Mortal Causes (2 page)

I’d moved to France in 1990 and was still living there when I wrote
Mortal Causes
. I visited Edinburgh several times a year for research purposes (and because there wasn’t a decent pub anywhere near my dilapidated farmhouse). Thanks to a couple of friends called Pauline and David, I was able to stay in the city during the Festival in 1993. On a previous trip that year, however, I’d decided to visit a street known as Mary King’s Close. I’d heard about the place from locals down the years, and knew that to gain entry you had to ask at the council headquarters on the High Street and hope that a tour would be forthcoming. This is because Mary King’s Close exists underground – the City Chambers has been built on top of it. These days, Mary King’s Close has been revivified as a successful tourist amenity, but back then the only way to get access was to ask the council and then wait patiently for news of a day and time when you’d be allowed in.

The evening I went down there, there were about ten of us, led by a council official. I found the unlit maze of alleys and corridors both eerie and fascinating. One room in particular startled me, with its array of rusted iron hooks hanging from a whitewashed vaulted ceiling. Call me twisted, but I could visualise a body hanging there, and came out of Mary King’s Close knowing I’d found the opening to my novel. (I left early, actually, peeling away from the group so I could do some exploring of my own: it’s possible they think I’m still down there …)

When
Mortal Causes
was published, I received an angry and anonymous letter saying I should be ashamed for lingering on the darker side of Protestantism, when everyone knew the real bad guys were the IRA. The writer ended his or her tirade with the heartfelt wish that I had died in one of the (many) IRA atrocities committed on mainland Britain. I felt that the author had missed the point, but that may indicate a failing on my part. Or maybe there are just people out there who are happiest wearing blinkers.

It was quite an unusual letter, in that most of my other correspondents had a question which did not in the least refer to my use (or misuse) of sectarianism. What they wanted to know was: what’s the punchline of the joke? If you have yet to read the book, you’ll understand this question by the time you reach the end. And if you didn’t watch the TV adverts for Fairy Liquid in the 1970s, you’ll still be bamboozled by the punchline I’m about to give. My only defence is that it’s a real joke, told to me by a school and university friend called George. Here it is:

For Hans that does dishes can feel soft as Gervase, with mild green hairy-lipped squid.

Sorry.

He could scream all he liked.

They were underground, a place he didn’t know, a cool ancient place but lit by electricity. And he was being punished. The blood dripped off him onto the earth floor. He could hear sounds like distant voices, something beyond the breathing of the men who stood around him. Ghosts, he thought. Shrieks and laughter, the sounds of a good night out. He must be mistaken: he was having a very bad night in.

His bare toes just touched the ground. His shoes had come off as they’d scraped him down the flights of steps. His socks had followed sometime after. He was in agony, but agony could be cured. Agony wasn’t eternal. He wondered if he would walk again. He remembered the barrel of the gun touching the back of his knee, sending waves of energy up and down his leg.

His eyes were closed. If he opened them he knew he would see flecks of his own blood against the whitewashed wall, the wall which seemed to arch towards him. His toes were still moving against the ground, dabbling in warm blood. Whenever he tried to speak, he could feel his face cracking: dried salt tears and sweat.

It was strange, the shape your life could take. You might be loved as a child but still go bad. You might have monsters for parents but grow up pure. His life had been neither one nor the other. Or rather, it had been both, for he’d been cherished and abandoned in equal measure. He was six, and shaking hands with a large man. There should have been more affection between them, but somehow there wasn’t. He was ten, and his mother was looking tired, bowed down, as she leaned over the sink washing dishes. Not knowing he was in the doorway, she paused to rest her hands on the rim of the sink. He was thirteen, and being initiated into his first gang. They took a pack of cards and skinned his knuckles with the edge of the pack. They took it in turns, all eleven of them. It hurt until he belonged.

Now there was a shuffling sound. And the gun barrel was touching the back of his neck, sending out more waves. How could something be so cold? He took a deep breath, feeling the effort in his shoulder-blades. There couldn’t be more pain than he already felt. Heavy breathing close to his ear, and then the words again.

‘
Nemo me impune lacessit
.’

He opened his eyes to the ghosts. They were in a smoke-filled tavern, seated around a long rectangular table, their goblets of wine and ale held high. A young woman was slouching from the lap of a one-legged man. The goblets had stems but no bases: you couldn’t put them back on the table until they’d been emptied. A toast was being raised. Those in fine dress rubbed shoulders with beggars. There were no divisions, not in the tavern’s gloom. Then they looked towards him, and he tried to smile.

He felt but did not hear the final explosion.

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 Rebus’s life. He’d 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; Edinburgh’s 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 housebreakers 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.

Tonight the two might clash in a big way.

‘It’s 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 husband’s 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 proffered 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 who’d taken the call. The place was a madhouse of Festival and Fringe critics filing their reviews. The journalist read from his notes.

‘He just said, if we didn’t shut the Festival down, we’d 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 hadn’t been scared off, but venues were being urged to make security checks before and after each performance.

Back at St Leonard’s, 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 Edinburgh’s grey soul. Sin and evil weren’t black – he’d 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 DC’s 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.

‘You’re 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 won’t 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. They’d 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 o’clock, 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 they’d 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.’

‘I’ve told her to move on, sir,’ the constable apologised.

Mairie Henderson ignored him. Her eyes were on Rebus’s. ‘What’s 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.’

‘Saturday’s your day off, isn’t it?’

‘Journalists don’t get days off, Inspector. What’s behind the door?’

‘It’s 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.

‘Let’s 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.