Mortal Causes

Rebus put his fingers to the two stripes. They were about three inches apart and three inches long. Whatever had been taped there, it had been square and thin. Rebus knew exactly what would fit that description.

Out in the hall, Murdock was waiting to leave.

`Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,' Rebus said.

The Canton sounded like another old ladies' tea-room, but in fact was a transport cafe with famed large helpings. When Mairie Henderson finally got back to Rebus, he suggested taking her to lunch there. It was on the shore at Newhaven, facing the Firth of Forth just about where that broad inlet became inseparable from the North Sea.

Lorries bypassing Edinburgh or heading to Leith from the north would usually pause for a break outside the Carlton. You saw them in a line by the sea wall, between Starbank Road and Pier Place. The drivers thought the Carlton well worth a detour, even if other road users and the police didn't always appreciate their sentiments.

Inside, the Carlton was a clean well-lit place and as hot as a truck engine. For air conditioning, they kept the front door wedged open. You never ate alone, which was why Rebus phoned in advance and booked a table for two.

`The one between the counter and the toilets,' he specified.

'Did I hear you right? Book a table?’

'You heard me.’

'Nobody's booked a table all the years we've been open.’

The chef held the phone away from his face. `Hiy, Maggie, there's somebody here wants tae book a table.’

`Cut the shite, Sammy, it's John Rebus speaking.’

`Special occasion is it, Mr Rebus? Anniversary? I'll bake yis a cake.’

'Twelve o'clock,' said Rebus, 'and make sure it's the table I asked for, okay?’

'Yes, sir.’

So when Rebus walked into the Carlton, and Sammy saw him, Sammy whipped a dishtowel off the stove and came sauntering between the tables, the towel over his arm.

'Your table is ready, sir, if you'll follow me.’

The drivers were grinning, a few of them offering encouragement. Maggie stood there holding a pillar of empty white plates, and attempted a curtsy as Rebus went past. The small Formica-topped table was laid for two, with a bit of card folded in half and the word RESERVED written in blue biro. There was a clean sauce bottle, into the neck of which someone had pushed a plastic carnation. He saw Mairie look through the cafe window, then come in through the door. The drivers looked up.

'Room here, sweetheart.’

`Hiy, hen, sit on my lap, no' his.’

They grinned through the smoke, cigarettes never leaving their mouths. One of them ate camel-style, lower jaw moving in sideways rotation while his upper jaw chewed down. He reminded Rebus so strongly of Ormiston, he had to look away. Instead he looked at Mairie. Why not, everyone else was. They were staring without shame at her bum as she moved between the tables. True to form, Maine had worn her shortest skirt. At least, Rebus hoped it was her shortest. And it was tight, one of those black Lycra numbers. She wore it with a baggy white t-shirt and thick black tights whose vertical seams showed pinpricks of white leg flesh. She'd pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, and swung her shoulder-bag onto the floor as she took her seat.

'I see we're in the members' enclosure.’

`It took money but I thought it was worth it.’

Rebus studied her while she studied the wall-board which constituted the Carlton's menu.

'You look good,' he lied. Actually, she looked exhausted.

`Thanks. I wish I could say the same.’

Rebus winced. 'I looked as good as you at your age.’

`Even in a mini-skirt?’

She leaned down to lift a pack of cigarettes from her bag, giving Rebus a view of her lace edged bra down the front of her t-shirt. When she came up again he was frowning.

`Okay, I won't smoke.’

`It stunts your growth. And speaking of health warnings, what about that story of yours?’

But Maggie came over, so they went through the intricacies of ordering. 'We're out of Moet Shandy,' Maggie said.

'What was that about?’

Mairie asked after Maggie had gone.

`Nothing,' he said. `You were about to tell me…?’

`Was I?’

She smiled. `How much do you know?’

'I know you've been working on a story, a chunk of which you've sold to Snoop but the bulk of which is destined for some US magazine.’

'Well, you know quite a lot then.’

'You took the story to your own paper first?’

She sighed. 'Of course I did, but they wouldn't print it. The company lawyers thought it was close to libel.’

'Who were you libelling?’

'Organisations rather than individuals. I had a blow-up with my editor about it, and handed in my resignation. His line was that the lawyers were paid to be over-cautious.’

'I bet their fees aren't over-cautious.’

Which reminded him: Caro Rattray. He still had to contact her.

'I was planning on going freelance anyway, just not quite so soon. But at least I'm starting with a strong story. A few months back I got a letter from a New York journalist. His name's Jump Cantona.’

'Sounds like a car.’