Mortal Causes

✍ Scribed by Ian Rankin

• Year: 1995
• Tongue: English
• Weight: 176 KB
• Category: Fiction

✦ Synopsis

About the Author

Ian Rankin is the worldwide #1 bestselling writer of the Inspector Rebus mysteries, including Knots and Crosses, Hide and Seek, Let It Bleed, Black and Blue, Set in Darkness, Resurrection Men, A Question of Blood, The Falls and Exit Music. He has won an Edgar Award, a Gold Dagger for fiction, a Diamond Dagger for career excellence, and the Chandler-Fulbright Award.He has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and received the Order of the British Empire (OBE) for his contributions to literature. He graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 1982. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER 1

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 house-breakers 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.

To night 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 proferred 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.

Meantime, there had been another bomb threat, this time phoned to the newspaper rather than Lowland Radio. Rebus had gone to the newspaper offices to take a statement from the journalist whod taken the call. The place was a mad house of Festival and Fringe critics filing their reviews. The journalist read from his notes.

He just said, if we didnt shut the Festival down, wed be sorry.

Did he sound serious?

Oh, yes, definitely.

And he had an Irish accent?

Sounded like it.

Not just a fake?

The reporter shrugged. He was keen to file his story, so Rebus let him go. That made three calls in the past week, each one threatening to bomb or otherwise disrupt the Festival. The police were taking the threat seriously. How could they afford not to? So far, the tourists hadnt been scared off, but venues were being urged to make security checks before and after each performance.

Back at St Leonards, Rebus reported to his Chief Superintendent, then tried to finish another piece of paperwork. Masochist that he was, he quite liked the Saturday back-shift. You saw the city in its many guises. It allowed a salutory peek into Edinburghs grey soul. Sin and evil werent black hed argued the point with a priest but were greyly anonymous. You saw them all night long, the grey peering faces of the wrongdoers and malcontents, the wife beaters and the knife boys. Unfocused eyes, drained of all concern save for themselves. And you prayed, if you were John Rebus, prayed that as few people as possible ever had to get as close as this to the massive grey nonentity.

Then you went to the canteen and had a joke with the lads, fixing a smile to your face whether you were listening or not.

Here, Inspector, have you heard the one about the squid with the moustache? He goes into a restaurant and

Rebus turned away from the DCs story towards his ringing phone.

DI Rebus.

He listened for a moment, the smile melting from his face. Then he put down the receiver and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair.

Bad news? asked the DC.

Youre not joking, son.

THE HIGH Street was packed with people, most of them just browsing. Young people bobbed up and down trying to instil enthusiasm in the Fringe productions they were supporting. Supporting them? They were probably the leads in them. They busily thrust flyers into hands already full of similar sheets.

Only two quid, best value on the Fringe!

You wont see another show like it!

There were jugglers and people with painted faces, and a cacophony of musical disharmonies. Where else in the world would bagpipes, banjos and kazoos meet to join in a busking battle from hell?

Locals said this Festival was quieter than the last. Theyd been saying it for years. Rebus wondered if the thing had ever had a heyday. It was plenty busy enough for him.

Though it was a warm night, he kept his car windows shut. Even so, as he crawled along the setts flyers would be pushed beneath his windscreen wipers, all but blocking his vision. His scowl met impregnable drama student smiles. It was ten oclock, not long dark; that was the beauty of a Scottish summer. He tried to imagine himself on a deserted beach, or crouched atop a mountain, alone with his thoughts. Who was he trying to kid? John Rebus was always alone with his thoughts. And just now he was thinking of drink. Another hour or two and the bars would sluice themselves out, unless theyd applied for (and been granted) the very late licences available at Festival time.

He was heading for the City Chambers, across the street from St Giles Cathedral. You turned off the High Street and through one of two stone arches into a small parking area in front of the Chambers themselves. A uniformed constable was standing guard beneath one of the arches. He recognised Rebus and nodded, stepping out of the way. Rebus parked his own car beside a marked patrol car, stopped the engine and got out.

Evening, sir.

Where is it?

The constable nodded towards a door near one of the arches, attached to the side wall of the Chambers. They walked towards it. A young woman was standing next to the door.

Inspector, she said.

Hello, Mairie.

Ive told her to move on, sir, the constable apologised.

Mairie Henderson ignored him. Her eyes were on Rebuss. Whats going on?

Rebus winked at her. The Lodge, Mairie. We always meet in secret, like. She scowled. Well then, give me a chance. Off to a show, are you?

I was till I saw the commotion.

Saturdays your day off, isnt it?

Journalists dont get days off, Inspector. Whats behind the door?

Its got glass panels, Mairie. Take a keek for yourself.

But all you could see through the panels was a narrow landing with doors off. One door was open, allowing a glimpse of stairs leading down. Rebus turned to the constable.

Lets get a proper cordon set up, son. Something across the arches to fend off the tourists before the show starts. Radio in for assistance if you need it. Excuse me, Mairie.

Then there is going to be a show?

Rebus stepped past her and opened the door, closing it again behind him. He made for the stairs down, which were lit by a naked lightbulb. Ahead of him he could hear voices. At the bottom of this first flight he turned a corner and came upon the group. There were two teenage girls and a boy, all of them seated or crouching, the girls shaking and crying. Over them stood a uniformed constable and a man Rebus recognised as a local doctor. They all looked up at his approach.

This is the Inspector, the constable told the teenagers. Right, were going back down there. You three stay here.

Rebus, squeezing past the teenagers, saw the doctor give them a worried glance. He gave the doctor a wink, telling him theyd get over it. The doctor didnt seem so sure.

Together the three men set off down the next flight of stairs. The constable was carrying a torch.

Theres electricity, he said. But a couple of the bulbs have gone. They walked along a narrow passage, its low ceiling further reduced by air- and heating-ducts and other pipes. Tubes of scaffolding lay on the floor ready for assembly. There were more steps down.

You know where we are? the constable asked.

Mary Kings Close, said Rebus.

Not that hed ever been down here, not exactly. But hed been in similar old buried streets beneath the High Street. He knew of Mary Kings Close.

Story goes, said the constable, there was a plague in the 1600s, people died or moved out, never really moved back. Then there was a fire. They blocked off the ends of the street. When they rebuilt, they built over the top of the close. He shone his torch towards the ceiling, which was now three or four storeys above them. See that marble slab? Thats the floor of the City Chambers. He smiled. I came on the tour last year.

Incredible, the doctor said. Then to Rebus: Im Dr Galloway.

Inspector Rebus. Thanks for getting here so quickly.

The doctor ignored this. Your...