Mortal Causes

Father Conor Leary was between fifty-five and seventy and had told Rebus that he couldn't remember which he was nearer. He was a bulky barrelling figure with thick silver hair which sprouted not only from his head but also from ears, nose and the back of his neck. In civvies, Rebus guessed he would pass for a retired dockworker or skilled labourer of some kind who had also been handy as a boxer, and Father Leary had photos and trophies to prove that this last was incontrovertible truth. He often jabbed the air to make a point, finishing with an uppercut to show that there could be no comeback. In conversation between the two men, Rebus had often wished for a referee.

But today Father Leary sat comfortably and sedately enough in the deckchair in his garden. It was a beautiful early evening, warm and clear with the trace of a cool seaborne breeze.

`A great day to go hot-air ballooning,' said Father Leary, taking a swig from his glass of Guinness. `Or bungee jumping. I believe they've set up something of the sort on The Meadows, just for the duration of the Festival. Man, I'd like to try that.’

Rebus blinked but said nothing. His Guinness was cold enough to double as dental anaesthetic. He shifted in his own deckchair, which was by far the older of the two. Before sitting, he'd noticed how threadbare the canvas washow how it had been rubbed away where It met the horizontal wooden spars. He hoped it would hold.

`Do you like my garden?’

Rebus looked at the bright blooms, the trim grass. `I don't know much about gardens,' he admitted.

'Me neither. It's not a sin. But there's an old chap I know who does know about them, and he looks after this one for a few bob.’

He raised his glass towards his lips. `So how are you keeping?’

'I'm fine.’

`And Dr Aitken?’

`She's fine.’

`And the two of you are still…?’

'Just about.’

Father Leary nodded. Rebus's tone was warning him off. `Another bomb threat, eh? I heard on the radio.’

`It could be a crank.’

'But you're not sure?’

'The IRA usually use codewords, just so we know they're serious.’

Father Leary nodded to himself. 'And a murder too?’

Rebus gulped his drink. `I was there.’

'They don't even stop for the Festival, do they? Whatever must the tourists think?’

Father Leary's eyes were sparkling.

`It's about time the tourists learned the truth,' Rebus said, a bit too quickly. He sighed. `It was pretty gruesome.’

'I'm sorry to hear that. I shouldn't have been so flippant.’

`That's all right. It's a defence.’

`You're right, it is.’

Rebus knew this. It was the reason behind his many little jokes with Dr Curt. It was their way of avoiding the obvious, the undeniable. Even so, since last night Rebus had held in his mind the picture of that sad strung up figure, a young man they hadn't even identified yet. The picture would stay there forever. Everybody had a photographic memory for horror. He'd climbed back out of Mary King's Close to find the High Street aglow with a firework display, the streets thronged with people staring up openmouthed at the blues and greens in the night sky. The fireworks were coming from the Castle; the night's Tattoo display was ending. He hadn't felt much like talking to Mairie Henderson. In fact, he had snubbed her.

`This isn't very nice,' she'd said, standing her ground.

`This is very nice,' Father Leary said now, relaxing back further into his seat.

The whisky Rebus had drunk hadn't rubbed out the picture. If anything, it had smeared the corners and edges, which only served to highlight the central fact. More whisky would have made this image sharper still.

`We're not here for very long, are we?’ he said now.

Father Leary frowned. 'You mean here on earth?’

`That's what I mean. We're not around long enough to make any difference.’

`Tell that to the man with a bomb in his pocket. Every one of us makes a difference just by being here.’

'I'm not talking about the man with the bomb, I'm talking about stopping him.’

`You're talking about being a policeman.’

'Ach, maybe I'm not talking about anything.’

Father Leary allowed a short-lived smile, his eyes never leaving Rebus's. 'A bit morbid for a Sunday, John?’

'Isn't that what Sundays are for?’

`Maybe for you sons of Calvin. You tell yourselves you're doomed, then spend all week trying to make a joke of it. Others of us give thanks for this day and its meaning.’

Rebus shifted in his chair. Lately, he didn't enjoy Father Leary's conversations so much. There was something proselytising about them. `So when do we get down to business?’ he said.

Father Leary smiled. `The Protestant work ethic.’

`You haven't brought me here to convert me.’

'We wouldn't want a dour bugger like you. Besides, I’d more easily convert a fifty-yard penalty in a Murrayfield crosswind.’

He took a swipe at the air. 'Ach, it's not really your problem. Maybe it isn't a problem at all.’

He ran a finger down the crease in his trouser-leg.

`You can still tell me about it.’

`A reversal of roles, eh? Well, I suppose that's what I had in mind all along.’