Ian Rankin - Mortal Causes

He spent a precious few seconds, life and death second, weighing up his options. Then he slung Rebus's arm over his shoulder and walked with him out of the dance hall, through the foyer, and into the night air, the clean, breathable air. Rebus took in huge gulps of it, falling onto the pavement, sitting there, head bowed, his feet on the road. Cafferty sat down beside him. He seemed to be studying his own hands. Rebus knew why, too.

And now the fire engines were arriving, men leaping out of cabs, doing things with hoses. One of them complained about the police car. The keys were in the ignition, so the fireman backed it up.

At last Rebus could speak. 'You did that?’ he asked. It was a stupid question. Hadn't he given Cafferty nearly all the information he'd needed? 'I saw you going in,' Cafferty said, his voice raw. 'You were gone a long time.’

'You could have let me die.’

Cafferty looked at him. 'I didn't come in for you. I came in to stop you bringing out that bastard Fowler. As it is, Moncur's done a runner.’

'He can't run far.’

'He better try. He knows I won't give up.’

'You knew him, didn't you? Moncur, I mean. He's an old pal of Alan Powler's. When Fowler was UVF, the UVF laundered money using your salmon farm. Moncur bought the salmon with his good US dollars.’

'You never stop.’

'It's my business.’

'Well,' said Cafferty, glancing back at the club, 'this was business, too. Only, sometimes you have to cut a few corners. I know you have.’

Rebus was wiping his face. 'Problem is, Cafferty, when you, cut a corner, it bleeds.’

Cafferty studied him. There was blood on Rebus's ear, sweat cloying his hair. Davey Soutar's blood still spattered his shirt, mixed now with smoke. And Kilpatrick's handprint was still there. Cafferty stood up.

'Not thinking of going anywhere?’ Rebus said.

'You going to stop me?’

'You know I'll try.’

A car drew up. In it were Cafferty's men, the two from the kirkyard plus weasel-face. Cafferty walked to the car. Rebus was still sitting on the pavement. He got up slowly now, and walked towards the police car. He heard Cafferty's car door shutting, and looked at it, noting the licence plate. As the car passed him, Cafferty was looking at the road ahead. Rebus opened his own car and got on the radio, giving out the licence number. He thought about starting his engine and giving chase, but just sat there instead, watching the firemen go about their business.

I played it by the rules, he thought. I cautioned him and then I called in. It didn't say in the rules that you had to have a go when there were four of them and only one of you.

Yes, he'd played it by the rules. The good feeling started to wear off after only minutes, and damned few minutes at that.

They finally picked Clyde Moncur up at a ferry port. Special Branch in London were dealing with him. Abernethy was dealing with him. Before he'd left, Rebus had asked a simple question.

'Will it happen?’

'Will what happen?’

'Civil war.’

'What do you think?’

So much for that. The story was simple. Moncur was visiting town to see how the money from US Shield was being spent. Fowler was around to make sure Moncur was happy. The Festival had seemed the perfect cover for Moncur's trip. Maybe Billy had been executed to show the American just how ruthless SaS could be…

In hospital, recovering from his stab wounds, DCI Kilpatrick was smothered to death with his pillow. Two of his ribs had been cracked from the weight of his attacker pressing down on him.

'Must've been the size of a grizzly,' Dr Curt announced. 'Not many grizzlies about these days,' said Rebus.

He phoned the Procurator Fiscal's office, just to check on Caro Rattray. After all, Cafferty had spoken of her. He just wanted to know she was okay. Maybe Cafferty was out there tying up a lot of loose ends. But Caro had gone.

'What do you mean?’

'Some private practice in Glasgow offered her a partnership. It's a big step up, she grabbed it, anyone would.’

'Which office is it?’

Funny, it was the office of Cafferty's own lawyers. It might mean something or nothing. After all, Rebus had given Cafferty some names. Mairie Henderson had gone down to London to try to follow up the Moncur story.

Abernethy phoned Rebus one night to say he thought she was terrific.

'Yes,' said Rebus, 'you'd make a lovely couple.’

'Except she hates my guts.’

Abernethy paused. 'But she might listen to you.’

'Spit it out.’

'Just don't tell her too much, all right? Remember, Jump Cantona will take most of the credit anyway, and wee Mairie's been paid upfront. She doesn't have to bust a gut. Most of what she'd say wouldn't get past the libel lawyers and the Official Secrets Act anyway.’

Rebus had stopped listening. 'How do you know about Jump Cantona?’

He could almost hear Abernethy easing his feet up onto the desk, leaning back in his chair.

'The FBI have used Cantona before to put out a story.’

'And you're in with the FBI?’

'I'll send them a report.’

'Don't cover yourself with too much glory, Abernethy.’

'You'll get a mention, Inspector.’

'But not star billing. That's how you knew about Mairie, isn't it? Cantona told the FBI? It's how you had all the stuff on Clyde Moncur to hand?’

'Does it matter?’

Probably not. Rebus broke the connection anyway.

He shopped for a coming home meal, pushing the trolley around a supermarket close to Fettes HQ. He wouldn't be going back to Fettes. He'd phoned his farewell to Ormiston and told him to tell Blackwood to cut off his remaining strands of hair and be done with it.

'He'd have a seizure if I told him that,' said Ormiston. 'Here, what about the Chief? You don't think…?’

But Rebus had rung off. He didn't want to talk about Ken Smylie, didn't want to think about it. He knew as much as he needed to. Kilpatrick had been on the fringe; he was more useful to The Shield that way. Bothwell was the executioner. He'd killed Billy Cunningham and he'd ordered the deaths of Millie Docherty and Calumn Smylie. Soutar had done his master's bidding in both cases, except Millie had proved messy, and Soutar had left her where he'd killed her. Bothwell must have been furious about that, but of course Davey Soutar had other things on his mind, other plans. Bigger things.

Rebus bought the makings for the meal and added bottles of rose champagne, malt whisky and gin to the trolley. A mile and a half to the north, the shops on the Gar-B estate would be closing for the evening, pulling down heavy metal shutters, fixing padlocks, double-checking alarm systems. He paid with plastic at the check-out and drove back up the hill to Oxford Terrace. Curiously, the rust bucket was sounding healthier these days. Maybe that knock from Hay's van had put something back into alignment. Rebus had replaced the glass, but was still debating the doorframe.

At the fiat, Patience was waiting for him, back from Perth earlier than expected.

'What's this?’ she said.

'It was meant to be a surprise.’

He put down the bags and kissed her. She drew away from him slowly afterwards.

'You look an absolute mess,' she said.

He shrugged. It was true, he'd seen boxers in better shape after fifteen rounds. He'd seen punchbags in better shape.

'So it's over?’ she said.

'Finishes today.’

'I don't mean the Festival.’

'I know you don't.’

He pulled her to him again. 'It's over.’

'Did I hear a clink from one of those bags?’

Rebus smiled. 'Gin or champagne?’

'Gin and orange.’

They took the bags into the kitchen. Patience got ice and orange juice from the fridge, while Rebus rinsed two glasses. 'I missed you,' she said.