Mortal Causes

'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.

21

'Caro, thank God.’

Rebus was back in Fettes, at his desk, on the phone, having finally tracked Caroline Rattray to ground.

'You're calling off our drink,' she said coldly.

'I'm sorry, something's cropped up. Work, you know how it is. The hours aren't always social.’

The phone went dead in his hand. He replaced the receiver like it was spun sugar. Then, having requested five minutes of his boss's time, he went to Kilpatrick's office. As ever there was no need to knock; Kilpatrick waved him in through the glass door.

'Take a seat, John.’

'I'll stand, sir, thanks all the same.’

'What's on your mind?’

'When you spoke to the FBI, did they mention a man called Clyde Moncur?’

'I don't think any names were mentioned.’

Kilpatrick wrote the name on his pad. 'Who is he?’

'He's a Seattle businessman, runs his own fish-processing plant. Possibly also a gangster. He's coming to Edinburgh on holiday.’

'Well, we need the tourist dollars.’

'And he may be high up in The Shield.’

'Oh?’

Kilpatrick casually underlined the name. 'What's your source?’

'I'd rather not say.’

'I see.’

Kilpatrick underlined the name one last time. 'I don't like secrets, John.’

'Yes, sir.’

'Well, what do you want to do?’

'Put a tail on him.’

`Ormiston and Blackwood are good.’

`I'd prefer someone else.’

Kilpatrick threw down his pen. 'Why?’

'I just would.’

`You can trust me, John.’

'I know that, sir.’

`Then tell me why you don't want Ormiston and Blackwood on the tail.’

'We don't get on. I get the feeling they might muck things up just to make me look bad.’

Lying was easy with practice, and Rebus had years of practice at lying to superiors.

`That sounds like paranoia to me.’

`Maybe it is.’

'I've got a team here, John. I need to know that they can work as a team.’

`You brought me in, sir. I didn't ask for secondment. Teams always resent the new man, it just hasn't worn off yet.’

Then Rebus played his ace. 'You could always move me back to St Leonard's.’

Not that he wanted this. He liked the freedom he had, flitting between the two stations, neither Chief Inspector knowing where he was.

`Is that what you want?’ Kilpatrick asked.

'It's not down to me, it's what you want that matters.’

'Quite right, and I want you in SCS, at least for the time being.’

'So you'll put someone else on the tail?’

'I take it you've got people in mind?’

`Two more from St Leonard's. DS Holmes and DC Clarke. They work well together, they've done this sort of thing before.’

`No, John, let's keep this to SCS.’

Which was Kilpatrick's way of reasserting his authority. 'I know two good men over in Glasgow, no possible grudge against you. I'll get them over here.’

'Right, sir.’

'Sound all right to you. Inspector?’

`Whatever you think, sir.’

When Rebus left the office, the two typists were discussing famine and Third World debt.

`Ever thought of going into politics, ladies?’

'Myra's a local councillor,' one of them said, nodding to her partner.

'Any chance of getting my drains cleared?’

Rebus asked Myra.

`Join the queue,' Myra said with a laugh.

Back at his desk Rebus phoned Brian Holmes to ask him a favour, then he went to the toilets down the hall. The toilet was one of those design miracles, like Dr Who's time machine. Somehow two urinals, a toilet cubicle, and wash hand basin had been squeezed into a space smaller than their total cubic volume.

So Rebus wasn't thrilled when Ken Smylie joined him. Smylie was supposed to be taking time off work, only he insisted on coming in.

`How are you doing, Ken?’

`I'm all right.’

'Good.’

Rebus turned from his urinal and headed for the sink.

`You seem to be working hard,' Smylie said.

'Do I?’

'You're never here, I assume you're working.’

`Oh, I'm working.’ Rebus shook water from his hands.

`Only I never see any notes.’

`Notes?’

`You never write down your case notes.’

'Is that right?’

Rebus dried his hands on the cotton roller towel. This was his lucky day: a fresh roll had just been fitted. He still had his back to Smylie. 'Well, I like to keep my notes in my head.’

'That's not procedure.’

'Tough.’