by Ian Rankin
‘I’ll join you,’ the uniform said.
Outside, they smoked furiously and in silence, watching the ebb and flow of people from the building. The High Court was tucked in behind St Giles’ Cathedral, and occasionally tourists would wander towards it, wondering what it was. There were few signs about, just Roman numerals above the various heavy wooden doors. A guard on the car park would sometimes point them back towards the High Street. Though members of the public could enter the court building, tourists were actively discouraged. The Great Hall was enough of a cattle market as it was. But Rebus liked it: he liked the carved wooden ceiling, the statue of Sir Walter Scott, the huge stained-glass window. He liked peering through the glass door into the library where the lawyers sought precedents in large dusty tomes.
But he preferred the fresh air, setts below him and grey stone above, and the inhalation of nicotine, and the illusion that he could walk away from all this if he chose. For the thing was, behind the splendour of the architecture, and the weight of tradition, and the high concepts of justice and the law, this was a place of immense and continual human pain, where brutal stories were wrenched up, where tortured images were replayed as daily fare. People who thought they’d put the whole thing behind them were asked to delve into the most secret and tragic moments of their past. Victims rendered their stories, the professionals laid down cold facts over the emotions of others, the accused wove their own versions in an attempt to woo the jury.
And while it was easy to see it as a game, as some kind of cruel spectator sport, still it could not be dismissed. Because for all the hard work Rebus and others put into a case, this was where it sank or swam. And this was where all policemen learned an early lesson that truth and justice were far from being allies, and that victims were something more than sealed bags of evidence, recordings and statements.
It had probably all been simple enough once upon a time; the concept still was fairly simple. There is an accused, and a victim. Lawyers speak for both sides, presenting the evidence. A judgment is made. But the whole thing was a matter of words and interpretation, and Rebus knew how facts could be twisted, misrepresented, how some evidence sounded more eloquent than others, how juries could decide from the off which way they’d vote, based on the manner or styling of the accused. And so it turned into theatre, and the cleverer the lawyers became, the more arcane became their games with language. Rebus had long since given up fighting them on their own terms. He gave his evidence, kept his answers short, and tried not to fall for any of the tried and tested tricks. Some of the lawyers could see it in his eyes, could see that he’d been here too often before. They detained him only briefly, before moving on to more amenable subjects.
That was why he didn’t think they’d call him today. But all the same, he had to sit it out, had to waste his time and energy in the great name of justice.
One of the guards came out. Rebus knew him, and offered a cigarette. The man took it with a nod, accepting Rebus’s box of matches.
‘Fucking awful in there today,’ the guard said, shaking his head. All three men were staring across the car park.
‘We’re not allowed to know,’ Rebus reminded him with a sly smile. ‘Which court are you in?’
‘Shiellion,’ Rebus said.
‘That’s the one I’m talking about,’ the guard said. ‘Some of the testimony …’ And he shook his head, a man who’d heard more horror stories than most in his working life.
Suddenly, Rebus knew why the man across from him had been crying. And if he couldn’t put a name to the man, at least now he knew who he was: he was one of the Shiellion survivors.
Shiellion House lay just off the Glasgow Road at Ingliston Mains. Built in the 1820s for one of the city’s Lord Provosts, after his death and various family wranglings it had passed into the care of the Church of Scotland. As a private residence it was found to be too big and draughty, its isolation—distant farms its only neighbours –driving away most of its residents. By the 1930s it had become a children’s home, dealing with orphans and the impoverished, teaching them Christianity with hard lessons and early rises. Shiellion had finally closed the previous year. There was talk of it becoming a hotel or a country club. But in its later years, Shiellion had garnered something of a reputation. There had been accusations from former residents, similar stories told by different intakes about the same two men.
Stories of abuse.
Physical and mental abuse to be sure, but eventually sexual abuse too. A couple of cases had come to the attention of the police, but the accusations were one-sided—the word of aggressive children against their quietly spoken carers. The investigations had been half-hearted. The Church had carried out its own internal inquiries, which had shown the children’s stories to be tissues of vindictive lies.
But these inquiries, it now transpired, had been fixed from the start, comprising little more than cover-ups. Something had been happening in Shiellion. Something bad.
The survivors formed a pressure group, and got some media interest. A fresh police investigation was implemented, and it had led to this—the Shiellion trial; two men up on charges ranging from assault to sodomy. Twenty-eight counts against either man. And meantime, the victims were readying to sue the Church.
Rebus didn’t wonder that the guard was pale-faced. He’d heard whispers about the stories being retold in court number one. He’d read some of the original transcripts, details of interviews held at police stations up and down the country, as children who’d been held in Shiellion were traced—adults now—and questioned. Some of them had refused to have anything to do with it. “That’s all behind me,’ was an oft-used excuse. Only it was more than an excuse: it was the simple truth. They’d worked hard to lock out the nightmares from their childhood: why would they want to relive them? They had whatever peace would ever be available to them in life: why change that?
Who would face terror across a courtroom, if they could choose to avoid it?
Who indeed.
The survivors’ group comprised eight individuals who had chosen the more difficult path. They were going to see to it that after all these years justice was finally done. They were going to lock away the two monsters who’d ripped apart their innocence, monsters who were still there in the world whenever they woke from their nightmares.
Harold Ince was fifty-seven, short and skinny and bespectacled. He had curly hair, turning grey. He had a wife and three grown children. He was a grandfather. He hadn’t worked in seven years. He had a dazed look to him in all the photographs Rebus had seen.
Ramsay Marshall was forty-four, tall and broad, hair cut short and spiky. Divorced, no children, had until recently been living and working (as a chef) in Aberdeen. Photographs showed a scowling face, jutting chin.
The two men had met at Shiellion in the early 1980s, formed a friendship or at the very least an alliance. Found they shared a common interest, one that could, it seemed, be carried out with impunity in Shiellion House.
Abusers. Rebus was sickened by them. They couldn’t be cured or changed. They just went on and on. Released into the community, they’d soon revert to type. They were control junkies, weak-minded, and just awful. They were like addicts who couldn’t be weaned off their fix. There were no prescription drugs, and no amount of psychotherapy seemed to work. They saw weakness and had to exploit it; saw innocence and had to explore it. Rebus had had a bellyful of them.
Like with Darren Rough. Rebus knew he’d snapped in the zoo because of Shiellion, because of the way it wasn’t going away. The trial had lasted two weeks so far, heading into week three, and still there were stories to be told, still there were people crying in the waiting room.
‘Chemical castration,’ the guard said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘It’s the only way.’
Then there was a cry from the courthouse door: one of the ushers. ‘Inspector Rebus?’ she called. Rebus nodded, flicked his cigarette on to the setts.
‘You’re up,’ she called. He was alread
y moving towards her.
Rebus didn’t know why he was here. Except that he’d interviewed Harold Ince. Which was to say, he’d been part of the team interviewing Ince. But only for one day—other work had pulled him away from Shiellion. Only for one day, early on in the inquiry. He’d shared the sessions with Bill Pryde, but it wasn’t Bill Pryde the defence wanted to examine. It was John Rebus.
The public gallery was half-empty. The jury of fifteen sat with glazed expressions, the effect of sharing someone else’s nightmare, day in, day out. The judge was Lord Justice Petrie. Ince and Marshall sat in the dock. Ince leaned forward, the better to hear the evidence, his hands twisting the polished brass rail in front of him. Marshall leaned back, looking bored by proceedings. He examined his shirt-front, then would turn his neck from side to side, cracking it. Clear his throat and click his tongue and go back to studying himself.
The defence lawyer was Richard Cordover, Richie to his friends. Rebus had had dealings with him before; he’d yet to be invited to call the lawyer ‘Richie’. Cordover was in his forties, hair already grey. Medium height and with a muscular neck, face tanned. Health club regular, Rebus guessed. Prosecution was a fiscal-depute nearly half Rebus’s age. He looked confident but careful, browsing through his case notes, jotting points down with a fat black fountain pen.
Petrie cleared his throat, reminding Cordover that time was passing. Cordover bowed to the judge and approached Rebus.
‘Detective Inspector Rebus …’ Pausing immediately for effect. ‘I believe you interviewed one of the suspects.’
‘That’s right, sir. I was present at the interview of Harold Ince on October the twentieth last year. Others present included—’
‘This was where exactly?’
‘Interview Room B, St Leonard’s police station.’
Cordover turned away from Rebus, walked slowly towards the jury. ‘You were part of the investigating team?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘For how long?’
‘Just over a week, sir.’
Cordover turned to Rebus. ‘How long did the investigation last in total, Inspector?’
‘A matter of some months, I believe.’
‘Some months, yes …’ Cordover went as if to check his notes. Rebus noticed a woman seated on a chair near the door. She was a CID detective called Jane Barbour. Though she sat with arms folded and legs crossed, she looked as tense as Rebus felt. Normally, she worked out of Fettes, but halfway through Shiellion she’d been put in charge: after Rebus’s time; he hadn’t had any dealings with her.
‘Eight and a half months,’ Cordover was saying. ‘A decent period of gestation.’ He smiled coldly at Rebus, who said nothing. He was wondering where this was leading; knew now that the defence had some bloody good reason for bringing him here. Only he didn’t yet know what.
‘Were you pulled from the inquiry, Inspector Rebus?’ Asked casually, as if to satisfy curiosity only.
‘Pulled? No, sir. Something else came up—’
‘And someone was needed to deal with it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why you, do you think?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir.’
‘No?’ Cordover sounded surprised. He turned towards the jury. ‘You’ve no idea why you were pulled from that inquiry after just one—’
The prosecution counsel was on his feet, arms spread. “The detective inspector has already stated that the word “pulled” is an inaccuracy, Your Honour.’
‘Well then,’ Cordover went on quickly, ‘let’s say you were transferred. Would that be more accurate, Inspector?’
Rebus just shrugged, unwilling to agree to anything. Cordover was persistent.
‘Yes or no will do.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Yes, you were transferred from a major inquiry after one week?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you’ve no idea why?’
‘Because I was needed elsewhere, sir.’ Rebus was trying not to look towards the fiscal-depute: any glance in that direction would have Cordover scenting blood, scenting someone who needed rescuing. Jane Barbour was shifting in her seat, still with arms folded.
‘You were needed elsewhere,’ Cordover repeated in a flat tone of voice. He returned to his notes. ‘How’s your disciplinary record, Inspector?’
The fiscal-depute was on his feet. ‘Inspector Rebus is not on trial here, Your Honour. He has come to give evidence, and so far I can’t see any point to the—’
‘I withdraw the remark, Your Honour,’ Cordover said airily. He smiled at Rebus, approached again. ‘You conducted how many interviews with Mr Ince?’
‘Two sessions over a single day.’
‘Did they go well?’ Rebus looked blank. ‘Did my client co-operate?’
‘His answers were deliberately obtuse, sir.’
“Deliberately”? Are you some kind of expert, Inspector?’
Rebus fixed his eyes on the advocate. ‘I can tell when someone’s being evasive.’
‘Really?’ Cordover was making for the jury again. Rebus wondered how many miles of floor he covered in a day. ‘My client is of the opinion that you were “a threatening presence”—his words, not mine.’
‘The interviews were recorded, sir.’
‘Indeed they were. And videotaped, too. I’ve watched them several times, and I think you’d have to agree that your method of questioning is aggressive.’
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’ Cordover raised his eyebrows. ‘My client was obviously terrified of you.’
The interviews followed every procedure, sir.’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ Cordover said dismissively, ‘but let’s be honest here, Inspector.’ He was in front of Rebus now, close enough to hit. ‘There are ways and ways, aren’t there? Body language, gestures, ways of phrasing a question or statement. You may or may not be expert at divinating obtuse answers, but you’re certainly a ruthless questioner.’
The judge peered over the top of his glasses. ‘Is this leading somewhere, other than to an attempt at character assassination?’
‘If you’ll bear with me a moment longer, Your Honour.’ Cordover bowed again, consummate showman. Not for the first time, Rebus was struck by the utter ridiculousness of the whole enterprise: a game played by well-paid lawyers using real lives as the pieces.
‘A few days ago, Inspector,’ Cordover went on, ‘were you part of a surveillance team at Edinburgh Zoo?’
Oh, hell. Rebus knew now exactly where Cordover was leading, and like a bad chess-player put against a master, he could do little to forestall the conclusion.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You ended up in pursuit of a member of the public?’
The fiscal-depute was on his feet again, but the judge waved him aside.
‘I did, yes.’
‘You were part of an undercover team trying to catch our notorious poisoner?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the man you chased … I believe it was into the sea-lion enclosure?’ Cordover looked up for confirmation. Rebus nodded dutifully. Was this man the poisoner?’
‘No, sir.’
Did you suspect him of being the poisoner?’
‘He was a convicted paedophile …’ There was anger in Rebus’s voice, and he knew his face had reddened. He broke off, but too late. He’d given the defence lawyer everything he wanted.
‘A man who had served his sentence and been released into the community. A man who has not re-offended. A man who was enjoying the pleasures of a trip to the zoo until you recognised him and chased after him.’
‘He ran first.’
‘He ran? From you, Inspector? Now why would he do a thing like that?’
All right, you sarky bastard, get it over with.
‘The point I’m making,’ Cordover said to the jury, approaching them with something close to reverence, ‘is that there is prejudice against anyone even suspected of crimes against children. The Inspector happened to catch
sight of a man who had served a single custodial sentence, and immediately suspected the worst, and acted on that suspicion—quite wrongly, as it turned out. No charges were made, the poisoner struck again, and I believe the innocent party is considering suing the police for wrongful arrest.’ He nodded. ‘Your tax money, I’m afraid.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now, it may be that we can all understand the Inspector’s feelings. The blood rises where children are involved. But I’d ask you: is it morally right? And does it contaminate the entire case against my clients, seeping down through the tools of the investigation, coming to rest with the very officers who conducted the inquiry?’ He pointed towards Rebus, who felt now that he was in the dock rather than the witness box. Seeing his discomfort, Ramsay Marshall’s eyes were twinkling with pleasure. ‘Later, I shall produce further evidence that the initial police investigation was flawed from the outset, and that Detective Inspector Rebus here was not the only culprit.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘No more questions.’
And Rebus was dismissed.
‘That was a tough one.’
Rebus looked up at the figure walking slowly towards him. He was lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply. He offered one over, but she shook her head.
‘Have you come across Cordover before?’ Rebus asked.
‘We’ve had our run-ins,’ Jane Barbour said.
‘Sorry I couldn’t …’
Not much you could have done about it.’ She exhaled noisily, clutching a briefcase to her chest. They were outside the court building. Rebus felt gritty and exhausted. He noticed she was looking pretty tired herself.
‘Fancy a drink?’
She shook her head. Things to do.’
He nodded. ‘Think we’ll win?’
‘Not if Cordover has anything to do with it.’ She scraped the heel of one shoe across the ground. ‘I seem to be losing more than I’m winning lately.’
‘You still at Fettes?’
She nodded. ‘Sex Offences.’
‘Still a DI?’