'He owns that club, the one with the body in it?’
'That's him.’
'I know he should change the music.’
'What to?’
'Acid house.’
It was worth a laugh, but Rebus didn't oblige. 'He's an acquaintance of my assailant.’
`What is he, slumming it?’
'I'd like to ask him, but I can't see him answering. He's been putting money into the youth club.’
Rebus was measuring each utterance, wondering how much to feed Ormiston.
`Very civic minded of him.’
`Especially for someone who got kicked out of the Orange Lodge on grounds of zeal.’
Ormiston frowned. `How are you doing for evidence?’
'The youth club leader's admitted the connection. Some kids I spoke to a while back thought I was Bothwell, only my car wasn't flash enough. He drives a customised Merc.’
'How do you read it?’
'I think Peter Cave blundered with good intention into something that was already happening. I think something very bad is happening in the Gar-B.’
They had to take a chance on parking the car and leaving it. If Rebus had thought about it, he'd have brought one other man, someone to guard the wheels. There were kids loitering by the parking bays, but not the same kids who'd done his tyres before, so he handed over a couple of quid and promised a couple more when he came back.
`It's dearer than the parking in town,' Ormiston complained as they headed for the high-rises. The 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 we'll take the stairs. I don't trust the lifts in these places.’
The stairs were at the end of the hall. Their walls had become a winding scribble-pad, but they didn't smell too bad. At each turn in the stairs lay empty cider cans and cigarette stubs. 'What do they need a youth club for when they've got the stairwell?’ Ormiston asked.
`What've you got against the lift?’
'Sometimes the kids'll wait till you're between floors then shut off the power.’
He looked at Rebus. 'My sister lives in one of those H-blocks in Oxgangs.’
They entered the third floor at the end of along hallway which seemed to be doubling as a wind tunnel. There were fewer scribbles on the walls, but there were also smeared patches, evidence that the inhabitants had been cleaning the stuff off. Some of the doors offered polished brass nameplaques and bristle doormats. But most were also protected by a barred iron gate, kept locked shut when the flats were empty. Each flat had a mortice deadlock as well as a Yale, and a spyhole.
'I've been in jails with laxer security.’
But conspicuously, the door with the name Soutar on it had no extra security, no gate or spyhole. This fact alone told Rebus a lot about Davey Soutar, or at least about his reputation amongst his peers. Nobody was going to break into Davey's flat.
There was neither bell nor knocker, so Rebus banged his fist against the meat of the door. After a wait, a woman answered. She peered out through a chink, then opened the door wide.
'Fuckin' polis,' she said. It was a statement of fact rather than a judgment. 'Davey, I suppose?’
'It's Davey,' said Rebus.
'He did that to you?’
She meant Rebus's face, so he nodded. 'And what were you doing to him?’
'Just the usual, Mrs Soutar,' Ormiston interrupted. 'A length of lead pipe on the soles of the feet, a wet towel over the face, you know how it is.’
Rebus nearly said something, but Ormiston had judged her right. Mrs Soutar smiled tiredly and stepped back into her hall. 'You'd better come in. A bit of steak would stop those eyes swelling, but all I've got is half a pound of mince, and it's the economy stuff. You'd get more meat from a butcher's pencil. This is my man, Dod.’
She had led them along the short narrow hall and into a small living room where a venerable three-piece suite took up too much space. Along the sofa, his shoeless feet resting on one arm of it, lay an unshaven man in his forties, or perhaps even badly nurtured thirties. He was reading a war comic, his lips moving with the words on the page.
'Hiy, Dod,' Mrs Soutar said loudly, 'these are the polls. Davey's just put the heid on one of them.’
'Good for him,' Dod said without looking up. 'No offence, like.’
'None taken.’
Rebus had wandered over to the window, wondering what the view was like. The window, however, was a botched piece of double glazing. Condensation had crept between the panes, frosting the glass.
'It wasn't much of a view to start with,' Mrs Soutar said. He turned and smiled at her. He didn't doubt she would see through any scheme, any lie. She was a short, stronglooking woman, big boned with a chiselled jaw but a pleasant face. If she didn't smile often, it was because she had to protect herself: She couldn't afford to look weak. In the GarB, the weak didn't last long. Rebus wondered how much influence she'd had over her son while he was growing up here. A lot, he'd say. But then the father would be an influence too.
She kept her arms folded while she talked, unfolding them only long enough to slap Dod's feet off the end of the sofa so she could sit herself down on the arm.
'So what's he done this time?’
Dod put down his comic and reached into his packet of cigarettes, lighting one for himself and handing the pack to Mrs Soutar.
'He's assaulted a police officer for a start,' Rebus said. 'That's a pretty serious offence, Mrs Soutar. It could land him a spell in the carpentry shop.’
'You mean the jail?’ Dod pronounced it, 'jyle'.
'That's what I mean.’
Dod stood up, then half doubled over, seized by a cough which crackled with phlegm. He went into the kitchenette, separated from the living room by a breakfast bar, and spat into the sink.
'Run the tap!' Mrs Soutar ordered. Rebus was looking at her. She was looking sad but resilient. It took her only a moment to shrug off the idea of the prison sentence. 'He'd be better off in jail.’
'How's that?’
'This is the Gar-B, or hadn't you noticed? It does things to you, to the young ones especially. Davey'd be better off out of the place.’
'What has it done to him, Mrs Soutar?’
She stared at him, considering how long an answer to give. 'Nothing,' she said finally. Ormiston was standing by the wall unit, studying a pile of cassettes next to the cheap,hi-fi system. 'Put some music on if you like,' she told him. 'Might cheer us up.’
'Okay,' said Ormiston, opening a cassette case.
'I was joking.’
But Ormiston just smiled, slammed the tape home, and pressed play. Rebus wondered what he was up to. Then the music started, an accordion at first, joined by flutes and drums, and then a quavering voice, using vibrato in place of skill.
The song was 'The Sash'. Ormiston handed the cassette case to Rebus. The cover was a cheap Xeroxed drawing of the Red Hand of Ulster, the band's name scratched on it in black ink. They were called the Proud Red Hand Marching Band, though it was hard to conceive of anyone marching to an accordion.
Dod, who had returned from the sink, started whistling along and clapping his hands. 'It's a grand old tune, eh?’
