Mortal Causes: An Inspector Rebus Novel (Inspector Rebus Novels)
In Edinburgh you're never far from a peaceful spot, or from a hellish one either. Now, in the heart of summer, in the midst of a nationalist festival, Inspector John Rebus is on the murder case of a young man left hanging in a spot where his screams would never be heard. To find the victim's identity--and his killer--Rebus searches from Edinburgh's most violent neighborhood to Belfast, Northern Ireland--amongst petty thugs, gunrunners, and heavyweight criminals. But before Rebus can get to the truth, he's bloodied by the dream of society's madmen--and staring into the glint of a killer's eyes.
Once again, Ian Rankin has demonstrated his incredible crime writing skills in Mortal Causes.
him. ‘Morris Gerald Cafferty.’ Rebus read the fax sheet. ‘Say it ain’t so. It’s just Glasgow having a joke.’ But Lauderdale was shaking his head. ‘No joke,’ he said. Big Ger Cafferty was in prison, had been for several months, would be for many years to come. He was a dangerous man, runner of protection rackets, extortioner, murderer. They’d pinned only two counts of murder on him, but there had been others, Rebus knew there had been others. ‘You think someone was sending him a message?’ he
Cowdenbeath. The pub they were in seemed to be hosting a crowd of the marchers in the dance hall upstairs. Sounds of drums, especially the huge drum they called the lambeg, and flutes and penny whistles, bad choruses repeated time and again. They’d gone upstairs to investigate, just as the thing was winding down. God Save the Queen was being destroyed on a dozen cheap flutes. And some of the kids singing along, sweaty brows and shirts open, some of them had their arms raised, hands straight out
and a round silver buckle. The officer had always liked that style, had even considered buying himself a pair, just for the weekends. Then maybe he’d start saving for the bike to go with them. ‘Do we need a search warrant?’ he said. ‘We’re called to a disturbance, doors wide open, no one barring our entry. Besides, this is a community centre. There are rules and regulations. Licences need to be applied for and granted. Do you have a licence for this … soirée?’ ‘Swaah-ray?’ the youth said to
story of how Rebus came by his cuts and bruises (his eyes were purpling and swelling nicely, a consequence of the head butt), was further cheered by the news that they were headed for the Gar-B. ‘They should open the place as a safari park,’ he opined. ‘Remember those places? They used to tell you to keep your car doors locked and your windows rolled up. Same advice I’d give to anyone driving through the Gar-B. You never know when the baboons will stick their arses in your face.’ ‘Did you ever
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Rebus turned to him for a moment. ‘Maybe I just want someone else to know.’ Ormiston weighed this remark. ‘You think you’re in trouble?’ ‘I can think of half a dozen people who’d throw confetti at my funeral.’ ‘You should take this to the Chief.’ ‘Maybe. Would you?’ Ormiston thought about this. ‘I haven’t known him long, but I heard good things from Glasgow, and he seems pretty straight. He expects us to show initiative, work off our own backs. That’s what