Mortal Causes

'I didn't mind.’

She gave him her smile again. 'I'll never drink a whole pot of tea on my own.’

He nodded, realising he was still holding the mugs. 'I'll take them through.’

He walked out of the kitchen on unsteady legs, his heart shimmying. He'd kissed her. Why had he kissed her? He hadn't meant to. But it had happened. It was real now. The photographs smiled at him as he put the mugs down on a small table which already had coffee-rings on it. What was she doing in the kitchen? He stared at the doorway, willing her to come, willing her not to come.

She came. The teapot was on a tray now, a tea-cosy in the shape of a King Charles spaniel keeping in the heat.

'Is Sandy a King Charles?’

'Same days. How strong do you like it?’

'As it comes.’

She smiled again and poured, handed him a mug, then took one herself and sat in her chair. She didn't look very comfortable. Rebus sat opposite her on the sofa, not resting against the back of it but leaning forward.

'There's some shortbread,' she said.

'No, thanks.’

'So,' she said, 'any progress on Nemo?’

'I think so.’

This was good: they were talking. 'SaS is a loyalist support group. They're buying and shipping arms.’

'And the victim in Mary King's Close, he was killed by paramilitaries, nothing to do with his father?’

Rebus shrugged again. 'There's been another murder. It could be linked.’

'That man they found in the cellar?’

Rebus nodded. 'Nobody told me they were connected.’

'It's being kept a bit quiet. He was working undercover.’

'How was he found?’

'The flat was having some building work done. One of the labourers opened the cellar door.’

'That's a coincidence.’

'What?’

'There was building work going on in Mary King's Close too.’

'Not the same firm.’

'You've checked?’

Rebus frowned. 'Not me personally, but yes, we've checked.’

'Oh well.’

She took another cigarette from her packet and made to light It, but stopped herself. She took the cigarette from her mouth and examined it. John,' she said, 'if you'd like to, we can make love any time you want.’

There were none of Cafferty's men waiting for him outside Patience's flat, nothing to delay him. He'd been hoping for the Weasel. Right now, he felt ready for some hands-on with the Weasel.

But it wasn't Cafferty's man he was angry with.

Inside, the long hallway was cool and dark, the only light coming from three small panes of glass above the front door.

'Patience?’ he called, hoping she'd be out. Her car was outside, but that didn't mean anything. He wasted to run a bath, steep in it. He turned on both taps, then went to the bedroom, picked up the phone, and rang Brian Holmes at home. Holmes's partner Nell picked up the call.

'It's John Rebus,' he told her. She said nothing, just put the receiver to one side and went off to fetch Brian. There was no love lost these days between Rebus and Nell Stapleton, something Holmes himself realised but couldn't bring himself to query…

'Yes, sir?’

'Brian, those two building companies.’

'Mary King's Close and St Stephen Street?’

'How thoroughly have we checked them?’

'Pretty well.’

'And we've cross-referenced? There's no connection between them.’

'No, why?’

'Can you check them again yourself?’

'I can.’

'Humour me then. Do it Monday.’

'Anything in particular I should be looking for?’

'No.’

He paused. 'Yes, start with casual labour.’

‘I thought you wanted Siobhan and me to go see Murdock?’

'I did. I'll take your place. Have a nice evening.’

Rebus put down the phone and went back to the bathroom. There was good pressure in the pipes, and the bath was practically full already. He turned of the cold and reduced the hot to a trickle. The kitchen was through the living room, and he fancied some milk from the fridge.

Patience was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.

'I didn't know you were here,' Rebus said.

'I live here, remember? This is my flat.’

'Yes, I know.’

She was angry with him. He opened the fridge door, took out the milk, and managed to pass her without touching her. He put the milk on the breakfast table and got a glass from the draining board. 'What are you cooking?’

'Why the interest? You never eat here.’

'Patience…’

She came to the sink, scraping peelings into a plastic container. It would all go onto her compost heap. She turned to him. 'Running a bath?’

'Yes.’

'It's Giorgio, isn't it?’

'Sorry?’

'That perfume.’

She leaned close, sniffed his shirt. 'Giorgio of Beverly Hills.’

'Patience…’

'You'll have to tell me about her one of these days.’

'You think I'm seeing someone?’

She threw the small sharp kitchen knife at the sink and ran from the room. Rebus stood there, listening until he heard the front door slam. He poured the milk down the sink.