Free Mortal Causes by Ian Rankin Page B

there?’
    Cave didn’t answer, he was too busy shaking his head. ‘I feel sorry for you, really I do. I can smell cynicism off you like sulphur. I don’t happen to believe anything you’ve just said.’
    ‘Then you’re every bit as naive as I am cynical, and that means they’re just using you. Which is good, because the only way of looking at this is that you’ve been sucked into it and you accept it, knowing the truth.’
    Cave’s cheeks were red again. ‘How dare you say that!’ And he punched Rebus in the stomach, hard. Rebus had been punched by professionals, but he was unprepared and felt himself double over for a moment, getting his wind back. There was a burning feeling in his gut, and it wasn’t whisky. He could hear cheering in the distance. Tiny figures were dancing up and down on the community centre roof. Rebus hoped they’d fall through it. He straightened up again.
    ‘Is that what you call setting a good example, Mr Cave?’
    Then he punched Cave solidly on the jaw. The young man stumbled backwards and almost fell.
    He heard a double roar from the community centre. The youth of the Gar-B were clambering down from the roof, starting to run in his direction. Burns had started the car and was bumping it across the football pitch towards him. The car was outpacing the crowd, but only just. An empty can bounced off its rear windscreen. Burns barely braked as he caught up with Rebus. Rebus yanked the door open and got in, grazing a knee and an elbow. Then they were off again, making for the roadway.
    ‘Well,’ Burns commented, checking the rearview, ‘that seemed to go off okay.’ Rebus was catching his breath and examining his elbow.
    ‘How did you know Davey Soutar’s name?’
    ‘He’s a maniac,’ Burns said simply. ‘I try to keep abreast of these things.’
    Rebus exhaled loudly, rolling his sleeve back down. ‘Never do a favour for a priest,’ he said to himself.
    ‘I’ll bear that in mind, sir,’ said Burns.

7
    Rebus walked into the Murder Room next morning with a cup of delicatessen decaf and a tuna sandwich on wholemeal. He sat at his desk and peeled off the top from the styrofoam cup. From the corner of his eye he could see the fresh mound of paperwork which had appeared on his desk since yesterday. But he could ignore it for another five minutes.
    The victim’s fingerprints had been matched with those taken from items in Billy Cunningham’s room. So now they had a name for the body, but precious little else. Murdock and Millie had been interviewed, and the Post Office were looking up their personnel flies. Today, Billy’s room would be searched again. They still didn’t know who he was really. They still didn’t know anything about where he came from or who his parents were. There was so much they didn’t know.
    In a murder investigation, Rebus had found, you didn’t always need to know everything.
    Chief Inspector Lauderdale was standing behind him. Rebus knew this because Lauderdale brought a smell with him. Not everyone could distinguish it, but Rebus could. It was as if talcum powder had been used in a bathroom to cover some less acceptable aroma. Then there was a click and the buzz of Lauderdale’s battery-shaver. Rebus straightened at the sound.
    ‘Chief wants to see you,’ Lauderdale said. ‘Breakfast can wait.’
    Rebus stared at his sandwich.
    ‘I said it can wait.’
    Rebus nodded. ‘I’ll bring you back a mug of coffee, shall I, sir?’
    He took his own coffee with him, sipping it as he listened for a moment at Farmer Watson’s door. There were voices inside, one of them more nasal than the other. Rebus knocked and entered. DCI Kilpatrick was sitting across the desk from the Farmer.
    ‘Morning, John,’ said the Chief Super. ‘Coffee?’
    Rebus raised his cup. ‘Got some, sir.’
    ‘Well, sit down.’
    He sat next to Kilpatrick. ‘Morning, sir.’
    ‘Good morning, John.’ Kilpatrick was nursing a mug, but he wasn’t drinking. The Farmer meantime