Mortal Causes

Caroline Rattray was looking interested in this new arrival, so much so that she was losing the thread of her own conversation. She dismissed Mansie halfway through a sentence and turned to Rebus and Mairie. Mairie smiled at her, the two women waiting for an introduction.

'See you then,' Rebus said to Mairie.

'Oh, right.’

Mairie walked backwards a step or two, just in case he'd change his mind, then turned. As she turned, Caroline Rattray took a step forward, her hand out as though she were about to make her own introduction, but Rebus really didn't want her to, so he grabbed the hand and held her back. She shrugged his grip off and glared at him, then looked back through the doorway, Mairie had already left the building.

'You seem to have quite a little stable; Inspector.’

She tried rubbing at her wrist. It wasn't easy with the files still precariously pressed between her elbow and stomach.

'Better stable than unstable,' he said, regretting the dig immediately. He should just have denied the charge.

'Unstable?’ she echoed. 'I don't know what you mean.’

'Look, let's forget it, eh? I mean, forget everything. I've told Patience all about it.’

'I find that difficult to believe.’

'That's your problem, not mine.’

'You think so?’ She sounded amused.

'Yes.’

'Remember something, Inspector.’

Her voice was level and quiet. 'You started it. And then you told the lie. My conscience is clear, what about yours?’

She gave him a little smile before walking away. Rebus turned and found himself confronting a statue of Sir Walter Scott, seated with his feet crossed and a walking-cane held between his open knees. Scott looked as though he'd heard every word but wasn't about to pass judgment.

'Keep it that way,' Rebus warned, not caring who might hear.

He phoned Patience and invited her to an early evening drink at the Playfair Hotel on George Street.

'What's the occasion?’ she asked.

'No occasion,' he said.

He was restless the rest of the day. Glasgow came back to him, but only to say that they'd nothing on either Jim Hay or Active Resistance Theatre. He turned up early at the Playfair, making across its entrance hall (all faded glory, but studied faded glory, almost too perfect) to the bar beyond. It called itself a 'wet bar', which was okay with Rebus. He ordered a Talisker, hoisted himself onto a wellpadded barstool and dipped a hand into the bowl of peanuts which had appeared at his approach.

The bar was empty, but would be filled soon enough with prosperous businessmen on their way home, other businessmen who wanted to look prosperous and didn't mind spending money on it, and the hotel clientele, enjoying a snifter before a pre-dinner stroll. A waitress stood idly against the end of the bar, not far from the baby grand. The piano was kept covered with a dustsheet until evening, so for now there was wallpaper music, except that whoever was playing trumpet wasn't half bad. He wondered if it was Chet Baker.

Rebus paid for his drink and tried not to think about the amount of money he'd just been asked for. After a bit, he changed his mind and asked if he could have some ice. He wanted the drink to last. Eventually a middle-aged couple came into the bar and sat a couple of seats away from him. The woman put on elaborate glasses to study the cocktail list, while her husband ordered Drambuie, pronouncing it Dramboo-i. The husband was short but bulky, given to scowling. He was wearing a white golfing cap, and kept glancing at his watch. Rebus managed to catch his eye, and toasted him.

'Slainte.’

The man nodded, saying nothing, but the wife smiled. 'Tell me,' she said, 'are there many Gaelic speakers left in Scotland?’

Her husband hissed at her, but Rebus was happy to answer. 'Not many,' he conceded.

'Are you from Edinburgh?’

Head-in-burrow, it sounded like.

'Pretty much.’

She noticed that Rebus's glass was now all melting ice. 'Will you join us?’

The husband hissed again, something about her not bothering people who only wanted a quiet drink.

Rebus looked at his watch. He was calculating whether he could afford to buy a round back. 'Thank you, yes, I'll have a Talisker.’

'And what is that?’

'Malt whisky, it comes from Skye. There are some Gaelic speakers over there.’

The wife started humming the first few notes of the Skye Boat Song, all about a French Prince who dressed in drag. Her husband smiled to cover his embarrassment. It couldn't be easy, travelling with a madwoman.

'Maybe you can tell me something,' said Rebus. 'Why is a wet bar called a wet bar?’

'Could be because the beer's draught,' the husband offered grudgingly, 'not just bottled.’

The wife had perched her shiny handbag on the bar and now opened it, taking out a compact so she could check her face.

'You're not the mystery man, are you?’ she asked.

Rebus put down his glass. 'Sorry?’

'Ellie!' her husband warned.

'Only,' she said, putting away her compact, 'Clyde had a message to meet someone in the bar, and you're the only person here. They didn't leave a name or anything.’