Mortal Causes Read Free

offices to take a statement from the journalist who’d taken the call. The place was a madhouse of Festival and Fringe critics filing their reviews. The journalist read from his notes.
    ‘He just said, if we didn’t shut the Festival down, we’d be sorry.’
    ‘Did he sound serious?’
    ‘Oh, yes, definitely.’
    ‘And he had an Irish accent?’
    ‘Sounded like it.’
    ‘Not just a fake?’
    The reporter shrugged. He was keen to file his story, so Rebus let him go. That made three calls in the past week, each one threatening to bomb or otherwise disrupt the Festival. The police were taking the threat seriously. How could they afford not to? So far, the tourists hadn’t been scared off, but venues were being urged to make security checks before and after each performance.
    Back at St Leonard’s, Rebus reported to his Chief Superintendent, then tried to finish another piece of paperwork. Masochist that he was, he quite liked the Saturday back-shift. You saw the city in its many guises. It allowed a salutory peek into Edinburgh’s grey soul. Sin and evil weren’t black – he’d argued the point with a priest – but were greyly anonymous. You saw them all night long, the grey peering faces of the wrongdoers and malcontents, the wife beaters and the knife boys. Unfocused eyes, drained of all concern save for themselves. And you prayed, if you were John Rebus, prayed that as few people as possible ever had to get as close as this to the massive grey nonentity.
    Then you went to the canteen and had a joke with the lads, fixing a smile to your face whether you were listening or not.
    ‘Here, Inspector, have you heard the one about the squid with the moustache? He goes into a restaurant and –’
    Rebus turned away from the DC’s story towards his ringing phone.
    ‘DI Rebus.’
    He listened for a moment, the smile melting from his face. Then he put down the receiver and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair.
    ‘Bad news?’ asked the DC.
    ‘You’re not joking, son.’
    The High Street was packed with people, most of them just browsing. Young people bobbed up and down trying to instil enthusiasm in the Fringe productions they were supporting. Supporting them? They were probably the leads in them. They busily thrust flyers into hands already full of similar sheets.
    ‘Only two quid, best value on the Fringe!’
    ‘You won’t see another show like it!’
    There were jugglers and people with painted faces, and a cacophony of musical disharmonies. Where else in the world would bagpipes, banjos and kazoos meet to join in a busking battle from hell?
    Locals said this Festival was quieter than the last. They’d been saying it for years. Rebus wondered if the thing had ever had a heyday. It was plenty busy enough for him.
    Though it was a warm night, he kept his car windows shut. Even so, as he crawled along the setts flyers would be pushed beneath his windscreen wipers, all but blocking his vision. His scowl met impregnable drama student smiles. It was ten o’clock, not long dark; that was the beauty of a Scottish summer. He tried to imagine himself on a deserted beach, or crouched atop a mountain, alone with his thoughts. Who was he trying to kid? John Rebus was always alone with his thoughts. And just now he was thinking of drink. Another hour or two and the bars would sluice themselves out, unless they’d applied for (and been granted) the very late licences available at Festival time.
    He was heading for the City Chambers, across the street from St Giles’ Cathedral. You turned off the High Street and through one of two stone arches into a small parking area in front of the Chambers themselves. A uniformed constable was standing guard beneath one of the arches. He recognised Rebus and nodded, stepping out of the way. Rebus parked his own car beside a marked patrol car, stopped the engine and got out.
    ‘Evening, sir.’
    ‘Where is it?’
    The constable nodded towards a door near one of the arches,