Ian Rankin - Mortal Causes

'So what's gone wrong?’

Father Leary loosened his shoulders. 'It just wasn't quite right. I thought there'd be sports, maybe a football team or something. We bought the strips and applied to join a local league. But the lads weren't interested. All they wanted to do was hang around the hall itself. And the balance isn't there either, the Catholics have stopped joining. Most of them have even stopped attending.’

He looked at Rebus. 'That's not just sour grapes, you understand.’

Rebus nodded. 'The Prod gangs have annnexed it?’

'I'm not saying that exactly.’

Sounds like it to me. And your… outreach worker?’

`His name's Peter Cave. Oh, he's still there. Too often for my liking.’

'I still don't see the problem.’

Actually he could, but he wanted it spelling out.

`John, I've talked to people on the estate, and all over Pilmuir. The gangs are as bad as ever, only now they seem to be working together, divvying the place up between them. All that's happened is that they've become more organised. They have meetings in the club and carve up the surrounding territory.’

`It keeps them off the street.’

Father Leery didn't smile. 'So close the youth club.’

'That's not so easy. It would look bad for a start. And would it solve anything?’

`Have you talked with Mr. Cave?’

`He doesn't listen. He's changed. That's what troubles me most of all.’

'You could kick him out.’

Father Leery shook his head. `He's lay, John. I can't order him to do anything. We've cut the club's funding, but the money to keep it going comes from somewhere nevertheless.’

`Where from?’

'I don't know.’

'How much?’

`It doesn't take much.’

'So what do you want me to do?’

The question Rebus had been trying not to ask.

Father Leery gave his weary smile again. 'To be honest, I don't know. Perhaps I just needed to tell someone.’

'Don't give me that. You want me to go out there.’

'Not if you don't want to.’

It was Rebus's turn to smile. `I've been in safer places.’

'And a few worse ones, too.’

'I haven't told you about half of them, Father.’

Rebus finished his drink.

`Another?’

He shook his head. 'It's nice and quiet here, isn't it?’

Father Leary nodded. 'That's the beauty of Edinburgh, you're never far from a peaceful spot.’

'And never far from a hellish one either. Thanks for the drink, Father.’

Rebus got up.

`I see your team won yesterday.’

'What makes you think I support Hearts?’

'They're Prods, aren't they? And you're a Protestant yourself.’

'Away to hell, Father,' said John Rebus, laughing.

Father Leery pulled himself to his feet. He straightened his back with a grimace. He was acting purposely aged. Just an old man. 'About the Gar-B, John,' he said, opening his arms wide, `I'm in your hands.’

Like nails, thought Rebus, like carpentry nails.

Monday morning saw Rebus back at work and in the Chief Super's office. `Farmer' Watson was pouring coffee for himself and Chief Inspector Frank Lauderdale, Rebus having refused. He was strictly decaf these days, and the Farmer didn't know the meaning of the word.

'A busy Saturday night,' said the Farmer, handing Lauderdale a grubby mug. As inconspicuously as he could, Lauderdale started rubbing marks off the rim with the ball of his thumb. 'Feeling better, by the way, John?’

'Scads better, sir, thank you,' said Rebus, not even close to blushing.

'A grim business under the City Chambers.’

'Yes, sir.’

`So what do we have?’

It was Lauderdale's turn to speak. `Victim was shot seven times with what looks like a nine-millimetre revolver. Ballistics will have a full report for us by day's end. Dr Curt tells us that the head wound actually killed the victim, and it was the last bullet delivered. They wanted him to suffer.’

Lauderdale sipped from the cleaned rim of his mug. A Murder Room had been set up along the hall, and he was in charge. Consequently, he was wearing his best suit. There would be press briefings, maybe a TV appearance or two. Lauderdale looked ready. Rebus would gladly have tipped the mug of coffee down the mauve shirt and paisley pattern tie.

'Your thoughts, John,' said Farmer Watson. `Someone mentioned the words "six-pack".’

`Yes, sir. It's a punishment routine in Northern Ireland, usually carried out by the IRA.’

`I've heard of kneecappings.’

Rebus nodded. 'For minor offences, there's a bullet in each elbow or ankle. For more serious crimes, there's a kneecapping on top. And finally there's the six-pack: both elbows, both knees, both ankles.’

'You know a lot about it.’

`I was in the army, sir. I still take an interest.’

`You were in Ulster?’

Rebus nodded slowly. `In the early days.’

Chief Inspector Lauderdale placed his mug carefully on the desktop. `But they normally wouldn't then kill the person?’

'Not normally.’

The three men sat in silence-for a moment. The Farmer broke the spell. 'An IRA punishment gang? Here?’

Rebus shrugged. `A copycat maybe. Gangs aping what they've seen in the papers or on TV.’

`But using serious guns.’

`Very serious,' said Lauderdale. `Could be a tie-in with these bomb threats.’

The Farmer nodded. `That's the line the media are taking. Maybe our would-be bomber had gone rogue, and they caught up with him.’

`There's something else, sir,' said Rebus. He'd phoned Dr Curt first thing, just to check. 'They did the knees from behind. Maximum damage. You sever the arteries before smashing kneecaps.’

'What's your point?’

'Two points, sir. One, they knew exactly what they were doing. Two, why bother when you're going to kill him anyway? Maybe whoever did it changed his mind at the last minute. Maybe the victim was meant to live. The probable handgun was a revolver. Six shots. Whoever did it must have stopped to reload before putting that final bullet in the head.’

Eyes were avoided as the three men considered this, putting themselves in the victim's place. You've been sixpacked. You think it's over. Then you hear the gun being reloaded…

'Sweet Jesus,' said the Farmer.

'There are too many guns around,' Lauderdale said matter-of-factly. It was true: over the past few years there had been a steady increase in the number of firearms on the street.

`Why Mary King's Close?’ asked the Farmer.

`You're not likely to be disturbed there,' Rebus guessed. `Plus it's virtually soundproof.’

`You could say the same about a lot of places, most of them a long way from the High Street in the middle of the Festival. They were taking a big risk. Why bother?’

Rebus had wondered the same thing. He had no answer to offer.

`And Nemo or Memo?’

It was Lauderdale's turn, another respite from the coffee. 'I've got men on it, sir, checking libraries and phone directories, digging up meanings.’

`You've talked to the teenagers?’

'Yes, sir. They seem genuine enough.’

'And the person who gave them the key?’

'He didn't give it to them, sir, they took it without his knowledge. He's in his seventies and straighter than a plumbline.’

`Some builders I know,' said the Farmer, `could bend even a plumb-line.’

Rebus smiled. He knew those builders too.

`We're talking to everyone,' Lauderdale went on, 'who's been working in Mary King's Close.’

It seemed he had got the Farmer's joke.

`All right, John,' said the Farmer. `You were in the army, what about the tattoo?’

Yes, the tattoo. Rebus had known the conclusion everyone would jump to. From the case notes, they'd spent most of Sunday jumping to it. The Farmer was examining a photograph. It had been taken during Sunday's postmortem examination. The SOCOs on Saturday night had taken photos too, but those hadn't come out nearly as clearly.