Mortal Causes by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

just turning silver at the edges. He looked as if he needed to shave two or even three times a day. His suit was dark blue and looked straight off the tailor’s dummy. He was smiling.
    ‘Inspector Rebus?’
    ‘The same.’
    ‘I’m DCI Kilpatrick.’
    Rebus knew the name of course. It was interesting at last to have a face to put to it. If he remembered right, Kilpatrick was still in the SCS, the Scottish Crime Squad.
    ‘I thought you worked out of Stuart Street, sir,’ Rebus said, shaking hands.
    ‘I moved back from Glasgow a few months ago. I don’t suppose it made the front page of the Scotsman , but I’m heading the squad here now.’
    Rebus nodded. The SCS took on serious crimes, where cross-force investigations were necessary. Drugs were their main concern, or had been. Rebus knew men who’d been seconded to the SCS. You stayed three or four years and came out two things: unwillingly, and tough as second-day bacon. Kilpatrick was introducing his companion.
    ‘This is DI Abernethy from Special Branch. He’s come all the way from London to see us.’
    ‘That takes the biscuit,’ said Rebus.
    ‘My grandad was a Jock,’ Abernethy answered, gripping Rebus’s hand and not getting the joke. Rebus introduced Holmes and, when she returned, Siobhan Clarke. From the colouring in Clarke’s cheeks, Rebus reckoned someone along the way had made a pass at her. He decided to rule out Mr Blair-Fish, which still left plenty of suspects.
    ‘So,’ said Abernethy at last, rubbing his hands, ‘where’s this slaughterhouse?’
    ‘A butcher’s actually,’ Mr Blair-Fish explained.
    ‘I know what I mean,’ said Abernethy.
    Mr Blair-Fish led the way. But Kilpatrick held Rebus back.
    ‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t like this bastard being here any more than you do, but if we’re tolerant we’ll get rid of him all the quicker, agreed?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Kilpatrick’s was a Glaswegian accent, managing to be deeply nasal even when reduced to a whisper, and managing, too, to be full of irony and a belief that Glasgow was the centre of the universe. Usually, Glaswegians somehow added to all this a ubiquitous chip on their shoulder, but Kilpatrick didn’t seem the type.
    ‘So no more bloody cracks about biscuits.’
    ‘Understood, sir.’
    Kilpatrick waited a moment. ‘It was you who noticed the paramilitary element, wasn’t it?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Good work.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’ Yes, and Glaswegians could be patronising bastards, too.
    When they rejoined the group, Holmes gave Rebus a questioning look, to which Rebus replied with a shrug. At least the shrug was honest.
    ‘So they strung him up here,’ Abernethy was saying. He looked around at the setting. ‘Bit melodramatic, eh? Not the IRA’s style at all. Give them a lock-up or a warehouse, something like that. But someone who likes a bit of drama set this up.’
    Rebus was impressed. It was another possible reason for the choice of venue.
    ‘Bang-bang,’ Abernethy continued, ‘then back upstairs to melt into the crowd, maybe take in a late-night revue before toddling home.’
    Clarke interrupted. ‘You think there’s some connection with the Festival?’
    Abernethy studied her openly, causing Brian Holmes to straighten up. Not for the first time, Rebus wondered about Clarke and Holmes.
    ‘Why not?’ Abernethy said. ‘It’s every bit as feasible as anything else I’ve heard.’
    ‘But it was a six-pack.’ Rebus felt obliged to defend his corner.
    ‘No,’ Abernethy corrected, ‘a seven -pack. And that’s not paramilitary style at all. A waste of bullets for a start.’ He looked to Kilpatrick. ‘Could be a drug thing. Gangs like a bit of melodrama, it makes them look like they’re in a film. Plus they do like to send messages to each other. Loud messages.’
    Kilpatrick nodded. ‘We’re considering it.’
    ‘My money’d still be on terrorists,’ Rebus added. ‘A gun like that –’
    ‘Dealers use guns, too, Inspector. They