Mortal Causes by Ian Rankin

lopsided sneer. ‘Has my minder gone for a jimmy?’
    ‘He’s gone to say hello to someone.’
    ‘Well tell him ta-ta from me.’ Abernethy looked around, then lowered his voice. ‘I don’t think DCI Kilpatrick will be sorry to see the back of me.’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    Abernethy chuckled. ‘Listen to you. If your voice was any colder you could store cadavers in it. Still think you’ve got terrorists in Edinburgh?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘Well, it’s your problem. I’m well shot of it. Tell Kilpatrick I’ll talk to him before I head south.’
    ‘You’re supposed to stay here.’
    ‘Just tell him I’ll be in touch.’
    There was no painless way of stopping Abernethy from leaving, so Rebus didn’t even try. But he didn’t think Kilpatrick would be happy. He picked up one of the phones. What did Abernethy mean about it being Rebus’s problem? If there was a terrorist connection, it’d be out of CID’s hands. It would become Special Branch’s domain, M15’s domain. So what did he mean?
    He gave Kilpatrick the message, but Kilpatrick didn’t seem bothered after all. There was relaxation in his voice, the sort that came with a large whisky. The Farmer had stopped drinking for a while, but was back off the wagon again. Rebus wouldn’t mind a drop himself …
    Lauderdale, who had also just put down a telephone, was staring at a pad on which he’d been writing as he took the call.
    ‘Something?’ Rebus asked.
    ‘We may have a positive ID on the victim. Do you want to check it out?’ Lauderdale tore the sheet from the pad.
    ‘Do Hibs fans weep?’ Rebus answered, accepting it.
    Actually, not all Hibs fans were prone to tears. Siobhan Clarke supported Hibernian, which put her in a minority at St Leonard’s. Being English-educated (another minority, much smaller) she didn’t understand the finer points of Scottish bigotry, though one or two of her fellow officers had attempted to educate her. She wasn’t Catholic, they explained patiently, so she should support Heart of Midlothian. Hibernian were the Catholic team. Look at their name, look at their green strip. They were Edinburgh’s version of Glasgow Celtic, just as Hearts were like Glasgow Rangers.
    ‘It’s the same in England,’ they’d tell her. ‘Wherever you’ve got Catholics and Protestants in the same place.’ Manchester had United (Catholic) and City (Protestant), Liverpool had Liverpool (Catholic) and Everton (Protestant). It only got complicated in London. London even had Jewish teams.
    Siobhan Clarke just smiled, shaking her head. It was no use arguing, which didn’t stop her trying. They just kept joking with her, teasing her, trying to convert her. It was light-hearted, but she couldn’t always tell how light-hearted. The Scots tended to crack jokes with a straight face and be deadly serious when they smiled. When some officers at St Leonard’s found out her birthday was coming, she found herself unwrapping half a dozen Hearts scarves. They all went to a charity shop.
    She’d seen the darker side of football loyalty, too. The collection tins at certain games. Depending on where you were standing, you’d be asked to donate to either one cause or the other. Usually it was for ‘families’ or ‘victims’ or ‘prisoners’ aid’, but everyone who gave knew they might be perpetuating the violence in Northern Ireland. Fearfully, most gave. One pound sterling towards the price of a gun.
    She’d come across the same thing on Saturday when, with a couple of friends, she’d found herself standing at the Hearts end of the ground. The tin had come round, and she’d ignored it. Her friends were quiet after that.
    ‘We should be doing something about it,’ she complained to Rebus in his car.
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘Get an undercover team in there, arrest whoever’s behind it.’
    ‘Behave.’
    ‘Well why not?’
    ‘Because it wouldn’t solve anything and there’d be no charge we could make stick other than something