Mortal Causes

'You calling me a liar, pal?’

Three men, who'd been constructing a set on the stage, had stopped to watch. Davey Soutar was talking with another man. They were standing close, faces inches apart. Clenched fists and puffed-out chests.

'Is there a problem?’ Rebus said: Peter Cave, who'd been sitting with head in hands, now stood up.

'No problem,' he said lightly.

The third man thought there was. 'The wee bastard,' he said, meaning Davey Soutar, `just lifted a packet of fags.’

Soutar looked ready to hit something. It was interesting that he didn't hit his accuser. Rebus didn't know what he'd been expecting from the theatre company. He certainly hadn't been expecting this. The accuser was tall and wiry with long greasy hair and several days' growth of beard. He didn't look in the least scared of Soutar, whose reputation must surely have preceded him. Nor did the workers on the stage look unwilling to enter any fray. He reached into his pocket and brought out a fresh pack of twenty, which he handed to Davey Soutar.

'Here,' he said, 'take these, and give the gentleman back his ciggies.’

Soutar turned on him like a zoo leopard, not happy with its cage. 'I don't need your…’

The roar faded. He looked at the faces around him. Then he laughed, a hysterical giggling laugh. He slapped his bare chest and shook his head, then took the cigarettes from Rebus and tossed another pack onto the stage.

Rebus turned to the accuser. 'What's your name?’

'Jim Hay.’

The accent was west coast.

'Well, Jim, why don't you take those cigarettes outside, have a ten-minute break?’

Jim Hay looked ready to protest, but then thought better of it. He gestured to his crew and they followed him outside.

Rebus could hear them getting into the van. He turned his attention to Davey Soutar and Peter Cave.

'I'm surprised you came,' said Soutar, lighting up.

`I'm full of surprises, me.’

'Only, last time I saw you here, you were heading for the hills. You owe Peter an apology, by the way.’

Soutar had changed completely. He looked like he was enjoying himself, like he hadn't lost his temper in weeks.

'I don't think that's strictly necessary,' Peter Cave said into the silence.

'Apology accepted,' said Rebus. He dragged over a chair and sat down. Soutar decided this was a good idea. He found a chair for himself and sat with a hard man's slump, legs wide apart, hands stuffed into the tight pockets of his denims, cigarette hanging from his lips. Rebus wanted a cigarette, but he wasn't going to ask for one.

'So what's the problem, Inspector?’ Soutar had agreed to a meeting here, but hadn't mentioned Peter Cave would be present. Maybe it was coincidence. Whatever, Rebus didn't mind an audience. Cave looked tired, pale. There was no question who was in charge, who had power over whom.

'I just have a few things to ask, there's no question of charges or anything criminal, all right?’

Soutar obliged with a grunt, examining the laces of his basketball boots. He was shirtless again, still wearing 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?’