Mortal Causes

Jamesie watched the three men walk to the stairs. He turned towards his confidant, but John Rebus had already left the bar.

17

Every chain, no matter how strong, has one link weaker than the rest. Rebus had hopes of Jamesie MacMurray, as he walked out of the Merchant's. He was halfway to his car when he saw Caro Rattray walking towards him.

'You were going to call me,' she said.

'Work's been a bit hectic.’

She looked back at the pub. 'Call that work, do you?’

He smiled. 'Do you live here?’

'On the Canongate. I've just been walking my dog.’

'Your dog?’

There was no sign of a leash, never mind the animal. She shrugged.

'I don't actually like dogs, I just like the idea of walking them. So I have an imaginary dog.’

'What's he called?’

'Sandy.’

Rebus looked down at her feet. 'Good boy, Sandy.’

'Actually, Sandy's a girl.’

'Hard to tell at this distance.’

'And I don't talk to her.’

She smiled. 'I'm not mad, you know.’

'Right, you just go walking with a pretend dog. So what are you and Sandy doing now?’

'Going home and having a drink. Fancy joining us?’

Rebus thought about it. 'Sure,' he said. 'Drive or walk?’

'Let's walk,' said Caroline Rattray. 'I don't want Sandy shedding on your seats.’

She lived in a nicely furnished flat, tidy but not obsessive. There was a grandfather clock in the hall, a family heirloom. Her surname was engraved on the brass face.

A dividing wall had been taken away so that the living room had windows to front and back A book lay open on the sofa, next to a half-finished box of shortbread. Solitary pleasures, thought Rebus.

'You're not married?’ e said.

'God, no.’

'Boyfriend?’

She smiled again. 'Funny word that, isn't it? Especially when you get to my age. I mean, a boyfriend should be in his teens or twenties.’

'Gentleman friend then,' he persisted.

'Doesn't have the same connotations though, does it?’

Rebus sighed.

'I know, I know,' she said, 'never argue with an advocate.’

Rebus looked out of the back window onto a drying green. Overhead, the few clouds were basking in the space they had. 'Sandy's digging up your flower bed.’

'What do you want to drink?’

'Tea, please.’

'Sure? I've only got decaf.’

'That's perfect.’

He meant it. While she made noises in the kitchen, he walked through the living room. Diningtable and chairs and wall units at the back, sofa, chairs, bookcases towards the front. It was a nice room. From the small front window, he looked down onto slow-walking tourists and a shop selling tartan teddy-bears.

"This is a nice part of town,' he said, not really meaning it..

'Are you kidding? Ever tried parking round here in the summer?’

'I never try parking anywhere in the summer.’

He moved away from the window. A flute and some sheet music sat on a spindly music-stand in one corner. On a unit were small framed photos of the usual gap-toothed kids and kind-looking old people.

'Family,' she said, coming back into the room. She lit a cigarette, took two deep puffs on it, then stubbed it into an ashtray, exhaling and wafting the smoke away with her hand. 'I hate smoking indoors,' she explained.

'Then why do it?’

'I smoke when I'm nervous.’

She smiled slyly and returned to the kitchen, Rebus following. The aroma of the cigarette mingled with the richer aroma of the perfume she wore. Had she just applied some? It hadn't been this strong before.

The kitchen was small, functional. The whole flat had the look of recent but not radical redecoration.

'Milk?’

'Please. No sugar.’

Their conversation, he realised, was assuming a studied banality.

The kettle clicked off. 'Can you take the mugs?’

She had already poured a splash of milk into either plain yellow mug. There wasn't much room at all in the kitchen, something Rebus realised as he went to pick up the mugs. He was right beside her as she stirred the teabags in the pot. Her head was bent down, affording a view of the long black hairs curling from her nape, and the nape of her neck itself. She half turned her face towards him, smiling, her eyes finally finding his. Then she moved her body around too. Rebus kissed her forehead first, then her cheek. She had closed her eyes. He burrowed his fare in her neck, inhaling deeply: shampoo and perfume and skin. He kissed her again, then came up for air. Caroline opened her eyes slowly.

'Well now,' she said.

He felt suddenly as though he'd been flung down a tunnel, watching the circle of light at the entrance shrink to a full stop. He tried desperately to think of something to say. There was perfume in his lungs.

'Well now,' she repeated. What did that mean? Was she pleased, shocked, bemused? She turned back to the teapot and put its lid on.

I better go,' Rebus said. She became very still. He couldn't see her face, not enough of it. 'Hadn't I-‘

'I've no commitments, John.’ Her hands were resting lightly on the work surface, either side of the pot. 'What about you?’

He knew what she meant; she meant Patience. 'There's someone,' he said.

'I know, Dr Curt told me.’

'I'm sorry, Caroline, I shouldn't have done that.’

'What?’ She turned to him.

'Kissed you.’