Mortal Causes by Ian Rankin Page B

younger than Rebus, with short thick fair hair and a small dark moustache. You’d take him for a farm labourer, maybe even a farmer. In the Borders, he’d definitely have played rugby.
    ‘Ken,’ Kilpatrick said to Smylie, ‘I’d like you to show John around. He’s going to be joining us temporarily. He’s ex-Army, served in Ulster.’ Kilpatrick winked. ‘A good man.’ Ken Smylie looked appraisingly at Rebus, who tried to stand up straight, inflating his chest. He didn’t know why he wanted to impress Smylie, except that he didn’t want him as an enemy. Smylie nodded slowly, sharing a look with Kilpatrick, a look Rebus didn’t understand.
    Kilpatrick touched Smylie’s arm. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned and called to another officer. ‘Jim, any calls?’ Then he walked away from them.
    Rebus turned to the map. ‘Ferry crossings?’
    ‘There isn’t a ferry sails from the east coast.’
    ‘They go to Scandinavia.’
    ‘This one doesn’t.’ He had a point. Rebus decided to try again.
    ‘Boats then?’
    ‘Boats, yes. We think boats.’ Rebus had expected the voice to be basso profondo , but it was curiously high, as though it hadn’t broken properly in Smylie’s teens. Maybe it was the reason he didn’t say much.
    ‘You’re interested in boats then?’
    ‘Only if they’re bringing in contraband.’
    Rebus nodded. ‘Guns.’
    ‘Maybe guns.’ He pointed to some of the east European ports. ‘See, these days things being what they are, there are a lot of weapons in and around Russia. If you cut back your military, you get excess. And the economic situation there being what it is, you get people who need money.’
    ‘So they steal guns and sell them?’
    ‘If they need to steal them. A lot of the soldiers kept their guns. Plus they picked up souvenirs along the way, stuff from Afghanistan and wherever. Here, sit down.’
    They sat at Smylie’s desk, Smylie himself spilling from a moulded plastic chair. He brought some photographs out of a drawer. They showed machine guns, rocket launchers, grenades and missiles, armour-piercing shells, a whole dusty armoury.
    ‘This is just some of the stuff that’s been tracked down. Most of it in mainland Europe: Holland, Germany, France. But some of it in Northern Ireland of course, and some in England and Scotland.’ He tapped a photo of an assault rifle. ‘This AK 47 was used in a bank hold-up in Hillhead. You know Professor Kalashnikov is a travelling salesman these days? Times are hard, so he goes to arms fairs around the world flogging his creations. Like this.’ Smylie picked out another photograph. ‘Later model, the AK 74. The magazine’s made of plastic. This is actually the 74S, still quite rare on the market. A lot of the stuff travels across Europe courtesy of motorcycle gangs.’
    ‘Hell’s Angels?’
    Smylie nodded. ‘Some of them are in this up to their tattooed necks, and making a fortune. But there are other problems. A lot of stuff comes into the UK direct. The armed forces, they bring back souvenirs too, from the Falklands or Kuwait. Kalashnikovs, you name it. Not everyone gets searched, a lot of stuff gets in. Later, it’s either sold or stolen, and the owners aren’t about to report the theft, are they?’
    Smylie paused and swallowed, maybe realising how much he’d been talking.
    ‘I thought you were the strong silent type,’ Rebus said.
    ‘I get carried away sometimes.’
    Rebus wouldn’t fancy being on stretcher detail. Smylie began to tidy up the photographs.
    ‘That’s basically it,’ he said. ‘The material that’s already here we can’t do much about, but with the help of Interpol we’re trying to stop the trafficking.’
    ‘You’re not saying Scotland is a target for this stuff?’
    ‘A conduit, that’s all. It comes through here on its way to Northern Ireland.’
    ‘The IRA?’
    ‘To whoever has the money to pay for it. Right now, we think it’s more a Protestant thing. We just don’t know