Ian Rankin - Mortal Causes

Jamesie led Rebus and the other officers to a row of wooden garages on a piece of land behind MacMurray's Garage. Two Army men were on hand. They checked for booby traps and trip wires and it took them nearly half an hour to get round to going in. Even then, they did not enter by the door. Instead, they climbed a ladder to the roof and cut through the asphalt covering, then dropped through and into the lock-up. A minute later, they gave the all clear, and a police constable broke open the door with a crowbar. Gavin MacMurray was with them.

'I haven't been in here for years,' he said. He'd said it before, as if they didn't believe him. 'I never use these garages.’

They had a good took round. Jamesie didn't know the precise location of the cache, only that Davey had said he needed a place to keep it. The garage had operated as a motorcycle workshop – that was how Billy Cunningham had got to know Jamesie, and through him Davey Soutar, in the first place. There were long rickety wooden shelves groaning with obscure metal parts, a lot of them rusted brown with age, tools covered with dust and cobwebs, and tins of paint and solvent. Each tin had to be opened, each tool examined. If you could hide Semtex in a transistor radio, you could certainly hide it in a tool shed. The Army had offered a specialised sniffer dog, but it would have to come from Aldershot. So instead they used their own eyes and noses and instinct.

Hanging from nails on the walls were old tyres and wheels and chains. Forks and handlebars lay on the floor along with engine parts and mouldy boxes of nuts, bolts and screws. They scraped at the floor, but found no buried boxes. There was a lot of oil on the ground.

'This place is clean,' said a smudged Army man. Rebus nodded agreement.

'He's been and cleared the place out. How much was there, Jamesie?’

But Jamesie MacMurray had been asked this before, and he didn't know. 'I swear I don't. I just said he could use the space. He got his own padlock fitted and everything.’

Rebus stared at him. These young hard men, Rebus had been dealing with them all his life and they were pathetic, like husks in suits of armour. Jamesie was about as hard as the Sun crossword. 'And he never showed you?’

Jamesie shook his head. 'Never.’

His father was staring at him furiously. 'You stupid wee bastard,' Gavin MacMurray said. 'You stupid, stupid wee fool.’

'We'll have to take Jamesie down the station, Mr MacMurray.’

'I know that.’

Then Gavin MacMurray slapped his son's face. With a hand callused by years of mechanical work, he loosened teeth and sent blood curdling from Jamesie's mouth. Jamesie spat on the dirt floor but said nothing… Rebus knew Jamesie was going to tell them everything he knew.

Outside, one of the Army men smiled in relief. 'I'm glad we didn't find anything.’

‘Why?’ 'Keeping the stuff in an environment like that, it's bound to be unstable.’

'Just like the guy who's got it.’

Unstable… Rebus thought of Unstable from Dunstable, confessing to the St Stephen Street killing, raving to DI Flower about curry and cars… He walked back into the garage and pointed to the stain on the floor.

'That's not oil,' he said, 'not all of it.’

'What?’

'Everybody out, I want this place secured.’

They all got out. Flower should have listened to Unstable from Dunstable. The tramp had been talking about Currie, not curry. And he'd said cars because of the garages. He must have been sleeping rough nearby and seen or heard something that night.

'What is it, sir?’

one of the officers asked Rebus.

`If I'm right, this is where they killed Calumn Smylie.’

That evening, Rebus moved out of the hotel and back into Patience's flat. He felt exhausted, like a tool that had lost its edge. The stain on the garage floor had been a mixture of oil and blood. They were trying to separate the two so they could DNA-test the blood against Calumn Smylie's. Rebus knew already what they'd find. It all made sense when you thought about it.

He poured a drink, then thought better of it. Instead he phoned Patience and told her she could come home in the next day or two. But she was determined to return in the morning, so he told her why she shouldn't. She was very quiet for a moment.

'Be careful, John.’

`I'm still here, aren't I?’

'Let's keep it that way.’

He rang off when he heard the doorbell. The manhunt for Davey Soutar was in full swing, under the control of CI Lauderdale at St Leonard's. Arms would be issued as and when necessary. Though they didn't know the extent of Soutar's cache, no chances would be taken. Rebus had been asked if he'd like a bodyguard.

'I'll trust to my guardian angel,' he'd said.

‘The doorbell rang again. He felt naked as he walked down the long straight hall towards the door. The door itself was inch-and-a-half thick wood, but most guns could cope with that and still leave enough velocity in the bullet to puncture human flesh. He listened for a second, then put his eye to the spy-hole. He let his breath out and unlocked the door.

'You've got things to tell me,' he said, opening the door wide.

Abernethy produced a bottle of whisky from behind his back. 'And I've brought some antiseptic for those cuts.’

'Internal use only,' Rebus suggested.

'The money it cost me, you better believe it. Still, a nice drop of Scotch is worth all the tea in China.’

'We call it whisky up here.’

Rebus closed the door and led Abernethy back down the hall into the living room. Abernethy was impressed.

'Been taking a few back-handers?’

'I live with a doctor. It's her flat.’

'My mum always wanted me to be a doctor. A respectable job, she called it. Got some glasses?’

Rebus fetched two large glasses from the kitchen.

Frankie Bothwell couldn't afford to close the Crazy Hose. The Festival and Fringe had only a couple more days to go. All too soon the tourists would be leaving. But over the past fortnight he'd really been packing them in. Advertising and word of mouth helped, as had a three-night residency by an American country singer. The club was making more money than ever before, but it wouldn't last. The Crazy Hose was unique, every bit as unique as Frankie himself. It deserved to do well. It had to do well. Frankie Bothwell had commitments, financial commitments. They couldn't be broken or excused because of low takings. Every week needed to be a good week.

So he was not best pleased to see Rebus and another cop walk into the bar. You could see it in his eyes and the smile as frozen as a Crazy Hose daiquiri.

'Inspector, how can I help you?’

'Mr Bothwell, this is DI Abernethy. We'd like a word.’

'It's a bit hectic just now. I haven't had a chance to replace Kevin Strang.’

'We insist,' said Abernethy.

With two conspicuous police officers on the premises, trade at the bars wasn't exactly brisk, and nobody was dancing. They were all waiting for something to happen. Bothwell took this in.

'Let's go to my office.’

Abernethy waved bye-bye to the crowd as he followed Rebus and Bothwell into the foyer. They went behind the admission desk and Bothwell unlocked a door. He sat behind his desk and watched them squeeze their way into the space that was left.

`A big office is a waste of space,' he said by way of apology. The place was like a cleaning cupboard. There were spare till rolls and boxes of glasses on a shelf above Bothwell's head, framed cowboy posters stacked against a wall, bric-a-brac and debris like everything had just spilled out of a collision at a car boot sale.

'We might be more comfortable talking in the toilets,' Rebus said.

`Or down the station,' offered Abernethy.

'I don't think we've met,' Bothwell said to him, affably enough.