Mortal Causes Read Online Free PDF Page B

said matter-of-factly. It was true: over the past few years there had been a steady increase in the number of firearms on the street.
    ‘Why Mary King’s Close?’ asked the Farmer.
    ‘You’re not likely to be disturbed there,’ Rebus guessed. ‘Plus it’s virtually soundproof.’
    ‘You could say the same about a lot of places, most of them a long way from the High Street in the middle of the Festival. They were taking a big risk. Why bother?’
    Rebus had wondered the same thing. He had no answer to offer.
    ‘And Nemo or Memo?’
    It was Lauderdale’s turn, another respite from the coffee. ‘I’ve got men on it, sir, checking libraries and phone directories, digging up meanings.’
    ‘You’ve talked to the teenagers?’
    ‘Yes, sir. They seem genuine enough.’
    ‘And the person who gave them the key?’
    ‘He didn’t give it to them, sir, they took it without his knowledge. He’s in his seventies and straighter than a plumb-line.’
    ‘Some builders I know,’ said the Farmer, ‘could bend even a plumb-line.’
    Rebus smiled. He knew those builders too.
    ‘We’re talking to everyone,’ Lauderdale went on, ‘who’s been working in Mary King’s Close.’ It seemed he hadn’t got the Farmer’s joke.
    ‘All right, John,’ said the Farmer. ‘You were in the army, what about the tattoo?’
    Yes, the tattoo. Rebus had known the conclusion everyone would jump to. From the case notes, they’d spent most of Sunday jumping to it. The Farmer was examining a photograph. It had been taken during Sunday’s postmortem examination. The SOCOs on Saturday night had taken photos too, but those hadn’t come out nearly as clearly.
    The photo showed a tattoo on the victim’s right forearm. It was a rough, self-inflicted affair, the kind you sometimes saw on teenagers, usually on the backs of hands. A needle and some blue ink, that’s all you needed; that and a measure of luck that the thing wouldn’t become infected. Those were all the victim had needed to prick the letters SaS into his skin.
    ‘It’s not the Special Air Service,’ said Rebus.
    ‘No?’
    Rebus shook his head. ‘For all sorts of reasons. You’d use a capital A for a start. More likely, if you wanted an SAS tattoo you’d go for the crest, the knife and wings and “Who dares wins”, something like that.’
    ‘Unless you didn’t know anything about the regiment,’ offered Lauderdale.
    ‘Then why sport a tattoo?’
    ‘Do we have any ideas?’ asked the Farmer.
    ‘We’re checking,’ said Lauderdale.
    ‘And we still don’t know who he is?’
    ‘No, sir, we still don’t know who he is.’
    Farmer Watson sighed. ‘Then that’ll have to do for now. I know we’re stretched just at the minute, with the Festival threat and everything else, but it goes without saying this takes priority. Use all the men you have to. We need to clean this up quickly. Special Branch and the Crime Squad are already taking an interest.’
    Ah, thought Rebus, so that was why the Farmer was being a bit more thorough than usual. Normally, he’d just let Lauderdale get on with it. Lauderdale was good at running an office. You just didn’t want him out there on the street with you. Watson was shuffling the papers on his desk.
    ‘I see the Can Gang have been at it again.’
    It was time to move on.
    Rebus had had dealings in Pilmuir before. He’d seen a good policeman go wrong there. He’d tasted darkness there. The sour feeling returned as he drove past stunted grass verges and broken saplings. Though no tourists ever came here, there was a welcome sign. It comprised somebody’s gable-end, with white painted letters four feet high: ENJOY YOUR VISIT TO THE GAR-B.
    Gar-B was what the kids (for want of a better term) called the Garibaldi estate. It was a mish-mash of early-’60s terraced housing and late-’60s tower blocks, everything faced with grey harling, with boring swathes of grass separating the estate from the main road. There were a lot of