'Annul mirabilis,' Rebus mused. 'That's Latin, isn't it?’

Gowrie was horrified. 'Of course it's Latin! Don't tell me you never studied Latin at school? I though we Scots were an educated bunch. Miraculous year, that's what it means. Sure about that drink?’

'Maybe a small whisky, sir.’ Kill or cure.

'Nothing for me, sir,' said Siobhan Clarke, her voice coming from the high moral ground.

'I won't be a minute,' said Gowrie. When he'd left the room, Rebus turned to her.

'Don't piss him off!' he hissed. 'Just keep your gob shut and your ears open.’

'Sorry, sir. Have you noticed?’

'What?’

'There's nothing green in this room, nothing at all.’

He nodded again. 'The inventor of red, white and blue grass will make a fortune.’

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.’

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.

Rebus had been in a couple of the bars, taking a look at the Brigade members and supporters. They were a varied crew, taking in a few Doc Marten-wearing skinheads (just as Gowrie had predicted) as well as the bowler hats. There were also the dark suit/white shirt/dark tie types, their shoes as polished as their faces. Most of them were drinking like fury, though they didn't seem completely mortal yet. Empty cans were being kicked along Regent Road, or trodden on and left by the edges of the pavement. Rebus wasn't sure why these occasions always carried with them the air of threat, of barely suppressed violence, even before they started. Extra police had been drafted in, and were readying to stop traffic from coming down onto Princes Street. Metal-grilled barriers waited by the side of the road, as did the small groups of protesters, and the smaller group of protesters who were protesting against the protesters. Rebus wondered, not for the first time, which maniac on the Council had pushed through the okay for the parade.

The marching season of course had finished, the main parades being on and around the 12th of July, date of the Battle of the Boyne. Even then the biggest marches were in Glasgow. What was the point of this present parade? To stir things up, of course, to make a noise. To be noticed. The big drum, the lambeg, was being hammered now. There was competition from a few bagpipe buskers near Waverley Station, but they'd be silenced by the time the parade reached them.

Rebus wandered freely among the marchers as they drank and joked with each other and adjusted their uniforms. A Union Jack was unfurled, then ordered to be rolled up again, bearing as it did the initials of the British National Party. There didn't seem to be any collecting tins or buckets, the police having pressed for a quick march with as little interaction with the public as possible. Rebus knew this because he'd asked Farmer Watson, and the Farmer had confirmed that it would be so.