Gowrie came back into the room. He took a look at the two of them on the sofa, then smiled to himself and handed Rebus a crystal tumbler.

'I won't offend you by offering water or lemonade with that.’

Rebus sniffed the amber liquid. It was a West Highland malt, darker, more aromatic than the Speysides. Gowrie held his own glass up.

'Slainte.’

He took a sip, then sat in a dark blue armchair. 'Well now,' he said, 'how exactly can I help you?’

'Well, sir -'

'It's nothing to do with us, you know. We've told the Chief Constable that. They're an offshoot of the Grand Lodge, less than that even, now that we've disbarred them.’

Rebus suddenly knew what Gowrie was talking about. There was to be a march along Princes Street on Saturday, organised by the Orange Loyal Brigade. He'd heard about it weeks ago, when the very idea had provoked attacks from republican sympathisers and anti-right wing associations. There were expected to be confrontations during the march.

`When did you disbar the group exactly, sir?’

`April 14th. That was the day we had the disciplinary hearing. They belonged to one of our district lodges and at a dinner-dance they'd sent collecting tins round for the LPWA.’

He turned to Siobhan Clarke. 'That's the Loyalist Prisoners' Welfare Association.’

Then back to Rebus. 'We can't have that sort of thing, Inspector. We've denounced it in the past. We'll have no truck with the paramilitaries.’

`And the disbarred members set up the Orange Loyal Brigade?’

`Correct.’

Rebus was feeling his way. 'How many do you think will be on the march?’

'Ach, a couple of hundred at most, and that's including the bands. I think they've got bands coming from Glasgow and Liverpool.’

'You think there'll be trouble?’

`Don't you? Isn't that why you're here?’

'Who's the Brigade's leader?’

'Gavin MacMurray. But don't you know all this already? Your Chief Constable asked if I could intervene. But I told him, they're nothing to do with the Orange Lodge, nothing at all.’

`Do they have connections with the other right-wing groups?’

'You mean with fascists?’ Gowrie shrugged. 'They deny it, of course, but I wouldn't be surprised to see a few skinheads on the march, even ones with Sassenach accents.’

Rebus left a pause before asking, 'Do you know if there's any link-up between the Orange Brigade and The Shield?’

Cowrie frowned. 'What shield?’

'Sword and Shield. It's another splinter group, isn't it?’

Cowrie shook his head. 'I've never heard of it.’

`No?’

`Never.’

Rebus placed his whisky glass on a table next to the sofa. 'I just assumed you'd know something about it.’

He got to his feet, followed by Clarke. `Sorry to have bothered you, sir.’

Rebus held out his hand.

'Is that it?’

'That's all, sir, thanks for your help.’

`Well…’

Cowrie was clearly troubled. 'Shield… no, means nothing to me.’

'Then don't worry about it, sir. Have a good evening now.’

At the front door, Clarke turned and smiled at Cowrie. 'We'll let you get back to your wee numbers. Goodbye, sir.’

They heard the door close behind them with a solid click as they walked back down the short gravel path to the driveway.

'I've only got one question, sir: what was all that about?’

'We're dealing with lunatics, Clarke, and Cowrie isn't a lunatic. A zealot maybe, but not a madman. Tell me, what do you call a haircut in an asylum?’

By now Clarke knew the way her boss's mind worked. `A lunatic fringe?’ she guessed.

'That's who I want to talk to.’

`You mean the Orange Loyal Brigade?’

Rebus nodded. `And every one of them will be taking a stroll along Princes Street on Saturday.’

He smiled without humour. 'I've always enjoyed a parade.’

16

Saturday was hot and clear, with a slight cooling breeze, just enough to make the day bearable. Shoppers were out on Princes Street in numbers, and the lawns of Princes Street Gardens were as packed as a seaside beach, every bench in full use, a carousel attracting the children. The atmosphere was festive if frayed, with the kids squealing and tiring as their ice-cream cones melted and dropped to. the ground, turning instantly into food for the squirrels, pigeons, and panting dogs.

The parade was due to set off from Regent Road at three o'clock, and by two-fifteen the pubs behind Princes Street were emptying their cargo of brolly-toting white-gloved elders, bowler hats fixed onto their sweating heads, faces splotched from alcohol. There was a show of regalia, and a few large banners were being unfurled. Rebus couldn't remember what you called the guy at the front of the march, the one who threw up and caught the heavy ornamental staff. He'd probably known in his youth. The flute players were practising, and the snare drummers adjusted their straps and drank from cans of beer.

People outside the Post Office on Waterloo Place could hear the flutes and drums, and peered along towards Regent Road. That the march was to set off from outside the old Royal High School, mothballed site for a devolved Scottish parliament, added a certain something to the affair.