Mortal Causes (Dead Letter Mysteries) [Mass Market Paperback]

Ian Rankin (Author)

Book Description

Series: Dead Letter Mysteries | Publication Date: January 15, 1997

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.

Editorial Reviews

About the Author

Ian Rankin is the worldwide #1 bestselling writer of the Inspector Rebus mysteries, including Knots and Crosses, Hide and Seek, Let It Bleed, Black and Blue, Set in Darkness, Resurrection Men, A Question of Blood, The Falls and Exit Music. He has won an Edgar Award, a Gold Dagger for fiction, a Diamond Dagger for career excellence, and the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He has been elected a Hawthornden Fellow, and received the Order of the British Empire (OBE) for his contributions to literature. He graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 1982. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons. 

--This text refers to the Paperback edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER 1

PROBABLY the worst Saturday night of the year, which was why Inspector John Rebus had landed the shift. God was in his heaven, just making sure. There had been a derby match in the afternoon, Hibs versus Hearts at Easter Road. Fans making their way back to the west end and beyond had stopped in the city centre to drink to excess and take in some of the sights and sounds of the Festival.

The Edinburgh Festival was the bane of Rebus’s life. He’d spent years confronting it, trying to avoid it, cursing it, being caught up in it. There were those who said that it was somehow atypical of Edinburgh, a city which for most of the year seemed sleepy, moderate, bridled. But that was nonsense; Edinburgh’s history was full of licence and riotous behaviour. But the Festival, especially the Festival Fringe, was different. Tourism was its lifeblood, and where there were tourists there was trouble. Pickpockets and house-breakers came to town as to a convention, while those football supporters who normally steered clear of the city centre suddenly became its passionate defenders, challenging the foreign invaders who could be found at tables outside short-lease cafes up and down the High Street.

To night the two might clash in a big way.

‘It’s hell out there,’ one constable had already commented as he paused for rest in the canteen. Rebus believed him all too readily. The cells were filling nicely along with the CID in-trays. A woman had pushed her drunken husband’s fingers into the kitchen mincer. Someone was applying superglue to cashpoint machines then chiselling the flap open later to get at the money. Several bags had been snatched around Princes Street. And the Can Gang were on the go again.

The Can Gang had a simple recipe. They stood at bus stops and offered a drink from their can. They were imposing figures, and the victim would take the proferred drink, not knowing that the beer or cola contained crushed up Mogadon tablets, or similar fast-acting tranquillisers. When the victim passed out, the gang would strip them of cash and valuables. You woke up with a gummy head, or in one severe case with your stomach pumped dry. And you woke up poor.

Meantime, there had been another bomb threat, this time phoned to the newspaper rather than Lowland Radio. Rebus had gone to the newspaper offices to take a statement from the journalist who’d taken the call. The place was a mad house 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, attached to the side wall of the Chambers. They walked towards it. A young woman was standing next to the door.

‘Inspector,’ she said.

‘Hello, Mairie.’

‘I’ve told her to move on, sir,’ the constable apologised.

Mairie Henderson ignored him. Her eyes were on Rebus’s. ‘What’s going on?’

Rebus winked at her. ‘The Lodge, Mairie. We always meet in secret, like.’ She scowled. ‘Well then, give me a chance. Off to a show, are you?’

‘I was till I saw the commotion.’

‘Saturday’s your day off, isn’t it?’

‘Journalists don’t get days off, Inspector. What’s behind the door?’

‘It’s got glass panels, Mairie. Take a keek for yourself.’

But all you could see through the panels was a narrow landing with doors off. One door was open, allowing a glimpse of stairs leading down. Rebus turned to the constable.

‘Let’s get a proper cordon set up, son. Something across the arches to fend off the tourists before the show starts. Radio in for assistance if you need it. Excuse me, Mairie.’

‘Then there is going to be a show?’

Rebus stepped past her and opened the door, closing it again behind him. He made for the stairs down, which were lit by a naked lightbulb. Ahead of him he could hear voices. At the bottom of this first flight he turned a corner and came upon the group. There were two teenage girls and a boy, all of them seated or crouching, the girls shaking and crying. Over them stood a uniformed constable and a man Rebus recognised as a local doctor. They all looked up at his approach.

‘This is the Inspector,’ the constable told the teenagers. ‘Right, we’re going back down there. You three stay here.’

Rebus, squeezing past the teenagers, saw the doctor give them a worried glance. He gave the doctor a wink, telling him they’d get over it. The doctor didn’t seem so sure.

Together the three men set off down the next flight of stairs. The constable was carrying a torch.

‘There’s electricity,’ he said. ‘But a couple of the bulbs have gone.’ They walked along a narrow passage, its low ceiling further reduced by air- and heating-ducts and other pipes. Tubes of scaffolding lay on the floor ready for assembly. There were more steps down.

‘You know where we are?’ the constable asked.

‘Mary King’s Close,’ said Rebus.

Not that he’d ever been down here, not exactly. But he’d been in similar old buried streets beneath the High Street. He knew of Mary King’s Close.

‘Story goes,’ said the constable, ‘there was a plague in the 1600s, people died or moved out, never really moved back. Then there was a fire. They blocked off the ends of the street. When they rebuilt, they built over the top of the close.’ He shone his torch towards the ceiling, which was now three or four storeys above them. ‘See that marble slab? That’s the floor of the City Chambers.’ He smiled. ‘I came on the tour last year.’

‘Incredible,’ the doctor said. Then to Rebus: ‘I’m Dr Galloway.’

‘Inspector Rebus. Thanks for getting here so quickly.’

The doctor ignored this. ‘You’r...

--This text refers to the Paperback edition.

Product Details

• Mass Market Paperback: 278 pages
• Publisher: St. Martin's Paperbacks (January 15, 1997)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0312960948
• ISBN-13: 978-0312960940
• Product Dimensions: 6.8 x 4.2 x 0.8 inches
• Shipping Weight: 4.8 ounces
• Average Customer Review: 4.1 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (14 customer reviews)
• Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #473,419 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
  • #72 in Books > 4-for-3 Books > Mystery & Thrillers > Mystery > Series

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Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

24 of 25 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars Troubles In Edinburgh, June 27, 2001

By 

Untouchable (Sydney, NSW Australia) - See all my reviews

This review is from: Mortal Causes (Dead Letter Mysteries) (Mass Market Paperback)

After a particularly gruesome murder is discovered during Edinburgh's Fringe Festival, Inspector John Rebus is seconded to the elite Scottish Crime Squad. The reason for this is that aspects of the murder make it appear that a terrorist group was responsible and Rebus's previous SAS experience would come in handy. The investigation takes him from his home base to the villages of rural Scotland and across to Belfast and back again.

Throughout the book, the Catholic versus Protestant problem is continually raised, comparing Scotland to the Troubles in Northern Ireland and suggesting that the same uprising could be imminent. While the characters were discussing terrorist organisations there were enough three letter acronyms being bandied about to make me think I might have stumbled into a Microsoft manual.

Once again we are treated to the bare bones of Edinburgh's back streets and dingy estates that have fallen into ruin. Rebus is as inscrutable and removed from his fellow officers as ever, yet, at least for me, he is becoming more and more likable. I feel this series is getting more and more enjoyable with every book I read, this one is no exception.

16 of 17 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars Rankin's best John Rebus mystery to date!, January 17, 1997

By A Customer

This review is from: Mortal Causes (Dead Letter Mysteries) (Mass Market Paperback)

I only discovered Ian Rankin's John Rebus mysteries quite recently and have read through all those available in a relatively short time. Rebus is a memorable character and Rankin's portrait of Edinburgh and the police department in his procedurals rings as very convincing and true-to-life. In _Mortal Causes_, the most recent of the Rebus titles to see paperback, Rankin's hero must investigate a particularly gruesome murder which begins to look like it might be the work of a terrorist cell from Northern Ireland. Rebus had spent time there earlier in his career, before joining the police. His expertise comes to prove valuable in this case, on in which not everything is as it appears. Set during Edinburgh's annual summer Festival, readers are treated to an exciting, realistic mystery which takes place in the side streets and housing estates that tourists don't normally see. Inspector John Rebus continues to develop into one of the more multi-faceted and interesting characters in contemporary mystery fiction and Ian Rankin's ability to grab the reader by the throat shows no signs of letting up. All in all, this is the best of the Rebus series, with a new book, _Let it Bleed_ currently out in hardcover, and another, _Black and Blue_, waiting in the wings. Receives my highest recommendation

6 of 6 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars Nice Yarn, May 12, 2004

By 

Charles Miller (San Jose, CA USA) - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)   

This review is from: Mortal Causes (Dead Letter Mysteries) (Mass Market Paperback)

It's a good thing that Inspector Rebus is so smart. Otherwise, drinking too much and losing every fight he gets into would surely do him in. When a brutally murdered body turns up during the Edinburgh Festival, Rebus starts our tour of the city's seamier underside. There are more than enough additional murders, beatings, pubs, slums, betrayals, and manipulations to satisfy any mystery fan. The story is taut, well-paced, and peopled by memorable, well-developed characters. Although there was a bit too much impenetrable British slang for my taste, it certainly adds credibility and color to the tale. Pour yourself a single-malt, sit back, and enjoy the ride.