Mortal Causes (13 page)

‘I’ll take a look,’ Smylie repeated. Rebus didn’t doubt that he would.

‘Ken thinks you should meet Calumn,’ Kilpatrick said.

Rebus shrugged. ‘Fine by me.’

‘Good,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Then we’ll take a little drive.’

Out in the main office they all looked at him strangely, like they knew precisely what had been said to him in Kilpatrick’s den. Well, of course they knew. Their looks told Rebus he was resented more than ever. Even Claverhouse, usually so laid back, was managing a snide little grin.

DI Blackwood rubbed a smooth hand over the hairless crown of his head, then tucked a stray hair back behind his ear. His tonsure was positively monasterial, and it bothered him. In his other hand he held his telephone receiver, listening to someone on the line. He ignored Rebus as Rebus walked past.

At the next desk along, DS Ormiston was squeezing spots on his forehead.

‘You two make a picture,’ Rebus said. Ormiston didn’t appear to get it, but that wasn’t Rebus’s problem. His problem was that Kilpatrick was taking him into his confidence, and Rebus still didn’t know why.

There are lots of warehouses in Sighthill, most of them anonymous. They weren’t exactly advertising that one of them had been leased by the Scottish Crime Squad. It was a big old prefabricated building surrounded by a high wire fence and protected by a high barred gate. There was barbed wire strung out across the top of the fence and the gate, and the gatehouse was manned. The guard unlocked the gate and swung it open so they could drive in.

‘We got this place for a song,’ Kilpatrick explained. ‘The market’s not exactly thriving just now.’ He smiled. ‘They even offered to throw in the security, but we didn’t think we’d need any help with that.’

Kilpatrick was sitting in the back with Rebus, Smylie acting as chauffeur. The steering wheel was like a frisbee in his paws. But he was a canny driver, slow and considerate. He even signalled as he turned into a parking bay, though there was only one other car in the whole forecourt, parked five bays away. When they got out, the Sierra’s suspension groaned upwards. They were standing in front of a normal sized door whose nameplate had been removed. To its right were the much bigger doors of the loading bay. From the rubbish lying around, the impression was of a disused site. Kilpatrick took two keys from his pocket and unlocked the side door.

The warehouse was just that, no offices or partitions off, just one large space with an oily concrete floor and some empty packing cases. A pigeon, disturbed by their entrance, fluttered near the ceiling for a moment before settling again on one of the iron spars supporting the corrugated roof. It had left its mark more than once on the HGV’s windshield.

‘That’s supposed to be lucky,’ said Rebus. Not that the articulated lorry looked clean anyway. It was splashed with pale caked-on mud and dust. It was a Ford with a UK licence plate, K registration. The cab door opened and a large man heaved himself out.

He didn’t have his brother’s moustache and was probably a year or two younger. But he wasn’t smiling, and when he spoke his voice was high-pitched, almost cracking from effort.

‘You must be Rebus.’

They shook hands. Kilpatrick was doing the talking.

‘We impounded this lorry two months back, or rather Scotland Yard did. They’ve kindly loaned it to us.’

Rebus hoisted himself onto the running-plate and peered in the driver’s window. Behind the driving seat had been fixed a nude calendar and a dog-eared centrefold. There was space for a bunk, on which a sleeping bag was rolled up ready for use. The cab was bigger than some of the caravans Rebus had stayed in for holidays. He climbed back down.

‘Why?’

There was a noise from the back of the lorry. Calumn Smylie was opening its container doors. By the time Rebus and Kilpatrick got there, the two Smylies had swung both doors wide and were standing inside the back, just in front of a series of wooden crates.

‘We’ve taken a few liberties,’ said Kilpatrick, hoisting himself into the back beside them, Rebus following. ‘The stuff was originally hidden beneath the floor.’

‘False fuel tanks,’ explained Ken Smylie. ‘Good ones too, welded and bolted shut.’

‘The Yard cut into them from up here.’ Kilpatrick stamped his foot. ‘And inside they found what the tip-off had told them they’d find.’

Calumn Smylie lifted the lid off a crate so Rebus could look in. Inside, wrapped in oiled cloths, were eighteen or so AK 47 assault rifles. Rebus lifted one of them out by its folded metal butt. He knew how to handle a gun like this, even if he didn’t like doing it. Rifles had gotten lighter since his Army days, but they hadn’t gotten any more comfortable. They’d also gotten a deal more lethal. The wooden hand-grip was as cold as a coffin handle.

‘We don’t know exactly where they came from,’ Kilpatrick explained. ‘And we don’t even know where they were headed. The driver wouldn’t say anything, no matter how scary the Anti-Terrorist Branch got with him. He denied all knowledge of the load, and wasn’t about to point a finger anywhere else.’

Rebus put the gun back in its crate. Calumn Smylie leaned past him to wipe off any fingerprints with a piece of rag.

‘So what’s the deal?’ Rebus asked. Calumn Smylie gave the answer.

‘When the driver was pulled in, there were some phone numbers in his pocket, two in Glasgow, one in Edinburgh. All three of them were bars.’

‘Could mean nothing,’ Rebus said.

‘Or everything,’ commented Ken Smylie.

‘See,’ Calumn added, ‘could be those bars are his contacts, maybe his employers, or the people his employers are selling to.’

‘So,’ said Kilpatrick, leaning against one of the crates, ‘we’ve got men watching all three pubs.’

‘In the hope of what?’

It was Calumn’s turn again. ‘When Special Branch stopped the lorry, they managed to keep it quiet. It’s never been reported, and the driver’s tucked away somewhere under the Prevention of Terrorism Act and a few minor offences.’

Rebus nodded. ‘So his employers or whoever won’t know what’s happened?’ Calumn was nodding too. ‘And they might get antsy?’ Now Rebus shook his head. ‘You should be a sniper.’

Calumn frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because that’s the longest shot I’ve ever heard.’

Neither Smylie seemed thrilled to hear this. ‘I’ve already overheard a conversation mentioning The Shield,’ Calumn said.

‘But you’ve no idea what The Shield
is
,’ Rebus countered. ‘Which pub are we talking about anyway?’

‘The Dell.’

It was Rebus’s turn to frown. ‘Just off the Garibaldi Estate?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘We’ve had some aggro there.’

‘Yes, so I hear.’

Rebus turned to Kilpatrick. ‘Why do you need the lorry?’

‘In case we can operate a sting.’

‘How long are you going to give it?’

Calumn shrugged. His eyes were dark and heavy from tension and a lack of sleep. He rubbed a hand through his uncombed hair, then over his unshaven face.

‘I can see it’s been like a holiday for you,’ Rebus said. He knew the plan must have been cooked up by the Smylie brothers. They seemed its real defenders. Kilpatrick’s part in it was more uncertain.

‘Better than that,’ Calumn was saying.

‘How so?’

‘The holiday I’m having, you don’t need to send postcards.’

Not many people know of Parliament House, home of the High Court of Justiciary, Scotland’s highest court for criminal cases. There are few signposts or identifying markers outside, and the building itself is hidden behind St Giles, separated from it by a small anonymous car park containing a smattering of Jaguars and BMWs. Of the many doors facing the prospective visitor, only one normally stands open. This is the public entrance, and leads into Parliament Hall, from off which stretch the Signet Library and Advocates Library.

There were fourteen courts in all, and Rebus guessed he’d been in all of them over the years. He sat on one of the long wooden benches. The lawyers around him were wearing dark pinstripe suits, white shirts with raised collars and white bow ties, grey wigs, and long black cloaks like those his teachers had worn. Mostly the lawyers were talking, either with clients or with each other. If with each other, they might raise their voices, maybe even share a joke. But with clients they were more circumspect. One well-dressed woman was nodding as her advocate talked in an undertone, all the while trying to stop the many files under his arm from wriggling free.

Rebus knew that beneath the large stained glass window there were two corridors lined with old wooden boxes. Indeed, the first corridor was known as the Box Corridor. Each box was marked with a lawyer’s name, and each had a slat in the top, though the vast majority of boxes were kept open more or less permanently. Here documents awaited collection and perusal. Rebus had wondered at the openness of the system, the opportunities for theft and espionage. But there had never been any reports of theft, and security men were in any case never far away. He got up now and walked over to the stained glass. He knew the King portrayed was supposed to be James V, but wasn’t sure about the rest of it, all the figures or the coats of arms. To his right, through a wooden swing door with glass windows, he could see lawyers poring over books. Etched in gold on the glass were the words PRIVATE ROOM.

He knew another private room close to here. Indeed, just on the other side of St Giles and down some flights of stairs. Billy Cunningham had been murdered not fifty yards from the High Court.

He turned at the sound of heels clicking towards him. Caroline Rattray was dressed for work, from black shoes and stockings to powder-grey wig.

‘I wouldn’t have recognised you,’ he said.

‘Should I take that as a compliment?’ She gave him a big smile, and held it as she held his gaze. Then she touched his arm. ‘I see you’ve noticed.’ She looked up at the stained glass. ‘The royal arms of Scotland.’ Rebus looked up too. Beneath the large picture there were five smaller square windows, each showing a coat of arms. Caroline Rattray’s eyes were on the central panel. Two unicorns held the shield of the red Lion Rampant. Above on a scroll were the words IN DEFENCE, and at the bottom a Latin inscription. Rebus read it.

‘
Nemo me impune lacessit
.’ He turned to her. ‘Never my best subject.’

‘You might know it better as “Wha daur meddle wi’ me?”. It’s the motto of Scotland, or rather, the motto of Scotland’s kings.’

‘A while since we’ve had any of them.’

‘
And
of the Order of the Thistle. Sort of makes you the monarch’s private soldier, except they only give it to crusty old sods. Sit down.’ She led them back to the bench Rebus had been sitting on. She had files with her, which she placed on the floor rather than the bench, though there was space. Then she gave him her full attention. Rebus didn’t say anything, so she smiled again, tipping her head slightly to one side. ‘Don’t you see?’

‘Nemo,’ he guessed.

‘Yes! Latin for nobody.’

‘We already know that, Miss Rattray. Also a character in Jules Verne and in Dickens, plus the letters make the word “omen” backwards.’ He paused. ‘We’ve been working, you see. But does it get us any further forward? I mean, was the victim trying to tell us that no one killed him?’

She seemed to puncture, her shoulders sagging. It was like watching an old balloon die after Christmas.

‘It could be something,’ he offered. ‘But it’s hard to know what.’

‘I see.’

‘You could have told me about it on the phone.’

‘Yes, I could.’ She straightened her back. ‘But I wanted you to see for yourself.’

‘You think the Order of the Thistle ganged up and murdered Billy Cunningham?’ Her eyes were holding his again, no smile on her lips. He broke free, staring past her at the stained glass. ‘How’s the prosecution game?’

‘It’s a slow day,’ she said. ‘I hear the victim’s father is a convicted murderer. Is there a connection?’

‘Maybe.’

‘No concrete motive yet?’

‘No motive.’ The longer Rebus looked at the royal arms, the more his focus was drawn to its central figure. It was definitely a shield. ‘The Shield,’ he said to himself.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing, it’s just …’ He turned back to her. She was looking eager about something, and hopeful too. ‘Miss Rattray,’ he said, ‘did you bring me here to chat me up?’

She looked horrified, her face reddening; not just her cheeks, but forehead and chin too, even her neck coloured. ‘Inspector Rebus,’ she said at last.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ He bowed his head and raised his hands. ‘Sorry I said that.’

‘Well, I don’t know …’ She looked around. ‘It’s not every day I’m accused of being … well, whatever. I think I need a drink.’ Then, reverting to her normal voice: ‘I think you’d better buy me one, don’t you?’

They crossed the High Street, dodging the leafleters and mime artists and clowns on stilts, and threaded their way through a dark close and down some worn stone steps into Caro Rattray’s preferred bar.

‘I hate this time of year,’ she said. ‘It’s such a hassle getting to and from work. And as for parking in town …’

‘It’s a hard life, all right.’

She went to a table while Rebus stood at the bar. She had taken a couple of minutes to change out of her gown and wig, had brushed her hair out, though the sombre clothes that remained – the accent on black with touches of white – still marked her out as a lawyer in this lawyer’s howff.

The place had one of the lowest ceilings of any pub Rebus had ever been in. When he considered, he thought they must be almost directly above some of the shops which led off Mary King’s Close. The thought made him change his order.

‘Make that whisky a double.’ But he added plenty of water.

Caroline Rattray had ordered lemonade with lots of ice and lemon. As Rebus placed her drink on the table, he laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

He shook his head. ‘Advocate and lemonade, that makes a snowball.’ He didn’t have to explain to her. She managed a weary smile. ‘Heard it before, eh?’ he said, sitting beside her.

‘And every person who says it thinks they’ve just invented it. Cheers.’

‘Aye,
slainte
.’