Mortal Causes (23 page)

‘You know the Orange Loyal Brigade?’

‘Sure. That was easy, try another.’

But Rebus had turned to Cave. ‘Have you heard of it, too?’

‘I can’t say I –’

‘Hey! It’s me the questions are for!’

‘In a second, Mr Soutar.’ Davey Soutar liked that:
Mr
Soutar. Only the dole office and the census taker had ever called him Mr. ‘The Orange Loyal Brigade, Mr Cave, is an extreme hardline Protestant group, a small force but an organised one, based in east central Scotland.’

Soutar confirmed this with a nod.

‘The Brigade were kicked out of the Orange Lodge for being too extreme. This may give you some measure of them. Do you know what they’re committed to, Mr Cave? Maybe Mr Soutar can answer.’

Mr
again! Soutar chuckled. ‘Hating the Papes,’ he said.

‘Mr Soutar’s right.’ Rebus’s eyes hadn’t moved from Cave’s since he’d first turned to him. ‘They hate Catholics.’

‘Papes,’ said Soutar. ‘Left-footers, Tigs, bogmen, Paddies.’

‘And a few more names beside,’ added Rebus. He left a measured pause. ‘You’re a Roman Catholic, aren’t you?’ As if he’d forgotten. Cave merely nodded, while Soutar slid his eyes sideways to look at him. Suddenly Rebus turned to Soutar. ‘Who’s head of the Brigade, Davey?’

‘Er … Ian Paisley!’ He laughed, and got a smile from Rebus.

‘No, but really.’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘No? You don’t know Gavin MacMurray?’

‘MacMurray? Is he the one with the garage in Currie?’

‘That’s him. He’s the Supreme Commander of the Orange Loyal Brigade.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘And his son’s the Provost-Marshall. Lad called Jamesie, be a year or two younger than you.’

‘Oh aye?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Short term memory loss, that’s what a bad diet does.’

‘Eh?’

‘All the chips and crisps, the booze you put away, not exactly brain food, is it? I know what it’s like on estates like the Gar-B, you eat rubbish and you inject yourselves with anything you can get your paws on. Your body’ll wither and die, probably before your brain does.’

The conversation had clearly taken an unexpected turn. ‘What are you talking about?’ Soutar yelled. ‘I don’t do drugs! I’m as fit as fuck, pal!’

Rebus looked at Soutar’s exposed chest. ‘Whatever you say, Davey.’

Soutar sprang to his feet, the chair tumbling behind him. He threw off his jacket and stood there, chest inflated, pulling both arms up and in to show the swell of muscle.

‘You could punch me in the guts and I wouldn’t flinch.’

Rebus could believe it, too. The stomach was flat except for ripples of musculature, looking so solid they might have been sculpted from marble. Soutar relaxed his arms, held them in front of him.

‘Look, no tracks. Drugs are for mugs.’

Rebus held up a pacifying hand. ‘You’ve proved your point, Davey.’

Soutar stared at him for a moment longer, then laughed and picked his jacket up off the floor.

‘Interesting tattoos, by the way.’

They were the usual homemade jobs in blue ink, with one larger professional one on the right upper arm. It showed the Red Hand of Ulster, with the words No Surrender beneath. Below it the self-inflicted tattoos were just letters and messages: UVF, UDA, FTP, and SaS.

Rebus waited till Soutar had put on his jacket. ‘You know Jamesie MacMurray,’ he stated.

‘Do I?’

‘You bumped into him last Saturday when the Brigade was marching on Princes Street. You were there for the march, but you had to leave. However, you said hello to your old friend first. You knew Mr Cave was a Catholic right from the start, didn’t you? I mean, he didn’t hide the fact?’

Soutar was looking confused. The questions were all over the place, it was hard to keep up.

‘Pete was straight with us,’ he admitted. He was staying on his feet.

‘And that didn’t bother you? I mean, you came to his club, bringing your gang with you. And the Catholic gang came along too. What did Jamesie say about that?’

‘It’s nothing to do with him.’

‘You could see it was a good thing though, eh? Meeting the Catholic gang, divvying up the ground between you. It’s the way it works in Ulster, that’s what you’ve heard. Who told you? Jamesie? His dad?’

‘His
dad
?’

‘Or was it The Shield?’

‘I never even –’ Davey Soutar stopped. He was breathing hard as he pointed at Rebus. ‘You’re in shite up past the point of breathing.’

‘Then I must be standing on your shoulders. Come on, Davey.’

‘It’s
Mr
Soutar.’

‘Mr Soutar then.’ Rebus had his hands open, palms up. He was sitting back in his chair, rocking it on its back legs. ‘Come on, sit down. It’s no big deal. Everybody knows about The Shield, knows you’re part of it. Everybody except Mr Cave here.’ He turned to Peter Cave. ‘Let’s just say that The Shield is even more extreme than the Orange Loyal Brigade. The Shield collects money, mostly by violence and extortion, and it sends arms to Northern Ireland.’ Soutar was shaking his head.

‘You’re nothing, you’ve
got
nothing.’

‘But you’ve got something, Davey. You’ve got your hate and your anger.’ He turned to Cave again. ‘See, Mr Cave? You’ve got to be asking, how come Davey puts up with a committed worker for the Church of Rome, or the Whore of Rome as Davey himself might put it? A question that has to be answered.’

When he looked round, Soutar was on the stage. He pushed over the sets, kicking them, stomping them, then jumped down again and made for the doors. His face was orange with anger.

‘Was Billy a friend too, Davey?’ That stopped him dead. ‘Billy Cunningham, I mean.’

Soutar was on the move.

‘Davey! You’ve forgotten your fags!’ But Davey Soutar was out the door and screaming things which were unintelligible. Rebus lit a cigarette for himself.

‘That laddie’s got too much testosterone for his own good,’ he said to Cave.

‘Look who’s talking.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Just an act, Mr Cave. Method acting, you might say.’ He blew out a plume of smoke. Cave was staring at his hands, which were clasped in his lap. ‘You need to know what you’ve gotten into.’

Cave looked up. ‘You think I condone sectarian hate?’

‘No, my theory’s much simpler. I think you get off on violence and young men.’

‘You’re sick.’

‘Then maybe all you are, Mr Cave, is misguided. Get out while you can. A policeman’s largesse never lasts.’ He walked over to Cave and bent down, speaking quietly. ‘They’ve swallowed you, you’re in the pit of the Gar-B’s stomach. You can still crawl out, but maybe there’s not as much time as you think.’ Rebus patted Cave’s cheek. It was cold and soft, like chicken from the fridge.

‘Look at yourself some time, Rebus. You might find you’d make a bloody good terrorist yourself.’

‘Thing is, I’d never be tempted. What about you?’

Cave stood up and walked past him towards the doors. Then he walked through them and kept going. Rebus blew smoke from his nose, then sat on the edge of the stage, finishing the cigarette. Maybe he’d tripped Soutar’s fuse too early. If it had come out right, he’d have learned something more about The Shield. At the moment, it was all cables and coiled springs, junctions from which spread different coloured wires. Hard to defuse when you didn’t know which wire to attack first.

The doors were opening again, and he looked up. Davey Soutar was standing there. Behind him there were others, more than a dozen of them. Soutar was breathing hard. Rebus glanced at his watch and hoped it was right. There was an Emergency Exit at the other end of the hall, but where did Rebus go from there? Instead, he climbed onto the stage and watched them advance. Soutar wasn’t saying anything. The whole procession took place in silence, except for breathing and the shuffle of feet on the floor. They were at the front of the stage now. Rebus picked up a length of wood, part of the broken set. Soutar, his eyes on the wood, began to climb onto the stage.

He stopped when he heard the sirens. He froze for a moment, staring up at Rebus. The policeman was smiling.

‘Think I’d come here without my cavalry, Davey?’ The sirens were drawing closer. ‘Your call, Davey,’ Rebus said, managing to sound relaxed. ‘If you want another riot, here’s your chance.’

But all Davey Soutar did was ease himself back off the stage. He stood there, eyes wide and unblinking, as if sheer will of thought might cause Rebus to implode. A final snarl, and he turned and walked away. They followed him, all of them. Some looked back at Rebus. He tried not to look too relieved, lit another cigarette instead. Soutar was crazy, a force gone mad, but he was strong too. Rebus was just beginning to realise how very strong he was.

He went home exhausted that evening, ‘home’ by now being a very loose term for Patience’s flat.

He was still shaking a bit. When Soutar had left the hall that first time, he’d taken it all out on Rebus’s car. There were fresh dents, a smashed headlamp, a chipped windscreen. The actors in the van looked like they’d witnessed a frenzy. Then Rebus had told them about their sets.

He’d thought about the theatre group on his way, under police escort, out of the Gar-B. They’d been parked outside the Dell the night he’d seen the Ulsterman there. He still had their flyer, the one that had doubled as a paper plane.

At St Leonard’s, he found them in the Fringe programme, Active Resistance Theatre; active as opposed to passive, Rebus supposed. He placed a couple of calls to Glasgow. Someone would get back to him. The rest of the day was a blur.

As he was locking what was left of his car, he sensed a shape behind him.

‘Damn you, weasel-face!’

But he turned to see Caroline Rattray.

‘Weasel-face?’

‘I thought you were someone else.’

She put her arms round him. ‘Well I’m not, I’m me. Remember me? I’m the one who’s being trying to phone you for God knows how long. I know you got my messages, because someone in your office told me.’

That would be Ormiston. Or Flower. Or anyone else with a grudge.

‘Christ, Caro.’ He pulled away from her. ‘You must be crazy.’

‘For coming here?’ She looked around. ‘This is where she lives?’

She sounded completely unconcerned. Rebus didn’t need this. His head felt like it was splitting open above the eyes. He needed to bathe and to stop thinking, and it would take a great effort to stop him thinking about this case.

‘You’re tired,’ she said. Rebus wasn’t listening. He was too busy looking at Patience’s parked car, at her gateway, then along the street, willing her not to appear. ‘Well, I’m tired too, John.’ Her voice was rising. ‘But there’s always room in the day for a little consideration!’

‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed.

‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do!’

‘Christ, Caro …’ He squeezed shut his eyes and she relented for a moment. It was long enough to appraise his physical and psychic state.

‘You’re exhausted,’ she concluded. She smiled and touched his face. ‘I’m sorry, John. I just thought you’d been avoiding me.’

‘Who’d want to do that, Caro?’ Though he was starting to wonder.

‘What about a drink?’ she said.

‘Not tonight.’

‘All right,’ she said, pouting. A moment ago, she had been all tempest and cannon fire, and now she was a surface as calm as any doldrums could produce. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘Fine.’

‘Eight o’clock then, in the Caly bar.’ The Caly being the Caledonian Hotel. Rebus nodded assent.

‘Great,’ he said.

‘See you then.’ She leaned into him again, kissing his lips. He drew away as quickly as he could, remembering her perfume. One more waft of that, and Patience would go nuclear.

‘See you, Caro.’ He watched her get into her car, then walked quickly down the steps to the flat.

The first thing he did was run a bath. He looked at himself in the mirror and got a shock. He was looking at his father. In later years, his father had grown a short grey beard. There was grey in Rebus’s stubble too.

‘I look like an old man.’

There was a knock at the bathroom door. ‘Have you eaten?’ Patience called.

‘Not yet. Have you?’

‘No, shall I stick something in the microwave?’

‘Sure, great.’ He added foam-bath to the water.

‘Pizza?’

‘Whatever.’ She didn’t sound too bad. That was the thing about being a doctor, you saw so much pain every day, it was easy to shrug off the more minor ailments like arguments at home and suspected infidelities. Rebus stripped off his clothes and dumped them in the laundry basket. Patience knocked again.

‘By the way, what are you doing tomorrow?’

‘You mean tomorrow night?’ he called back.

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing I know of. I might be working …’

‘You better not be. I’ve invited the Bremners to dinner.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Rebus, putting his foot in the water without checking the temperature. The water was scalding. He lifted the foot out again and screamed silently at the mirror.

They had breakfast together, talking around things, their conversation that of acquaintances rather then lovers. Neither spoke his or her thoughts. We Scots, Rebus thought, we’re not very good at going public. We store up our true feelings like fuel for long winter nights of whisky and recrimination. So little of us ever reaches the surface, it’s a wonder we exist at all.

‘Another cup?’

‘Please, Patience.’

‘You’ll be here tonight,’ she said. ‘You won’t be working.’ It was neither question nor order, not explicitly.

So he tried phoning Caro from Fettes, but now she was the one having messages left for her: one on her answering machine at home, one with a colleague at her office. He couldn’t just say, ‘I’m not coming’, not even to a piece of recording tape. So he’d just asked her to get in touch. Caro Rattray, elegant, apparently available, and mad about him. There
was
something of the mad in her, something vertiginous. You spent time with her and you were standing on a cliff edge. And where was Caro? She was standing right behind you.

When his phone rang, he leapt for it.

‘Inspector Rebus?’ The voice was male, familiar.

‘Speaking.’