Mortal Causes by Ian Rankin

was pouring himself a refill from his personal machine.
    ‘Right, John,’ he said at last, sitting down. ‘Bottom line, you’re being seconded to DCI Kilpatrick’s section.’ Watson took a gulp of coffee, swilling it around his mouth. Rebus looked to Kilpatrick, who obliged with a confirmation.
    ‘You’ll be based with us at Fettes, but you’re going to be our eyes and ears on this murder inquiry, liaison if you like, so you’ll still spend most of your time here at St Leonard’s.’
    ‘But why?’
    ‘Well, Inspector, this case might concern the Crime Squad.’
    ‘Yes, sir, but why me in particular?’
    ‘You’ve been in the Army. I notice you served in Ulster in the late ’60s.’
    ‘That was quarter of a century ago,’ Rebus protested. An age spent forgetting all about it.
    ‘Nevertheless, you’ll agree there seem to be paramilitary aspects to this case. As you commented, the gun is not your everyday hold-up weapon. It’s a type of revolver used by terrorists. A lot of guns have been coming into the UK recently. Maybe this murder will connect us to them.’
    ‘Wait a second, you’re saying you’re not interested in the shooting, you’re interested in the gun ?’
    ‘I think it will become clearer when I show you our operation at Fettes. I’ll be through here in –’ he looked at his watch ‘– say twenty minutes. That should give you time to say goodbye to your loved ones.’ He smiled.
    Rebus nodded. He hadn’t touched his coffee. A cooling scum had formed on its surface. ‘All right, sir,’ he said, getting to his feet.
    He was still a little dazed when he got back to the Murder Room. Two detectives were being told a joke by a third. The joke was about a squid with no money, a restaurant bill, and the guy from the kitchen who washed up. The guy from the kitchen was called Hans.
    Rebus was joining the SCS, the Bastard Brigade as some called it. He sat at his desk. It took him a minute to work out that something was missing.
    ‘Which bollocks of you’s eaten my sandwich?’
    As he looked around the room, he saw that the joke had come to an untimely end. But no one was paying attention to him. A message was being passed through the place, changing the mood. Lauderdale came over to Rebus’s desk. He was holding a sheet of fax paper.
    ‘What is it?’ Rebus asked.
    ‘Glasgow have tracked down Billy Cunningham’s mother.’
    ‘Good. Is she coming here?’
    Lauderdale nodded distractedly. ‘She’ll be here for the formal ID.’
    ‘No father?’
    ‘The father and mother split up a long time ago. Billy was still an infant. She told us his name though.’ He handed over the fax sheet. ‘It’s Morris Cafferty.’
    ‘What?’ Rebus’s hunger left him.
    ‘Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
    Rebus read the fax sheet. ‘Say it ain’t so. It’s just Glasgow having a joke.’ But Lauderdale was shaking his head.
    ‘No joke,’ he said.
    Big Ger Cafferty was in prison, had been for several months, would be for many years to come. He was a dangerous man, runner of protection rackets, extortioner, murderer. They’d pinned only two counts of murder on him, but there had been others, Rebus knew there had been others.
    ‘You think someone was sending him a message?’ he asked.
    Lauderdale shrugged. ‘This changes the case slightly, certainly. According to Mrs Cunningham, Cafferty kept tabs on Billy all the time he was growing up, made sure he didn’t want for anything. She still gets money from time to time.’
    ‘But did Billy know who his father was?’
    ‘Not according to Mrs Cunningham.’
    ‘Then would anyone else have known?’
    Lauderdale shrugged again. ‘I wonder who’ll tell Cafferty.’
    ‘They better do it by phone. I wouldn’t want to be in the same room with him.’
    ‘Lucky my good suit’s in my locker,’ said Lauderdale. ‘There’ll have to be another press conference.’
    ‘Best tell the Chief Super first though, eh?’
    Lauderdale’s eyes cleared. ‘Of