'You've got things to tell me,' he said, opening the door wide.

Abernethy produced a bottle of whisky from behind his back. 'And I've brought some antiseptic for those cuts.’

'Internal use only,' Rebus suggested.

'The money it cost me, you better believe it. Still, a nice drop of Scotch is worth all the tea in China.’

'We call it whisky up here.’

Rebus closed the door and led Abernethy back down the hall into the living room. Abernethy was impressed.

'Been taking a few back-handers?’

'I live with a doctor. It's her flat.’

'My mum always wanted me to be a doctor. A respectable job, she called it. Got some glasses?’

Rebus fetched two large glasses from the kitchen.

27

Frankie Bothwell couldn't afford to close the Crazy Hose. The Festival and Fringe had only a couple more days to go. All too soon the tourists would be leaving. But over the past fortnight he'd really been packing them in. Advertising and word of mouth helped, as had a three-night residency by an American country singer. The club was making more money than ever before, but it wouldn't last. The Crazy Hose was unique, every bit as unique as Frankie himself. It deserved to do well. It had to do well. Frankie Bothwell had commitments, financial commitments. They couldn't be broken or excused because of low takings. Every week needed to be a good week.

So he was not best pleased to see Rebus and another cop walk into the bar. You could see it in his eyes and the smile as frozen as a Crazy Hose daiquiri.

'Inspector, how can I help you?’

'Mr Bothwell, this is DI Abernethy. We'd like a word.’

'It's a bit hectic just now. I haven't had a chance to replace Kevin Strang.’

'We insist,' said Abernethy.

With two conspicuous police officers on the premises, trade at the bars wasn't exactly brisk, and nobody was dancing. They were all waiting for something to happen. Bothwell took this in.

'Let's go to my office.’

Abernethy waved bye-bye to the crowd as he followed Rebus and Bothwell into the foyer. They went behind the admission desk and Bothwell unlocked a door. He sat behind his desk and watched them squeeze their way into the space that was left.

`A big office is a waste of space,' he said by way of apology. The place was like a cleaning cupboard. There were spare till rolls and boxes of glasses on a shelf above Bothwell's head, framed cowboy posters stacked against a wall, bric-a-brac and debris like everything had just spilled out of a collision at a car boot sale.

'We might be more comfortable talking in the toilets,' Rebus said.

`Or down the station,' offered Abernethy.

'I don't think we've met,' Bothwell said to him, affably enough.

`I usually only meet shit when I wipe my arse.’

That took the smile off Bothwell's face.

`Inspector Abernethy,' Rebus said, `is Special Branch. He's here investigating The Shield.’

'The Shield?’

`No need to be coy, Mr Bothwell. You're not being charged, not yet. We just want you to know we're on to you in a big way.’

`And we're not about to let go,' Abernethy said on cue.

`Though it might help your case if you told us about Davey Soutar.’

Rebus placed his hands in his lap and waited. Abernethy lit a cigarette and blew the smoke across the strewn desk. Frankie Bothwell looked from one man to the other and back again.

'Is this a joke? I mean, it's a bit early for Halloween, that's when you're supposed to scare people without any reason.’

Rebus shook his head. 'Wrong answer. What you should have said was, "Who's Davey Soutar?”

‘Bothwell sat back in his chair. 'All right then, who's Davey Soutar?’

'I'm glad you asked me that,' said Rebus. `He's your lieutenant. Maybe he's also your recruiting ofcer. And 'now he's on the run. Did you know he's been keeping back some of the explosives and guns for himself? We've got a confession.’

It was a blatant lie, and caused Bothwell to smile. That smile sealed Bothwell's guilt in Rebus's mind.

`Why have you been funding the Gar-B youth centre?’ he asked. `Is it a useful recruiting station? You took the name Cuchullain when you were an anarchist. He's the great Ulster hero, the original Red Hand. That was no accident. You were dismissed from the Orange Lodge for being a bit over-zealous. In the early ' 70s your name was linked to the Tartan Army. They used to break into Army bases and steal weapons. Maybe that's what gave you the idea.’

Bothwell was still smiling as he asked, `What idea?’

'You know.’

`Inspector, I haven't understood a word you've said.’

`No? Then understand this, we're a bollock-hair's breadth away from you. But more importantly, we want to find Davey Soutar, because if he's gone rogue with rifles and plastic explosives…’

'I still don't know what you're-.’

Rebus jumped from his seat and grabbed Bothwell's lapels, pulling him tight against the desk. Bothwell's smile evaporated.

`I've been to Belfast, Bothwell, I've spent time in the North. The last thing that place needs is cowboys like you. So put away your forked tongue and tell us where he is!' Bothwell wrenched himself out of Rebus's grip, his lapel tearing down the middle in the process. His face was purple, eyes blazing. He stood with his knuckles on the edge of the desk, leaning over it; his face close to Rebus's.

'Nobody meddles wi' me!' he spat. 'That's my motto.’

`Aye,' said Rebus, `and you know the Latin for it too. Did you get a kick that night in Mary King's Close?’

'You're crazy.’

'We're the police,' Abernethy said lazily. 'We're paid to be crazy, what's your excuse?’

Bothwell considered the two of them and sat down slowly. 'I don't know anyone called Davey Soutar. I don't know anything about bombs or Sword and Shield or Mary King's Close.’

'I didn't say Sword and Shield,' said Rebus. 'I just said The Shield.’

Bothwell sat in silence.

'But now you mention it, I see your father the minister was in the original Sword and Shield. His name's on file. It was an offshoot of the Scottish National Party; I don't suppose you know anything about it?’

'Nothing.’

'No? Funny, you were in the youth league.’

'Was I?’

'Did your dad get you interested in Ulster?’

Bothwell shook his head slowly. 'You never stop, do you?’

'Never,' said Rebus.

The door opened. The two bouncers from the main door stood there, hands clasped in front of them, legs apart. They'd obviously been to the bouncers' school of etiquette. And, just as obviously, Bothwell had summoned them with some button beneath the lip of his desk.

'Escort these bastards off the premises,' he ordered.

'Nobody escorts me anywhere,' said Abernethy, 'not unless she's wearing a tight skirt and I've paid for her.’

He got up and faced the bouncers. One of them made to take his arm. Abernethy grabbed the bouncer at the wrist and twisted hard. The man fell to his knees. There wasn't much room for the other bouncer, and he looked undecided. He was still looking blank as Rebus pulled him into the room and threw him over the desk. Bothwell was smothered beneath him. Abernethy let the other bouncer go and followed Rebus outside with a real spring in his step, breathing deeply of Edinburgh's warm summer air. 'I enjoyed that.’

'Aye, me too, but do you think it worked?’

'Let's hope so. We're making liabilities of them. I get the feeling they're going to implode.’

Well, that was the plan. Every good plan, however, had a fall-back. Theirs was Big Ger Cafferty.

'Is it too late to grab a curry?’

Abernethy added.

'You're not in the sticks now. The night's young.’

But as Rebus led Abernethy towards a good curry house, he was thinking about liabilities and risks… and dreading tomorrow's showdown.