Mortal Causes

The place had one of the lowest ceilings of any pub Rebus had ever been in. When he considered, he thought they must be almost directly above some of the shops which led off Mary King's Close. The thought made him change his order.

'Make that whisky a double.’ But he added plenty of water.

Caroline Rattray had ordered lemonade with lots of ice and lemon. As Rebus placed her drink on the table, he laughed.

'What's so funny?’

He shook his head: 'Advocate and lemonade, that makes a snowball.’

He didn't have to explain to her. She managed a weary smile. 'Heard it before, eh?’ e said, sitting beside her.

'And every person who says it thinks they've just invented it. Cheers.’

'Aye, slainte.’

'Slainte. Do you speak Gaelic?’

'Just a couple of words.’

'I learnt it a few years ago, I've already forgotten most of it.’

'Ach, it's not much use anyway, is it?’

'You wouldn't mind if it died out?’

'I didn't say that.’

'I thought you just did.’

Rebus gulped at his drink. 'Never argue with a lawyer.’

Another smile. She lit a cigarette, Rebus declining.

'Don't tell me,' he said, 'you still see Mary King's Close in your head at night?’

She nodded slowly. 'And during the day. I can't seem to erase it.’

'So don't try. Just file it away, that's all you can do. Admit it to yourself, it happened, you were there, then file it away. You won't forget, but you won't harp on it either.’

'Police psychology?’

'Common sense, hard learnt. That's why you were so excited about the Latin inscription?’

'Yes; I thought I was… involved.’

'You'll be involved if we ever catch the buggers. It'll be your job to put them away.’

'I suppose so.’

'Until then, leave it, to us.’

'Yes, I will.’

'I'm sorry though, sorry you had to see it. Typical of Curt, dragging you down there. There was no need to. Are you and him…?’

Her whoop filled the bar. 'You don't think…? We're just acquaintances. He had a spare ticket, I was on hand. Christ almighty, you think I could… with a pathologist?’

'They're human, despite rumours to the contrary.’

'Yes, but he's twenty years older than me.’

'That's not always a consideration.’

'The thought of those hands on me…’

She shivered, sipped her drink. 'What did you say back there about a shield?’

He shook his head. He saw a shield in his mind, and you never got a shield without a sword. With sword and shield, that was a line from an Orange song. He slapped the table with his fist, so hard that Caroline Rattray looked frightened.

`Was it something I said?’

'Caroline, you're brilliant. I've got to go.’

He got up and walked past the bar, then stopped and came back, taking her hand in his, holding it. 'I'll phone you,' he promised. Then: 'If you like.’

He waited till she'd nodded, then turned again and left. She finished her lemonade, smoked another cigarette, and stubbed it into the ashtray. His hand had been hot, not like a pathologist's at all. The barman came to empty her ashtray into a pail and wipe the table.

'Outhunting again I see,' he said quietly.

'You know too much about me, Dougie.’

'I know too much about everyone, hen,' said Dougie, picking up both glasses and taking them to the bar.

Several months back, Rebus had been talking to an acquaintance of his called Matthew Vanderhyde. Their conversation had concerned another case, one involving, as it turned out, Big Ger Cafferty, and apropos of very little Vanderhyde, blind for many years and with a reputation as a white witch, had mentioned a splinter group of the Scottish National Party. The splinter group had been called Sword and Shield, and they'd existed in the late 1950s and early 1960s.

But as a phone call to Vanderhyde revealed, Sword and Shield had ceased to exist around the same time the Rolling Stones were putting out their first album. And at no time, anyway, had they been known as SaS.

'I do believe,' Vanderhyde said, and Rebus could see him in his darkened living room, its curtains shut, slumped in an armchair with his portable phone, 'there exists in the United States an organisation called Sword and Shield, or even Scottish Sword and Shield, but I don't know anything about them. I don't think they're connected to the Scottish Rites Temple, which is a sort of North American Freemasons, but I'm a bit vague.’

Rebus was busy writing it all down. 'No you're not,' he said, 'you're a bloody encyclopaedia.’

That was the problem with Vanderhyde: he seldom gave you just the one answer, leaving you more confused than before you'd asked your question.

'Is there anything I can read about Sword and Shield?’ Rebus asked.

'You mean histories? I wouldn't know, I shouldn't think they'd bother to issue any as braille editions or talking books.’

'I suppose not, but, there must have been something left when the organisation was wound up, papers, documents…?’

'Perhaps a local historian might know. Would you like me to do some sleuthing, Inspector?’

'I'd appreciate it,' said Rebus. 'Would Big Ger Cafferty have had anything to do with the group?’

'I shouldn't think so. Why do you ask?’

'Nothing, forget I said it.’