Mortal Causes by Ian Rankin Page A

course.’ He lifted Rebus’s receiver to make the call. ‘What did he want with you, by the way?’
    ‘Nothing much,’ said Rebus. He meant it too, now.
    ‘But maybe this changes things,’ he persisted to Kilpatrick in the car. They were seated in the back, a driver taking them the slow route to Fettes. He was sticking to the main roads, instead of the alleys and shortcuts and fast stretches unpoliced by traffic lights that Rebus would have used.
    ‘Maybe,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘We’ll see.’
    Rebus had been telling Kilpatrick all about Big Ger Cafferty. ‘I mean,’ he went on, ‘if it’s a gang thing, then it’s nothing to do with paramilitaries, is it? So I can’t help you.’
    Kilpatrick smiled at him. ‘What is it, John? Most coppers I know would give their drinking arm for an assignment with SCS.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘But you’re not one of them?’
    ‘I’m quite attached to my drinking arm. It comes in handy for other things.’ Rebus looked out of the window. ‘The thing is, I’ve been on secondment before, and I didn’t like it much.’
    ‘You mean London? The Chief Superintendent told me all about it.’
    ‘I doubt that, sir,’ Rebus said quietly. They turned off Queensferry Road, not a minute’s walk from Patience’s flat.
    ‘Humour me,’ said Kilpatrick stiffly. ‘After all, it sounds like you’re an expert on this man Cafferty too. I’d be daft not to use a man like you.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    And they left it at that, saying nothing as they turned into Fettes, Edinburgh’s police HQ. At the end of the long road you got a good view of the Gothic spires of Fettes School, one of the city’s most exclusive. Rebus didn’t know which was uglier, the ornate school or the low anonymous building which housed police HQ. It could have been a comprehensive school, not so much a piece of design as a lack of it. It was one of the most unimaginative buildings Rebus had ever come across. Maybe it was making a statement about its purpose.
    The Scottish Crime Squad’s Edinburgh operation was run from a cramped office on the fifth floor, a floor shared with the city’s Scene of Crime unit. One floor above worked the forensic scientists and the police photographers. There was a lot of interaction between the two floors.
    The Crime Squad’s real HQ was Stuart Street in Glasgow, with other branches in Stonehaven and Dunfermline, the latter being a technical support unit. Eighty-two officers in total, plus a dozen or so civilian staff.
    ‘We’ve got our own surveillance and drugs teams,’ Kilpatrick added. ‘We recruit from all eight Scottish forces.’ He kept his spiel going as he led Rebus through the SCS office. A few people looked up from their work, but by no means all of them. Two who did were a bald man and his freckle-faced neighbour. Their look wasn’t welcoming, just interested.
    Rebus and Kilpatrick were approaching a very large man who was standing in front of a wall-map. The map showed the British Isles and the north European mainland, stretching east as far as Russia. Some sea routes had been marked with long narrow strips of red material, like something you’d use in dressmaking. Only the big man didn’t look the type for crimping-shears and tissue-paper cut-outs. On the map, the ports had been circled in black pen. One of the routes ended on the Scottish east coast. The man hadn’t turned round at their approach.
    ‘Inspector John Rebus,’ said Kilpatrick, ‘this is Inspector Ken Smylie. He never smiles, so don’t bother joking with him about his name. He doesn’t say much, but he’s always thinking. And he’s from Fife, so watch out. You know what they say about Fifers.’
    ‘I’m from Fife myself,’ said Rebus. Smylie had turned round to grip Rebus’s hand. He was probably six feet three or four, and had the bulk to make the height work. The bulk was a mixture of muscle and fat, but mostly muscle. Rebus would bet the guy worked out every day. He was a few years