by Ian Rankin
‘Yes,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Everything I’d learned went out the window.’ Tears were welling in Archibald’s eyes.
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Hogan said, touching his shoulder.
Archibald was looking past him, towards the seated figure of John Rebus. ‘Whether he killed her or not . . . I’ll never know for sure, will I?’
Tears dropped on to Archibald’s cheeks and down his chin. Bobby Hogan dabbed at them with the already damp napkin.
‘All these years not knowing . . . damned fool to think I could . . .’ He closed his eyes, crying softly. In the other beds, no one stirred. Crying in the night maybe wasn’t so unusual here. Bobby Hogan had taken hold of both the old man’s hands. It looked like Archibald was squeezing with all his might.
Alan Archibald was in hospital because he’d become obsessed with an idea. Rebus, knowing what he knew now, was wondering if Jim Margolies had become obsessed too. With nothing else to do, he headed back to St Leonard’s. It took a couple of hours, several phone calls, and a lot of grudging help before Rebus got what he wanted.
He sat at his desk scoring through points on his notepad. The people he’d spoken to from the Health Board and Social Work had all asked if it couldn’t wait till morning. Rebus had insisted it could not.
‘It’s a murder inquiry,’ had been his only line of attack. When pressed for details, he’d said he couldn’t add anything ‘at the present moment in time’, trying to sound like the sort of detective they’d expect him to be: a bureaucrat, a man following a preordained path of investigation where no overnight rest-stops could be taken.
In the end, he’d had to drive to the various offices himself to pick up the information he’d asked for. On each occasion, he’d been met by the official he’d spoken to on the phone. They’d all stared at him with ill-will and irritation. But they’d all handed over the documents. Which gave Rebus little to do but head back to St Leonard’s and plough through the field of information on Dr Joseph Margolies.
Dr Margolies had been born in Selkirk, and educated in the Borders and at Fettes. His medical degree was completed at the University of Edinburgh, with stints working in Africa for a Christian charity. He’d become a general practitioner, then had taken to lecturing, specialising in paediatrics. And eventually, as Siobhan’s note had said, he’d been employed to ‘look after’ the council-run children’s homes in Lothian, a job which also took him into private homes licensed by the council – such as those owned and operated by churches and charities.
What his job meant in effect was that he checked the children for signs of abuse, and would be brought in to make a physical examination should any accusations of abuse be made. Also, some of the kids were classed as ‘difficult cases’, and a medical prognosis would be part of their ongoing record. Dr Margolies might recommend psychiatric consultation, or a move to some other type of institution. He could prescribe treatments and medication. His powers, in effect, were almost without limit. His word was law.
About halfway through his reading, Rebus began to get a queasy feeling in his gut. He hadn’t eaten for hours, but didn’t think that had anything to do with it. Nevertheless, he forced himself to get some fresh air, visited Brattisani’s for a fish supper with buttered bread and tea. Afterwards, he knew he’d been away from the station for the best part of an hour, but couldn’t recall any of that time: no faces, no voices. Brain busy with other things.
He remembered a recent case, a priest who’d abused children for years. The children had been in the care of nuns, and when any of them complained they were thrashed by the nuns, told they were liars, and made to attend confession – where, listening to them, would be the same priest they’d just accused of abuse.
He knew that oftentimes paedophiles were well able to hide their true natures for months and years as they trained for positions in children’s homes and the like. They would pass all the checks and psychological tests, only later for the mask to slip. Their need was so great, they would go to extraordinary lengths to fulfil it. And sometimes it might have remained latent had they not encountered at some point a fellow traveller, each spurring the other on . . .
Like Harold Ince and Ramsay Marshall. Rebus could believe that either one, left in isolation, would never have found the strength to begin their eventual programme of systematic abuse. But together, working as a team, the effect had been to intensify their lusts and desires, making the eventual abuse so much more appalling.
Rebus looked back through all the paperwork on Dr Joseph Margolies, until he was sure of what he saw.
That Margolies had been attached to the city’s children’s homes at the time of the Shiellion scandal.
That he had retired soon afterwards – and prematurely – on ‘health grounds’.
That he was considered courageous by those he worked with for the way he’d kept going following his daughter’s suicide.
Rebus didn’t find much about the daughter. She’d killed herself at fifteen, hadn’t left a note. She’d been a quiet child, withdrawn. Adolescence had done her few favours. She’d been worried about upcoming exams. Her brother Jim had been devastated by her death . . .
She hadn’t leapt from some high spot. She’d slashed her wrists in the bathroom of her home. Her father had kicked open the door and found her there. It was believed she’d done the deed in the dead of night. Her father was always the first to rise in the morning.
Rebus put a call through to Jane Barbour. By dint of white lies and stubbornness, he secured her mobile number. When she picked up, he could hear loud music and cheering in the background.
‘Good party, is it?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘DI Rebus.’
Another wave of cheering behind her. ‘Hang on, I’ll just take this outside.’ The sounds died away. Barbour exhaled noisily. She sounded drunk. ‘We’re at the Police Club.’
‘What’s the celebration?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘Guilty verdicts?’
‘On both the bastards. Not a single juror went against us.’
Rebus sat back in his chair. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Cordover must be seething.’
‘Bugger Cordover. Petrie pronounces tomorrow. He’ll stick them away for ever and a day.’
‘Well, congratulations again. It’s a hell of a result.’
‘Why don’t you come down? We’ve enough booze here—’
‘Thanks all the same. But it’s a coincidence, I’m phoning about Ince and Marshall.’
‘Oh?’
‘Indirectly anyway. Dr Joseph Margolies.’
‘Yes?’
‘You know who he is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he called to give evidence?’
‘No, he wasn’t. Christ, it’s so mild out here tonight.’
Rebus wondered if she was on anything other than a natural high. ‘Why wasn’t he called?’
‘Because of the facts of the case. It’s true a few of the Shiellion kids made accusations at the time, but they weren’t believed.’
‘There’d be a medical check, though.’
‘Of course, carried out by Dr Margolies. I interviewed him several times. But the boys were known to be gay, insofar as they worked as occasional rent boys around Calton Hill. If they ran from Shiellion, that’s where everyone knew to find them. So you see, evidence of anal sex was not in itself evidence of abuse – I’m quoting the Procurator Fiscal’s line. To my mind, these kids were underage and in care, and anyone who had sex with them was guilty of abuse.’ She paused. ‘End of rant.’
‘Sooner you’re free of this case the better.’
‘So why are you dragging it all up again?’
‘I’m trying to get a fix on Dr Margolies.’
‘Why?’
‘When you talked to him, was he helpful?’
‘As much as he could be. He said himself the kids had been caught lying before,
so who was going to believe them next time? And a lot of the abuse claims referred to oral sex and masturbation . . . not many medical tests for those, Inspector.’
‘No,’ Rebus said thoughtfully. ‘So he didn’t give evidence?’
‘Not in court. Fiscal said it would be a waste of time. Might even have harmed our case by casting doubt in the jury’s mind.’
‘In which case Cordover might have wanted the doctor as a witness.’
‘Yes, but he didn’t, and I wasn’t about to give him a hand.’ She paused. ‘You think Margolies was involved in a cover-up?’
‘What makes you ask?’
‘I wondered about it myself. I mean, chances are there were people working at Shiellion who had a good idea what was happening. But nobody stuck their head above the parapet.’
‘Afraid to cause trouble?’
‘Or warned off by the Church. It’s not been unknown in the past. Of course, there’s an even worse scenario.’
Rebus dreaded to think what it might be. But he asked anyway.
‘Just this,’ she said. ‘People knew it was happening, but they just didn’t care. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading back indoors to get blisteringly drunk.’
Rebus thanked her and rang off. Sat with his head in his hands, staring at his desk.
People knew . . . they just didn’t care . . .
48
Just as during their actual trial, Ince and Marshall were being held in Saughton Prison. The difference was, now they’d been found guilty they were no longer on remand. As remand prisoners, they’d been able to wear their own clothes, phone out for food, and go about their business. Now they’d be getting used to prison garb and all the other comforts of the prison regime proper.
They were being held in separate cells, with an empty cell between so there was less chance of them communicating. Rebus didn’t know why anyone bothered: they’d probably end up in the same sex offender programme.
He had a difficult choice to make: Ince or Marshall? Of course, if one failed him, there was nothing to stop him trying the other. But that would mean going through the same process again, asking the same questions, playing the same games. The right choice might save him all that grief.
He chose Ince. His reasoning: Ince was the elder, with the higher IQ. And though early on in the relationship, there was no doubt that he’d been the leader, the pupil had soon become the master. In the courtroom, Marshall had been the one who’d scowled and grunted and played to the gallery; the one who’d looked as though the trial had nothing to do with him.
The one with no visible show of shame, even as his victims told their stories.
The one who’d fallen down the stairs a couple of times on his way back to the cells.
Yes, Marshall had learned a lot from Harold Ince, but he’d added ingredients of his own. He was the more savage, the more amoral, the less penitent. He was the one who thought it was the world’s problem, not his. At the trial, he’d tried quoting Aleister Crowley, to the effect that only he had the right to judge his actions right or wrong.
The court hadn’t thought much of that.
Rebus sat in the visitors’ room and smoked a cigarette. He’d called Patience, got the machine: a message telling callers to try her mobile. He did so, found she was at a friend’s. Another woman doctor, off on prenatal leave.
‘I might stay the night,’ Patience told him. ‘Ursula’s offered.’
‘How is she?’
‘Sick.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘You misunderstand: she’s sick she can’t drink. Never mind, I’m drinking for two.’
Rebus smiled. ‘I’ll go to Arden Street,’ he said. ‘If you’re going home, let me know.’
‘You think I should stay away?’
‘It might be an idea.’ He meant until Cary Oakes was caught. When he rang off, he got through to St Leonard’s, who confirmed that the patrol car was now stationed outside Patience’s friend’s.
‘Safe as houses, John.’
So he sat in the visitors’ room and smoked a cigarette, defying the sign on the wall, flicking ash on to the carpet. The uniform brought Harold Ince in. Rebus thanked him, told him to wait just outside. Not that Rebus expected anything from Ince: no violence, no escape attempt. He looked resigned to his fate. Since Rebus had seen him at the trial, his face had grown longer and thinner, the pallid skin hanging from it. His stomach bulged, but his chest seemed to have caved in, as though the heart had been removed. Rebus knew that at least one of Ince’s victims had committed suicide. There was a smell from the man: sulphur mixed with Germolene.
Rebus offered him a cigarette. Ince, slumping into a chair, shook his head.
‘You gave evidence, didn’t you?’ The voice was thin and reedy.
Rebus nodded, flicked ash. ‘Your lawyer tried carving me up.’
The brief flicker of a smile. ‘I remember now. Didn’t work, did it?’
‘And now you’ve been found guilty.’
‘Come to rub it in?’ Ince’s eyes found Rebus’s for the briefest moment.
‘No, Mr Ince, I’ve come to ask for your help.’
Ince snorted, folded his arms. ‘Yeah, I’m well in the mood to help the police.’
‘I wonder if he’s already made up his mind?’ Rebus asked, as if wondering aloud.
Ince’s forehead creased. ‘Who?’
‘Lord Justice Petrie. He’s a tough old buzzard.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
But soft on his kids, Rebus thought to himself. Or is he . . .?
‘My money’s on Peterhead for the pair of you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be there a long time. That’s where they take the sex offenders.’ Rebus sat forward. ‘It’s also where a lot of the real hard cases are kept, the ones who rate kiddie-fuckers slightly lower than the amoeba on the evolutionary ladder.’
‘Ahh . . .’ Ince sat back, nodded. ‘So that’s it: you’ve come to scare me. Let me save you the effort: the guards at the trial told me what I could expect, whichever jail I’m sent to. A couple of them said they’d be coming to see me themselves.’ Another glance at Rebus. ‘Isn’t that thoughtful?’
Behind the show of bravado, Rebus could tell Ince was terrified. Terrified of the unknown. Every bit as scared as the kids must have been, every time they heard him approaching . . .
‘I don’t want to scare you, Mr Ince. I want you to help me. But I’m not stupid, I know I have to offer something in return.’
‘And what would that be, Inspector?’
Rebus stood up, walked over to where the video camera covered the room.
‘You’ll notice I’m not taping this,’ he said. ‘Good reason for that. This stays off the record, Mr Ince. Anything you tell me, it’s for my own satisfaction only. Nothing to do with building a case. If I ever tried using it, it would be my word against yours: inadmissible.’
‘I know the law, Inspector.’
Rebus turned towards him. ‘Me too. What I’m saying is, this is strictly between us. I could get into trouble just for making you an offer.’
‘What offer?’ Sounding interested now.
‘Peterhead, I know a few of the villains up there. I’m owed favours.’
There was silence while Ince digested this. ‘You’d put in a word on my behalf?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But they might choose not to heed it.’
Rebus shrugged, sat down again, arms resting along the edge of the desk. ‘It’s the best I can do.’
‘And I only have your word that you’d do it anyway.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘That’s right, you do.’
Ince was studying the backs of his own hands, his fingers gripping the desk.
‘Well, I must say, that’s a very generous offer.’ A touch of humour in the voice.
‘It could save your life, Harold.’
‘Or it could be totally meaningless.’ He paused. ‘What is it you want to ask me?’
‘I need to know who t
he third man was.’
‘Wasn’t it Orson Welles?’
Rebus made himself smile. ‘I mean the night Ramsay Marshall brought Darren Rough to Shiellion.’
‘Long time ago. I was on the drink back then.’
‘You made Darren wear a mask.’
‘Did we?’
‘Because of the other man. Maybe it was his idea. Didn’t want Darren recognising him.’ Rebus lit another cigarette. ‘You’d been drinking. Maybe with this man. Chatting about this and that. Eventually telling him your secret.’ Rebus studied Ince. ‘Because you thought you could see something . . .’
Ince licked his lips. ‘What?’ Said so quietly it was barely above a whisper. Rebus lowered his own voice.
‘You thought he was like you. You could see a potential. The more you talked, the clearer you saw it. You told him Marshall was bringing some kid along. Maybe you suggested he stay.’
‘You’re making this up, aren’t you?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Insofar as I can’t prove any of it, yes, I’m making it up.’
‘This potential you speak of . . . I’d contend it’s in every one of us.’ Now Ince looked at Rebus, and his eyes seemed harder. He held Rebus’s gaze, returned it. ‘Do you have any children, Inspector?’
‘I’ve a daughter,’ Rebus admitted, knowing the danger of letting Ince into his personal life, letting him inside his head. But Ince was no Cary Oakes. ‘She’s grown up now.’
‘I bet at some point in your relationship you’ve thought about what it would be like to bed her, to have sex with her. Haven’t you?’
Rebus could feel the pressure behind his eyes: anger and revulsion. Strong enough to make him blink away the smoke.
‘I don’t think so.’
Ince grinned. ‘That’s what you tell yourself. But I think you’re lying, even if you don’t know it. It’s human instinct, nothing to be ashamed of. She might have been fifteen, or twelve, or ten.’
Rebus got to his feet. Had to keep moving, otherwise he’d pound Ince’s head into the desk. He wanted to light another cigarette, but was only halfway through the current one.
‘This isn’t about me,’ he said. Even to his ears, it sounded weak.
‘No? Perhaps . . .’
