Ian Rankin - Mortal Causes

'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?’

'What do you want to put that on for?’ Mrs Soutar asked Ormiston. He shrugged, saying nothing.

'Aye, a grand old tune.’ Dod collapsed onto the sofa. The woman glared at him.

'It's bigotry's what it is. I've nothing against the Catholics.’

'Well neither have I,' Dod countered. He winked at Ormiston. 'But there's no shame in being proud of your roots.’

'What about Davey, Mr Soutar? Does he have anything against Catholics?’

‘No.’

'No? He seems to run around with Protestant gangs.’

'It's the Gar-B,' Mr Soutar said. 'You have to belong.’

Rebus knew what he was saying. Dod Soutar sat forward on the sofa.

'Ye see, it's history, isn't it? The Protestants have run Ulster for hundreds of years. Nobody's going to give that up, are they? Not if the other lot are sniping away and planting bombs and that.’

He realised that Ormiston had turned off the tape. 'Well, isn't that right? It's a religious war, you can't deny it.’

'Ever been there?’ Ormiston asked. Dod shook his head. 'Then what the fuck do you know about it?’

Dod gave a challenging look, and stood up. 'I know, pal, don't think I don't.’

'Aye, right,' Ormiston said.

'I thought you were here to talk about my Davey?’

'We are talking about Davey, Mrs Soutar,' Rebus said quietly. 'In a roundabout way.’

He turned to Dod Soutar. 'There's a lot of you in your son, Mr Soutar.’

Dod Soutar turned his combative gaze from Ormiston. 'Oh aye?’

Rebus nodded. 'I'm sorry, but there it is.’

Dod Soutar's face creased into an angry scowl. 'Wait a fuckn minute, pal. Think you can walk in here and fuckn-‘

'People like you terrify me,' Rebus said coolly. He meant it, too. Dod Soutar, hacking cough and all, was a more horrifying prospect than a dozen Caffertys. You couldn't change him, couldn't argue with him, couldn't touch his mind in any way. He was a closed shop, and the management had all gone home.

'My son's a good boy, brought up the right way,' Soutar was saying. 'Gave him everything I could.’

'Some folk are just born lucky,' said Ormiston.

That did it. Soutar launched himself across the narrow width of the room. He went for Ormiston with his head low and both fists out in front of him, but collided with the shelf unit when Ormiston stepped smartly aside. He turned back towards the two policemen, swinging wildly, swearing barely coherent phrases. When he went for Rebus, and Rebus arched back so that the swipe missed, Rebus decided he'd had enough. He kneed Soutar in the crotch.

'Queensferry Rules,' he said, as the man went down.

'Dod!' Mrs Soutar ran to her husband. Rebus gestured to Ormiston.

'Get out of my house!' Mrs Soutar screamed after them. She came to the front door and kept on yelling and crying. Then she went indoors and slammed her door.

'The cassette was a nice touch,' Rebus said on his way downstairs.

'Thought you'd appreciate it. Where to now?’

'While we're here,' said Rebus, 'maybe the youth club.’

They walked outside and didn't hear anything until the vase hit the ground beside them, smashing into a thousand pieces of shrapnel. Mrs Soutar was at her window.

'Missed!' Rebus yelled at her.

'Jesus Christ,' Ormiston said, as they walked away.

The usual lacklustre teenagers sat around outside the community hall, propping their backs against its door and walls. Rebus didn't bother to ask about Davey Soutar. He knew what the response would be; it had been drilled into them like catechism. His ear was tingling, not hurting exactly, but there was a dull throbbing pain in his nose. When they recognised Rebus, the gang got to their feet.