the worn denim jacket. It was filthy, and had been decorated with pen drawings and dark-inked words, names mostly. Grease and dirt were erasing most of the messages and symbols, a few of which had already been covered with fresh hieroglyphs in thicker, darker ink. Soutar slid a hand from his pocket and ran it down his chest, rubbing the few fair curling hairs over his breast bone. Ire was giving Rebus a friendly look, his lips slightly parted. Rebus wanted to smash him in the face.
'I can walk any time I want?’ he said to Rebus.
'Any time.’
The chair grated against the floor as Soutar pushed it back and stood up. Then he laughed and sat down again, wriggling to get comfortable, making sure his crotch was visible. 'Ask me a question then,' he said.
'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 hard line 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 Paisleyl' 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 Sur- render 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 shits up past the point of breathing.’
`When 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.
'Daveyl! 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.’
