Ian Rankin - Mortal Causes

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?’

'Maybe.’

'No concrete motive yet?’

'No motive.’

The longer Rebus looked at the royal arms, the more his focus was drawn to its central figure. It was definitely a shield. 'The Shield,' he said to himself.

'Sorry?’

'Nothing, it's just…’

He turned back to her. She was looking eager about something, and hopeful too. 'Miss Rattray,' he said, 'did you bring me here to chat me up?’

She looked horrified, her face reddening; not just her cheeks, but forehead and chin too, even her neck coloured. 'Inspector Rebus,' she said at last.

'Sorry, sorry.’ He bowed his head and raised his hands. `Sorry I said that.’

'Well, I don't know…’

She looked around. 'It's not every day I'm accused of being… well, whatever. I think I need a drink.’

Then, reverting to her normal voice: 'I think you'd better buy me one, don't you?’

They crossed the High Street, dodging the leafleters and mime artists and clowns on stilts, and threaded their way through a dark close and down some worn stone steps into Caro Rattray's preferred bar.

'I hate this time of year,' she said. 'It's such a hassle getting to and from work. And as for parking in town…’

'It's a hard life, all right.’

She went to a table while Rebus stood at the bar. She had taken a couple of minutes to change out of her gown and wig, had brushed her hair out, though the sombre clothes that remained – the accent on black with touches of white still marked her out as a lawyer in this lawyer's town.

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.