning, they kept the front door wedged open. You never ate alone, which was why Rebus phoned in advance and booked a table for two.

`The one between the counter and the toilets,' he specified.

'Did I hear you right? Book a table?’

'You heard me.’

'Nobody's booked a table all the years we've been open.’

The chef held the phone away from his face. `Hiy, Maggie, there's somebody here wants tae book a table.’

`Cut the shite, Sammy, it's John Rebus speaking.’

`Special occasion is it, Mr Rebus? Anniversary? I'll bake yis a cake.’

'Twelve o'clock,' said Rebus, 'and make sure it's the table I asked for, okay?’

'Yes, sir.’

So when Rebus walked into the Carlton, and Sammy saw him, Sammy whipped a dishtowel off the stove and came sauntering between the tables, the towel over his arm.

'Your table is ready, sir, if you'll follow me.’

The drivers were grinning, a few of them offering encouragement. Maggie stood there holding a pillar of empty white plates, and attempted a curtsy as Rebus went past. The small Formica-topped table was laid for two, with a bit of card folded in half and the word RESERVED written in blue biro. There was a clean sauce bottle, into the neck of which someone had pushed a plastic carnation. He saw Mairie look through the cafe window, then come in through the door. The drivers looked up.

'Room here, sweetheart.’

`Hiy, hen, sit on my lap, no' his.’

They grinned through the smoke, cigarettes never leaving their mouths. One of them ate camel-style, lower jaw moving in sideways rotation while his upper jaw chewed down. He reminded Rebus so strongly of Ormiston, he had to look away. Instead he looked at Mairie. Why not, everyone else was. They were staring without shame at her bum as she moved between the tables. True to form, Maine had worn her shortest skirt. At least, Rebus hoped it was her shortest. And it was tight, one of those black Lycra numbers. She wore it with a baggy white t-shirt and thick black tights whose vertical seams showed pinpricks of white leg flesh. She'd pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, and swung her shoulder-bag onto the floor as she took her seat.

'I see we're in the members' enclosure.’

`It took money but I thought it was worth it.’

Rebus studied her while she studied the wall-board which constituted the Carlton's menu.

'You look good,' he lied. Actually, she looked exhausted.

`Thanks. I wish I could say the same.’

Rebus winced. 'I looked as good as you at your age.’

`Even in a mini-skirt?’

She leaned down to lift a pack of cigarettes from her bag, giving Rebus a view of her lace edged bra down the front of her t-shirt. When she came up again he was frowning.

`Okay, I won't smoke.’

`It stunts your growth. And speaking of health warnings, what about that story of yours?’

But Maggie came over, so they went through the intricacies of ordering. 'We're out of Moet Shandy,' Maggie said.

'What was that about?’

Mairie asked after Maggie had gone.

`Nothing,' he said. `You were about to tell me…?’

`Was I?’

She smiled. `How much do you know?’

'I know you've been working on a story, a chunk of which you've sold to Snoop but the bulk of which is destined for some US magazine.’

'Well, you know quite a lot then.’

'You took the story to your own paper first?’

She sighed. 'Of course I did, but they wouldn't print it. The company lawyers thought it was close to libel.’

'Who were you libelling?’

'Organisations rather than individuals. I had a blow-up with my editor about it, and handed in my resignation. His line was that the lawyers were paid to be over-cautious.’

'I bet their fees aren't over-cautious.’

Which reminded him: Caro Rattray. He still had to contact her.

'I was planning on going freelance anyway, just not quite so soon. But at least I'm starting with a strong story. A few months back I got a letter from a New York journalist. His name's Jump Cantona.’

'Sounds like a car.’

'Yes, a four-by-four, that's just what I thought. Anyway, Jump's a well known writer over there, investigations with a capital I. But then of course it's easier in the US.’

'How's that?’

'You can go further before someone starts issuing writs. Plus you've got more freedom of information. Jump needed someone this end, following up a few leads. His name comes first in the main article, but any spin-offs I write, I get sole billing.’

'So what have you found?’

'A can of worms.’

Maggie was coming with their food. She heard Mairie's closing words and gave her a cold look as she placed the fry-up in front of her. For Rebus, there was a half-portion of lasagne and a green salad.

'How did Cantona find you?’

Rebus asked.

'Someone I met when I was on a journalism course in New York. This guy knew Cantona was looking for someone who could do some digging in Scotland. I was the obvious choice.’

She attacked four chips with her fork. Chewing, she reached for the salt, vinegar, and tomato sauce. After momentary consideration, she poured some brown sauce on as well.

'I knew you'd do that,' Rebus said. 'And it still disgusts me.’

'You should see me with mustard and mayonnaise. I hear you got moved to SCS.’

'It's true.’

'Why?’

'If I didn't know better, I'd say they were keeping an eye on me.’

'Only, they were there at Mary King's Close, a murder that looks like an execution. Then next thing you're off to SCS, and I know SCS are investigating gun-running with an Irish slant.’

Maggie arrived with two cans of Irn-Bru. Mairie checked hers was cold enough before opening it. 'Are we working on the same story?’

'The police don't have stories, Mairie, we have cases. And it's hard to answer your question without seeing your story.’

She slipped a hand into her shoulder-bag and pulled out several sheets of neatly typed paper. The document had been stapled and folded in half. Rebus could see it was a photocopy.

'Not very long,' he said.

'You can read it while I eat.’

He did. But all it did was put a lot of speculative meat on the bones he already had. Mostly it concentrated on the North American angle, mentioning the IRA fundraising in passing, though the Orange Loyal Brigade was mentioned, as was Sword and Shield.

'No names,' Rebus, commented.

'I can give you a few, off the record.’

'Gavin and Jamesie MacMurray?’

'You're stealing my best lines. Do you have anything on them?’

'What do you think we'll find – a garden shed full of grenade launchers?’

'That could be pretty close.’

'Tell me.’

She took a deep breath. 'We can't put anything in print yet, but we think there's an Army connection.’

'You mean stuff from the Falklands and the Gulf? Souvenirs?’

'There's too much of it for it to be souvenirs.’

'What then? The stuff from Russia?’

'Much closer to home. You know stuff walks out of Army bases in Northern Ireland?’

'I've heard of it happening.’

'Same thing happend in the '70s in Scotland, the Tartan Army got stuff from Amy bases. We think it's happening again. At least, Jump thinks it is. He's spoken to someone who used to be in American Shield, sending money over here. It's easier to send money here than arms shipments. This guy told jump the money was buying British armaments. See, the IRA has good links with the East and Libya, but the loyalist paramilitaries don't.’

'You're telling me they're buying guns from the Army?’

Rebus laughed and shook his head. Maine managed a small smile.

`There's another thing. I know there's nothing to back this up. Jump knows it too. It's just one man's word, and that man isn't even willing to go public. He's afraid American Shield would get to him. Anyway, who'd believe him: he's being paid to tell jump this stuff: He could be making it all up. Journalists like a juicy conspiracy, we lap them up like cream.’

'What are you talking about, Mairie?’

'A policeman, a detective, someone high up in The Shield.’

'In America?’

She shook her head. 'At the UK end, no name or anything. Like I say, just a story.’

'Aye, just a story. How did you find out we had a man undercover?’

'That was strange. It was a phone call.’

'Anonymous of course?’

'Of course. But who could have known?’

'Another policeman, obviously.’

Mairie pushed her plate away. 'I can't eat all these chips.’

'They should put up a plaque above the table.’

Rebus needed a drink, and there was a good pub only a short walk away. Mairie went with him, though she complained she didn't have room for a drink. Still, when they got there she found space for a white wine and soda. Rebus had a half-pint and a nip. They sat by the window, with a view out over the Forth. The water was battleship grey, reflecting the sky overhead. Rebus had never seen the Forth look other than forbidding.

'What did you say?’ He'd missed it completely.

'I said, I forgot to say.’

'Yes, but the bit after that?’

'A man called Moncur, Clyde Moncur.’

'What about him?’

'Jump has him pegged as one of The Shield's hierarchy in the US. He's also a big-time villain, only it's never been proven in a court of law.’

'And?’

'And he flies into Heathrow tomorrow.’

'To do what?’

'We don't know.’

'So why aren't you down in London waiting for him?’

'Because he's booked on a connecting flight to Edinburgh.’

Rebus narrowed his eyes. 'You weren't going to tell me.’

'No, I wasn't.’

'What changed your mind?’

She gnawed her bottom lip. 'It may be I'll need a friend sometime soon.’

'You're going to confront him?’

'Yes… I suppose so.’

'Jesus, Mairie.’

'It's what journalists do.’

'Do you know anything about him? I mean anything?’

'I know he's supposed to run drugs into Canada, brings illegal immigrants in from the Far East, a real Renaissance man. But on the surface, all he is own a fish-processing plant in Seattle.’

Rebus was shaking his head. 'What's wrong?’

'I don't know,' he said. 'I suppose I just feel… gutted.’

It took her a moment to get the joke.