even if he didn't like doing it. Rifles had gotten lighter since his Army days, but they hadn't gotten any more comfortable. They'd also gotten a deal more lethal. The wooden hand-grip was as cold as a coffin handle.
'We don't know exactly where they came from,' Kilpatrick explained. 'And we don't even know where they were headed. The driver wouldn't say anything, no matter how scary the Anti-Terrorist Branch got with him. He denied all knowledge of the load, and wasn't about to point a finger anywhere else.’
Rebus put the gun back in its crate. Calumn Smylie leaned past him to wipe off any fingerprints with a piece of rag.
'So what's the deal?’ Rebus asked.
Calumn Smylie gave the answer. 'When the driver was pulled in, there were some phone numbers in his pocket, two in Glasgow, one in Edinburgh. All three of them were bars.’
'Could mean nothing,' Rebus said.
'Or everything,' commented Ken Smylie.
'See,' Calumn added, 'could be those bars are his contacts, maybe his employers, or the people his employers are selling to.’
'So,' said Kilpatrick, leaning against one of the crates, 'we've got men watching all three pubs.’
'In the hope of what?’
It was Calumn's turn again. 'When Special Branch stopped the lorry, they managed to keep it quiet. It's never been reported, and the driver's tucked away somewhere under the Prevention of Terrorism Act and a few minor offences.’
Rebus nodded. 'So his employers or whoever won't know what's happened?’
Calumn was nodding too. 'And they might get antsy?’
Now Rebus shook his head. 'You should be a sniper.’
Calumn frowned. 'Why?’
'Because that's the longest shot I've ever heard.’
Neither Smylie seemed thrilled to hear this. 'I've already overheard a conversation mentioning The Shield,' Calumn said.
'But you've no idea what The Shield is,' Rebus countered. 'Which pub are we talking about anyway?’
'The Dell.’
It was Rebus's turn to frown. 'Just off the Garibaldi Estate?’
'That's the one.’
'We've had some aggro there.’
'Yes, so I hear.’
Rebus turned to Kilpatrick. 'Why do you need the lorry?’
'In case we can operate a sting.’
'How long are you going to give it?’
Calumn shrugged. His eyes were dark and heavy from tension and a lack of sleep. He rubbed a hand through his uncombed hair, then over his unshaven face.
'I can see it's been like a holiday for you,' Rebus said. He knew the plan must have been cooked up by the Smylie brothers. They seemed its real defenders. Kilpatrick's part in it was more uncertain.
'Better than that,' Calumn was saying.
'How so?’
'The holiday I'm having, you don't need to send postcards.’
Not many people know of Parliament House, home of the High Court of Justiciary, Scotland's highest court for criminal cases. There are few signposts or identifying markers outside, and the building itself is hidden behind St Giles' separated from it by a small anonymous car park containing a smattering of jaguars and BMWs. Of the many doors facing the prospective visitor, only one normally stands open. This is the public entrance, and leads into Parliament Hall, from off which stretch the Signet Library and Advocates Library.
There were fourteen courts in all, and Rebus guessed he'd been in all of them over the years. He sat on one of the long wooden benches. The lawyers around him were wearing dark pinstripe suits, white shirts with raised collars and white bow ties, grey wigs, and long black cloaks like those his teachers had worn. Mostly the lawyers were 100 talking, either with clients or with each other. If with each other, they might raise their voices, maybe even share a joke. But with clients they were more circumspect. One well-dressed woman was nodding as her advocate talked in an undertone, all the while trying to stop the many files under his arm from wriggling free.
Rebus knew that beneath the large stained glass window there were two corridors lined with old wooden boxes. Indeed, the first corridor was known as the Boil Corridor. Each box was marked with a lawyer's name, and each had a slat in the top, though the vast majority of boxes were kept open more or less permanently. Here documents awaited collection and perusal. Rebus had wondered at the openness of the system, the opportunities for theft and espionage. But there had never been any reports of theft, and security men were in any case never far away. He got up now and walked over to the stained glass. He knew the King portrayed was supposed to be James V, but wasn't sure about the rest of it, all the figures or the coats of arms. To his right, through a wooden swing door with glass windows, he could see lawyers poring over books. Etched in gold on the glass were the words PRIVATE ROOM.
He knew another private room close to here. Indeed, just on the other side of St Giles and down some flights of stairs. Billy Cunningham had been murdered not fifty yards from the High Court.
He turned at the sound of heels clicking towards him. Caroline Rattray was dressed for work, from black shoes and stockings to powder-grey wig.
'I wouldn't have recognised you,' he said.
'Should I take that as a compliment?’
She gave him a big smile, and held it as she held his gaze. Then she touched his arm. 'I see you've noticed.’
She looked up at the stained glass. 'The royal arms of Scotland.’
Rebus looked up too. Beneath the large picture there were five smaller square windows, each showing a coat of arms. Caroline Rattray's eyes were on the central panel. Two unicorns held the shield of the red Lion Rampant. Above on a scroll were the words IN DEFENCE, and at the bottom a Latin inscription. Rebus read it.
'Nemo me impune lacessit.’
He turned to her. 'Never my best subject.’
'You might know it better as 'Wha daur meddle wi' me?” It's the motto of Scotland, or rather, the motto of Scotland's kings.’
'A while since we've had any of them.’
'And of the Order of the Thistle. Sort of makes you the monarch's private soldier, except they only give it to crusty old sods. Sit down.’
She led them back to the bench Rebus had been sitting on. She had files with her, which she placed on the floor rather than the bench, though there was space. Then she gave him her full attention. Rebus didn't say anything, so she smiled again, tipping her head slightly to one side. 'Don't you see?’
'Nemo,' he guessed.
'Yes! Latin for nobody.’
'We already know that, Miss Rattray. Also a character in Jules Verne and in Dickens, plus the letters make the word 'omen' backwards.’ He paused. 'We've been working, you see. But does it get us any further forward? I mean, was the victim trying to tell us that no one killed him?’
She seemed to puncture, her shoulders sagging. It was like watching an old balloon die after Christmas.
'It could be something,' he offered. 'But it's hard to know what.’
'I see.’
'You could have told me about it on the phone.’
'Yes, I could.’
She straightened her back. 'But I wanted you to see for yourself.’
'You think the Order of the Thistle ganged up and murdered Billy Cunningham?’
Her eyes were holding his again, no smile on her lips. He broke free, staring past her at the stained glass. 'How's the prosecution game?’
'It's a slow day,' she said. 'I hear the victim's father is a convicted murderer. Is there a connection?’
