Ian Rankin - Mortal Causes

'More questions, Inspector? Maybe I should start charging a consultancy fee.’

'I was hoping you could help me with a name.’

Gowrie made a noncommittal noise, or maybe he was just chewing. 'Lee Francis Bothwell.’

'Frankie Bothwell?’

'You know him?’

'I used to.’

'He was a member of the Orange Lodge?’

'Yes, he was.’

'But he got kicked out?’

'Not quite. He left voluntarily.’

'Might I ask why, sir?’

'You might.’

There was a pause. 'He was… unpredictable, had a temper on him. Most of the time he was fine. He coached the youth football teams for a couple of district lodges, he seemed to enjoy that.’

'Was he interested in history?’

'Yes, Scottish and Irish history.’

'Cuchullain?’

'Amongst other things. I think he wrote a couple of articles for Ulster, that's the magazine of the UDA. He did them under a pseudonym, so we couldn't discipline him, but the style was his. Loyalists, Inspector, are very interested in Irish pre-history. Bothwell was writing about the Cruithin. He was very bright like that, but he-‘

'Did he have any links with the Orange Loyal Brigade?’

'Not that I know of, but it wouldn't surprise me. Gavin MacMurray's interested in pre-history too.’

Gowrie sighed. 'Frankie left the Orange Lodge because he didn't feel we went far enough. That's as much as I'll say, but maybe it tells you something about him.’

'It does, Mr Gowrie, yes. Thanks for your help.’

Rebus put the phone down and thought it over. Then he shook his head sadly.

'You picked some place to hide her, Mairie. Some fucking place.’

His desk now looked like a skip, and he decided to do something about it. He filled his waste bin with empty cups, plates, crumpled papers and packets. Until, only slightly buried, he came to an A4-size manila envelope. His name was written on it in black marker pen. The envelope was fat. It hadn't been opened.

'Who left this here?’

But nobody seemed to know. They were too busy discussing another call made to the newspaper by the lunatic with the Irish accent. Nobody knew about The Shield, of course, not the way Rebus knew. The media had stuck to the theory that the body in Mary King's Close was that of the caller, a rogue from an IRA unit who'd been disciplined by his masters. It didn't make any sense now, but that didn't matter. There'd been another call now, another morning headline. ' "Shut the Whole Thing Down," says Threat Man.’

Rebus had considered what benefit SaS could derive from disrupting the Festival. Answer: none.

He looked at the envelope a final time, then ran his finger under the flap and eased out a dozen sheets of paper, photocopies of reports, news stories. American, the lot of them, though whoever had done the copying had been careful, leaving off letter headings, addresses, phone numbers. As Rebus read, he couldn't be sure where half the stories originated. But one thing was clear, they were all about one man.

Clyde Moncur.

There were no messages, nothing handwritten, nothing to identify the sender. Rebus checked the envelope. It hadn't been posted. It had been delivered by hand. He asked around again, but nobody owned up to having ever seen the thing before. Mairie was the only source he could think of, but she wouldn't have sent the stuff like this.

He read through the file anyway. It reinforced his impression of Clyde Moncur. The man was a snake. He ran drugs up into Vancouver and across to Ontario. His boats brought in immigrants from the Far East, or often didn't, though they were known to have picked up travellers along the way. What happened to them, these people who paid to be transported to a better life? The bottom of the deep blue sea, seemed to be the inference.

There were other murky areas to Moncur's life, like his undeclared interest in a fish processing plant outside Toronto… Toronto, home of The Shield. The US Internal Revenue had been trying for years to get to the bottom of it all, and failing.

Buried in all the clippings was the briefest mention of a Scottish salmon farm.

Moncur had imported Scottish smoked salmon into the USA, though the Canadian stuff was just a mite closer to hand. The salmon farm he used was just north of Kyle of Lochalsh. Its name struck home. Rebus had come across the name very recently. He went back to the files on Cafferty, and there it was. Cafferty had been legitimate partowner of the farm in the 1970s and early 80s… around the time him and Jinky Johnson were washing and drying dirty money for the UVF.

'This is beautiful,' Rebus said to himself. He hadn't just squared the circle, he'd created an unholy triangle out of it.

He got a patrol car to take him to the Gar-B.

From the back seat, he had a more relaxed view of the whole of Pilmuir. Clyde Moncur had talked about the early Scottish settlers. The new settlers, of course, took on just as tough a life, moving into the private estates which were being built around and even in Pilmuir. This was a frontier life, complete with marauding natives who wanted the intruders gone, border skirmishes, and wilderness experiences aplenty. These estates provided starter homes for those making the move from the rented sector. They also provided starter courses in basic survival.

Rebus wished the settlers well.

When they got to the Gar-B, Rebus gave the uniforms their instructions and sat in the back seat enjoying the stares of passers-by. They were away a while, but when they came back one of them was pulling a boy by his forearm and pushing the boy's bike. The other one had two kids, no bikes. Rebus looked at them. He recognised the one with the bike.

'You can let the others go,' he said. 'But him, I want in here with me.’

The boy got into the car reluctantly. His pals ran as soon as the officers released them. When they were far enough away, they turned to watch. They wanted to know what would happen.

'What's your name, son?’ Rebus asked.

'Jock.’

Maybe it was true and maybe it wasn't. Rebus wasn't bothered. 'Shouldn't you be at school, Jock?’

'We've no' started back yet.”

This too could be true; Rebus didn't know. 'Do you remember me, son?’

'It wasnae me did your tyres.’

Rebus shook his head. 'That's all right. I'm not here about that. But you remember when I came here?’

The boy nodded.

'Remember you were with a pal, and he thought I was someone else. Remember? He asked me where my flash car was.’

The boy shook his head. 'And you told him that I wasn't who he thought I was. Who did he think I was, son?’

'I don't know.’

'Yes you do.’

'I don't.’

'But someone a bit like me, eh? Similar build, age, height? Fancier clothes though, I'll bet.’

'Maybe.’

'What about his car, the swanky car?’

'A custom Merc.’

Rebus smiled. There were some things boys just had eyes and a memory for. 'What colour Merc?’

'Black, all of it. The windows too.’

'Seen him here a lot 'Don't know.’

'Nice car though, eh?’

The boy shrugged.

'Right, son, on you go.’

'The boy knew from the pleased look on the policeman's face that he'd made a mistake, that he'd somehow helped. His cheeks burned with shame. He snatched his bike from the constable and ran with it, looking back from time to time. His pals were waiting to question him.

'Get what you were looking for, sir?’ asked one of the uniforms, getting back into the car.

'Exactly what I was looking for,' said Rebus.

He went to see Mairie, but a friend was looking after her and Mairie herself was sleeping. The doctor had given her a few sleeping pills. Left alone in the flat with an unconscious Mairie, he could have gone through her notes and computer files, but the friend didn't even let him over the threshold. She had a pinched face with prominent cheeks and a few too many teeth in her quiet but determined mouth.