Mortal Causes

The Edinburgh Room was not so much a room as a gallery surrounding an open space. Far below, readers in another section of the library were at their desks or browsing among the bookshelves. Not that Mairie Henderson was reading books. She was poring over local newspapers, seated at one of the few readers' tables. Rebus stood beside Mairie, reading over her shoulder. She had a neat portable computer with her, flipped open and plugged into a socket in the library floor. Its screen was milky grey and filled with notes. It took her a minute to sense that there was someone standing over her. She looked round slowly, expecting a librarian.

'Let's talk,' said Rebus.

She saved what she'd been writing and followed him out onto the library's large main staircase. A sign told them not to sit on the window ledges, which were in a dangerous condition. Mairie sat on the top step, and Rebus sat a couple of steps down from her, leaving plenty of room for people to get past.

'I'm in a dangerous condition, too,' he said angrily.

'Why? What's happened?’ She looked as i

'Millie Docherty.’

'Yes?’

'You didn't tell me about her.’

'What exactly should I have told you?’

'That you'd been trying to talk to her. Did you succeed?’

'No, why?’

'She's run off:' 'Really?’

She considered this. 'Interesting.’

'What did you want to talk to her about?’

'The murder of one of her flatmates.’

'That's all?’

'Shouldn't it be?’ She was looking interested.

'Fu

She'd told him over their drink in Newhaven that she was looking into what she called 'past loyalist activity' in Scotland.

'Slow,' she admitted. 'How's yours?’

'Dead stop,' he lied.

'Apart from Ms Docherty's disappearance. How did you know I wanted to talk to her?’

'None of your business.’

She raised her eyebrows. 'Her flatmate didn't tell you?’

'No comment at this time.’

She smiled.

'Come on,' said Rebus, 'maybe you'll talk over a coffee.’

'Interrogation by scone,' Mairie offered.

They walked the short walk to the High Street and took a right towards St Giles Cathedral. There was a coffee shop in the crypt of St Giles, reached by way of an entrance which faced Parliament House. Rebus glanced across the car park, but there was no sign of Caroline Rattray. The coffee shop though was packed, having not many tables to start with and this still being the height of the tourist season.

'Try somewhere else?’ Mairie suggested.

'Actually,' said Rebus, 'I've gone off the idea. I've got a bit of business across the road.’

Mairie tried not to look relieved. 'I'd caution you,' he warned her, 'not to piss me about.’

'Caution received and understood.’

She waved as she walked off back towards the library. Rebus watched her good legs recede from view. They stayed good-looking all the way out of his vision. Then he threaded his way between the lawyers' cars and entered the court building. He had an idea he was going to leave a note for Caroline Rattray in her box, always supposing she had one. But as he walked into Parliament Hall he saw her talking with another lawyer. There was no chance to retreat; she spotted him immediately. She kept up the conversation for a few more moments, then put her hand on her colleague's shoulder, said a brief farewell, and headed towards Rebus.

It was hard to reconcile her, in her professional garb, with the woman who had spray-painted him the previous night. She left her colleague with a faint smile on her lips, and met Rebus with that same smile. Under her arm were the regulation files and documents.

'Inspector, what brings you here?’

'Can't you guess?’

'Ah yes, of course, I'll send a cheque.’

He had kept telling himself all the way across the car park that he wasn't going to let her get under his skin. Now he found she was already there, like a half inch of syringe.

'Cheque?’

'For the dry cleaning or whatever.’

A passing lawyer nodded to her. 'Hullo, Mansie. Oh, Mansie?’

She spoke with the lawyer for a few moments, her hand on his elbow.

She was offering a cheque for the dry cleaning. Rebus was glad of a few moments in which to cool off: But now someone was tapping his shoulder. He turned to find Mairie Henderson standing there.

'I forgot,'. she said, 'the American's in town.’

'Yes, I know. Have you done anything about him?’

She shook her head. 'Biding my time.’

'Good, no use scaring him off.’

Caroline Rattray was looking interested in this new arrival, so much so that she was losing the thread of her own conversation. She dismissed Mansie halfway through a sentence and turned to Rebus and Mairie. Mairie smiled at her, the two women waiting for an introduction.

'See you then,' Rebus said to Mairie.

'Oh, right.’

Mairie walked backwards a step or two, just in case he'd change his mind, then turned. As she turned, Caroline Rattray took a step forward, her hand out as though she were about to make her own introduction, but Rebus really didn't want her to, so he grabbed the hand and held her back. She shrugged his grip off and glared at him, then looked back through the doorway, Mairie had already left the building.

'You seem to have quite a little stable; Inspector.’

She tried rubbing at her wrist. It wasn't easy with the files still precariously pressed between her elbow and stomach.

'Better stable than unstable,' he said, regretting the dig immediately. He should just have denied the charge.

'Unstable?’ she echoed. 'I don't know what you mean.’

'Look, let's forget it, eh? I mean, forget everything. I've told Patience all about it.’

'I find that difficult to believe.’

'That's your problem, not mine.’

'You think so?’ She sounded amused.

'Yes.’

'Remember something, Inspector.’

Her voice was level and quiet. 'You started it. And then you told the lie. My conscience is clear, what about yours?’

She gave him a little smile before walking away. Rebus turned and found himself confronting a statue of Sir Walter Scott, seated with his feet crossed and a walking-cane held between his open knees. Scott looked as though he'd heard every word but wasn't about to pass judgment.

'Keep it that way,' Rebus warned, not caring who might hear.

He phoned Patience and invited her to an early evening drink at the Playfair Hotel on George Street.

'What's the occasion?’ she asked.

'No occasion,' he said.

He was restless the rest of the day. Glasgow came back to him, but only to say that they'd nothing on either Jim Hay or Active Resistance Theatre. He turned up early at the Playfair, making across its entrance hall (all faded glory, but studied faded glory, almost too perfect) to the bar beyond. It called itself a 'wet bar', which was okay with Rebus. He ordered a Talisker, hoisted himself onto a wellpadded barstool and dipped a hand into the bowl of peanuts which had appeared at his approach.

The bar was empty, but would be filled soon enough with prosperous businessmen on their way home, other businessmen who wanted to look prosperous and didn't mind spending money on it, and the hotel clientele, enjoying a snifter before a pre-di

Rebus paid for his drink and tried not to think about the amount of money he'd just been asked for. After a bit, he changed his mind and asked if he could have some ice. He wanted the drink to last. Eventually a middle-aged couple came into the bar and sat a couple of seats away from him. The woman put on elaborate glasses to study the cocktail list, while her husband ordered Drambuie, pronouncing it Dramboo-i. The husband was short but bulky, given to scowling. He was wearing a white golfing cap, and kept glancing at his watch. Rebus managed to catch his eye, and toasted him.