Mortal Causes

At the top, Calton Hill was crowded with people sitting on the grass, all eyes turned towards the Castle. The view would have been breathtaking, had Rebus had any breath to spare. The music was being piped up here too. Smoke drifted south across the city, followed by more tinsel colour and rockets. It was like being the onlooker at a medieval siege. A lot of people were drunk. Some were stoned. It wasn't gunpowder you could smell up here.

Rebus had a good look around. He'd lost Davey Soutar. There was no street lighting here, and crowds of people, mostly young and dressed in denim. Easy to lose someone.

Too damned easy.

Soutar could be heading down the other side of the hill, or snaking back down the roadway to Waterloo Place. Or he could be hiding amongst people who looked just like him. Except that the night air was chill. Rebus could feel it turning his sweat cold. And Soutar was only wearing a denim jacket.

As a huge firework burst over the Castle, and everyone stared up at the sky and gasped and cheered, Rebus looked for the one person who wasn't watching. The one person with his head down. The one person shivering like he'd never get warm again. He was sitting on the grass verge, next to a couple of girls who were drinking from cans and;waving what looked like luminous rubber tubes. The girls had moved away from him a little, so that he looked the way he was: all alone in the world. Behind him on the grass was a gang of bikers, all muscle and gut. They were shouting and swearing, proclaiming hate of the English and all things foreign.

Rebus walked up to Davey Soutar, and Davey Soutar looked up.

And it wasn't him.

This kid was a couple of years younger, strung out on something, his eyes unable to focus.

'Hey,' one of the bikers yelled, 'you trying to pick up my pal?’

Rebus held up his hands. 'My mistake,' he said.

He turned around fast. Davey Soutar was behind him. He'd slipped off his jacket and had wound it around his right arm, all the way down to the wrist and the hand. Rebus knew what was in the hand, disguised now by the grubby denim.

'Okay, pigmeat, let's walk.’

Rebus knew he had to get Soutar away from the crowd. There were probably five bullets still in the revolver. Rebus didn't want any more bodies, not if he could help it.

They walked to the car park. There was a hot-food van doing good business, and a few cars, their drivers and passengers biting into burgers. It was darker here, and quieter. There wasn't much action here.

'Davey,' Rebus said, coming to a stop.

'This as far as you want to go?’ Soutar said. He'd turned to face Rebus.

'No point me answering that, Davey, you're in charge now.’

'I've been in charge all along!' Rebus nodded. 'That's right, skimming without your bosses knowing about it. Planning all this.’ He nodded towards the fireworks. 'Could have been quite something.’

Soutar soured his face. 'You couldn't let it go, could you? Kilpatrick knew you were trouble.’

'You didn't have to stab him.’

A car was making its way. slowly up to the car park from Regent Road. Soutar had his back to it, but Rebus could see it. It was a marked police car, its headlights off.

'He tried to stop me,' Soutar sneered. 'No guts.’

If the music was anything to go by, the fireworks were coming to their climax. Rebus fixed his eyes on Soutar, watching the face turn from gold to green to blue.

'Put the gun away, Davey. It's finished.’

'Not till I say so.’

'Look, enough! Just put it down.’

The police car was at the top of the rise now. Davey Soutar unwound the jacket from his arm and threw it to the ground. A girl at the hot-food van started to scream. Behind Soutar, the police driver switched his headlamps on fullbeam, lighting Soutar and Rebus like they were on stage. The passenger door was open, someone leaning out of it. Rebus recognised Abernethy. Soutar pivoted, aiming the gun. It was all the incentive Abernethy needed. The report from his gun was as loud as anything from the Castle. Meantime, the crowd was applauding again, unaware of the drama behind them.

Soutar was knocked backwards, taking Rebus with him. They fell in a heap, Rebus feeling the young man's damp hair brushing his face, his lips. He swore impressively as he pulled himself out from under the suddenly prone, suddenly still figure. Abernethy was pulling the revolver from Soutar's hand, his foot heavy on the youth's wrist.

'No need for that,' Rebus hissed. 'He's dead.’

'Looks like,' said Abernethy, putting away his own gun. 'So here's my story: I saw a flash, heard a bang, and assumed he'd fired. Sound reasonable?’

'Are you authorised to carry that cannon?’

'What do you think?’

'I think you're…’

'As bad as him?’

Abernethy raised an eyebrow. 'I don't think so. And hey, don't mention it.’

'What?’

'Saving your fucking life. After that stunt you pulled, leaving me in the Gar-B.’ He paused. 'You've got blood on you.’

Rebus looked. There was plenty of blood. 'There goes another shirt.’

`Trust a Jock to make a comment like that.’