Mortal Causes: An Inspector Rebus Novel (Inspector Rebus Novels)
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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.
artisans and commercial people at street level.’ ‘So what happened?’ asked Holmes, genuinely interested. ‘The gentry got fed up,’ said Blair-Fish. ‘When the New Town was built on the other side of Nor’ Loch, they were quick to move. With the gentry gone, the old town became dilapidated, and stayed that way for a long time.’ He pointed down some steps into an alcove. ‘That was the baker’s. See those flat stones? That’s where the oven was. If you touch them, they’re still warmer than the stones
Kilpatrick of the Crime Squad, eh? Funny, he looks almost mortal.’ It was true that Kilpatrick’s reputation – a hard one to live up to – preceded him. He’d had spectacular successes in Glasgow, and some decidedly public failures too. Huge quantities of drugs had been seized, but a few terrorist suspects had managed to slip away. ‘At least he looks human,’ Lauderdale went on, ‘which is more than can be said for our cockney friend.’ Abernethy couldn’t have heard this – he was out of earshot –
freelance. He made one more call, external this time. It was to DCI Kilpatrick. ‘What is it, John?’ ‘That magazine, sir, the one doing the story about Calumn Smylie, what’s it called?’ ‘It’s some London rag …’ There were sounds of papers being shuffled. ‘Yes, here it is. Snoop.’ ‘Snoop?’ Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who nodded, signalling she’d heard of it. ‘Right, thank you, sir.’ He put the receiver down before Kilpatrick could ask any questions. ‘Want me to phone them and ask?’ Rebus
working hard,’ Smylie said. ‘Do I?’ ‘You’re never here, I assume you’re working.’ ‘Oh, I’m working.’ Rebus shook water from his hands. ‘Only I never see any notes.’ ‘Notes?’ ‘You never write down your case notes.’ ‘Is that right?’ Rebus dried his hands on the cotton roller-towel. This was his lucky day: a fresh roll had just been fitted. He still had his back to Smylie. ‘Well, I like to keep my notes in my head.’ ‘That’s not procedure.’ ‘Tough.’ He’d just got the word out, and was
Soutars’ high-rise had been renovated, with a sturdy main door added to stop undesirables congregating in the entrance hall or on the stairwells. The entrance hall had been decorated with a green and red mural. Not that you would know any of this to look at the place. The lock had been smashed, and the door hung loosely on its hinges. The mural had been all but blocked out by penned graffiti and thick black coils of spray paint. ‘Which floor are they on?’ Ormiston asked. ‘The third.’ ‘Then