Ian Rankin - Mortal Causes

Mortal Causes

An Inspector Rebus Novel

Ian Rankin

An Orion paperback
First published in Great Britain by Orion in 1994
This paperback edition published in 1995 by Orion Books Ltd,
Orion House. 5 Upper St Martins Lane. London WC2H 9EA

Reissued 1997 Copyright 1994 Ian Rankin

The right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright. Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 1 85797 863 3

Typeset by Selwood Systems, Midsomer Norton

Printed and bound in Great Britain by, Clays Ltd. St Ives plc

Born in the Kingdom of Fife in 1960. Ian Rankin graduated from the University of Edinburgh and has since been employed as grape-picker, swineherd, taxman, alcohol researcher, hi-fi journalist and punk musician. His first Rebus novel, Knots & Crosses, was published in 1987 and the Rebus books are now translated into several languages as well as being increasingly popular in the USA. Ian Rankin has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and is also a past winner of the prestigious Chandler-Fulbright Award, as well as two CWA Daggers. He lives in Edinburgh and is married with two sons.

Acknowledgements

A lot of people helped me with this book. Id like to thank the people of Northern Ireland for their generosity and their crack. Particular thanks need to go to a few people who cant be named or wouldnt thank me for naming them. You know who you are.

Thanks also to: Colin and Liz Stevenson, for trying, Gerald Hammond, for his gun expertise; the Officers of the City of Edinburgh Police and Lothian and Borders Police, who never seem to mind me telling stories about them; David and Pauline, for help at the Festival.

The best book on the subject of Protestant paramilitaries is Professor Steve Bruces The Red Hand (OUP, 1992). One quote from the book: There is no Northern Ireland problem for which there is a solution. There is only a conflict in which there must be winners and losers.

The action of Mortal Causes takes place in a fictiionallsed summer, 1993, before the Shankill Road bombing and its bloody aftermath.

Perhaps Edinburghs terrible inability to speak out, Edinburghs silence with regard to all it should be saying, Is but the hush that precedes the thunder, The liberating detonation so oppressively imminent now?

Hugh MacDiarmid

Were all gonna be just dirt in the ground.

Tom Waits

Contents

Introduction

He could scream all he liked.

They were underground, a place he didnt know, a cool ancient place but lit by electricity. And he was being punished. The blood dripped off him onto the earth floor. He could hear sounds like distant voices, something beyond the breathing of the men who stood around him. Ghosts, he thought. Shrieks and laughter, the sounds of a good night out. He must be mistaken: he was having a very bad night in.

His bare toes just touched the ground. His shoes had came off as theyd scraped him down the flights of steps. His socks had followed sometime after. He was in agony, but agony could be cured. Agony wasnt eternal. He wondered if he would walk again. He remembered the barrel of the gun touching the back of his knee, sending waves of energy up and down his leg.

His eyes were closed. If he opened them he knew he would see flecks of his own blood against the whitewashed wall, the wall which seemed to arch towards him. His toes were still moving against the ground, dabbling in warm blood. Wherever he tried to steak, he could feel his face cracking: dried salt tears and sweat.

It was strange, the shape your life could take. You might be loved as a child but still go bad. You might have monsters for parents but grow up pure. His life had been neither one nor the other. Or rather, it had been both, for hed been cherished and abandoned in equal measure. He was six, and shaking hands with a large man. There should have been more affection between them, but somehow there wasnt. He was ten, and his mother was looking tired, bowed down, as she leaned over the sink washing dishes. Not knowing he was in the doorway, she paused to rest her hands on the rim of the sink. He was thirteen, and being initiated into his first gang. They took a pack of cards and skinned his knuckles with the edge of the pack. They took it in turns, all eleven of them. It hurt until he belonged.

Now there was a shuffling sound. And the gun barrel was touching the back of his neck, sending out more waves. How could something be so cold? He took a deep breath, feeling the effort in his shoulder-blades. There couldnt be more pain than he already felt. Heavy breathing close to his ear, and then the words again.

Nemo me impune lacessit.

He opened his eyes to the ghosts. They were in a smoke filled tavern, seated around a long rectangular table, their goblets of wine and ale held high. A young woman was slouching from the lap of a one-legged man. The goblets had stems but no bases: you couldnt put them back on the table until theyd been emptied. A toast was being raised. Those in fine dress rubbed shoulders with beggars. There were no divisions, not in the taverns gloom. Then they looked towards him, and he tried to smile.

He felt but did not hear the final explosion.

Probably the worst Saturday night of the year: which was why Inspector John Rebus had landed the shift. God was in his heaven, just making sure. There had been a derby match in the afternoon, Hibs versus Hearts at Easter Road. Fans making their way back to the west end and beyond had stopped in the city centre to drink to excess and take in some of the sights and sounds of the Festival.

The Edinburgh Festival was the bane of Rebuss life. Hed spent years confronting it, trying to avoid it, cursing it, being caught up in it. There were those who said that it was somehow atypical of Edinburgh, a city which for most of the year seemed sleepy, moderate, bridled. But that was nonsense; Edinburghs history was full of licence and riotous behaviour. But the Festival, especially the Festival Fringe, was different. Tourism was its lifeblood, and where there were tourists there was trouble. Pickpockets and housebreakers came to town as to a convention, while those football supporters who normally steered clear of the city centre suddenly became its passionate defenders, challenging the foreign invaders who could be found at tables outside short-lease cafes up and down the High Street.

Tonight the two might clash in a big way.

Its hell out there, one constable had already commented as he paused for rest in the canteen. Rebus believed him all too readily. The cells were filling nicely along with the CID in-trays. A woman had pushed her drunken husbands fingers into the kitchen mincer. Someone was applying superglue to cashpoint machines then chiselling the flap open later to get at the money. Several bags had been snatched around Princes Street. And the Can Gang were on the go again.

The Can Gang had a simple recipe. They stood at bus stops and offered a drink from their can. They were imposing figures, and the victim would take the proffered drink, not knowing that the beer or cola contained crushed up Mogadon tablets, or similar fast-acting tranquillisers. When the victim passed out, the gang would strip them of cash and valuables. You woke up with a gummy head, or in one severe case with your stomach pumped dry. And you woke up poor.