chewing slowly. ‘So where’s the story?’
‘Come on, Mairie …’
‘I know what you want me to do. She pointed her fork at him. ‘I know why you want it.’
‘And?’
‘And what has he done?’
‘Christ, Mairie, do you know what the reoffending rateis? It’s not something you cure by slapping them in prison for a few years.’
‘We’ve got to take a chance.’
‘ We? It’s not us he’ll be after.’
‘All of us, we’ve all got to give them a chance.’
‘Look, Mairie, it’s a good story.’
‘No, it’s your way of getting to him. Does this all come back to Shiellion?’
‘It’s got bugger all to do with Shiellion.’
‘I hear they’ve got you down to give evidence.’ She stared at him again, but all he did was shrug. ‘Only,’ she went on, ‘the knives are out as it is. If I do a story on a paedophile living in Greenfield of all places … it’d be incitement to murder.’
‘Come on, Mairie …’
‘Know what I think, John?’ She put down her knife and fork. ‘I think something’s gone bad inside you.’
‘Mairie, all I want …’
But she was on her feet, unhooking her coat from the back of the chair, collecting her phone, notebook, bag.
‘I don’t have much of an appetite any more,’ she said.
‘Time was, you’d have gnawed a story like this to the bone.’
She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘I hope to God you’re not, but maybe you are.’
She walked the length of the restaurant’s wooden floorboards on noisy heels. Rebus looked down at his lunch, at the untouched glass of juice. There was a pub not three minutes away. He pushed the plate away. He told himself Mairie was wrong: it had nothing to do with Shiellion. It was down to Jim Margolies, to the fact that Darren Rough had once made a complaint against him. Now Jim was dead, and Rebus wanted something back. Could he lay Jim’s ghost to rest by tormenting Jim’s tormentor? He reached into his pocket, found the sliver ofpaper there, the telephone number still perfectly legible.
I think something’s gone bad inside you .
Who was he to disagree?
8
Four years before, Jim Margolies had been passing through St Leonard’s, seconded to help with a staff shortfall. Three of the CID were down with flu, and another was in hospital for a minor op. Margolies, whose usual beat was Leith, came highly recommended, which made his new colleagues wary. Sometimes a recommendation was made so a station could offload dead weight elsewhere. But Margolies had proved himself quickly, handling a paedophile inquiry with dedication and tact. Two boys had been interfered with on The Meadows during, of all things, a children’s festival. Darren Rough was already in police files. At twelve, he’d interfered with a neighbour’s son, aged six at the time. He’d had counselling, and spent time in a children’s home. At fifteen, he’d been caught peeping in at windows at the student residences in Pollock Halls. More counselling. Another mark in his police file.
The schoolboys’ description of their attacker had taken police to the house Rough shared with his father. At nine in the morning, the father was drunk at the kitchen table. The mother had died the previous summer, which looked to be the last time the house had been cleaned. Soiled clothes and mouldy dishes were everywhere. It looked like nothing ever got thrown out: burst and rotting binbags stood inside the kitchen door; mail was piled high in a corner of the front hall, where damp had turned it into a single sodden mass. In Darren Rough’s bedroom, Jim Margolies found clothing catalogues, crude penned additions made to the child models. There were collections ofteen magazines under the bed, stories about – and pictures of – teenage girls and boys. And best of all from the police point of view, tucked under a corner of rotting carpet was Darren’s ‘Fantasy League’, detailing his sexual proclivities and wish lists,
‘Come on, Mairie …’
‘I know what you want me to do. She pointed her fork at him. ‘I know why you want it.’
‘And?’
‘And what has he done?’
‘Christ, Mairie, do you know what the reoffending rateis? It’s not something you cure by slapping them in prison for a few years.’
‘We’ve got to take a chance.’
‘ We? It’s not us he’ll be after.’
‘All of us, we’ve all got to give them a chance.’
‘Look, Mairie, it’s a good story.’
‘No, it’s your way of getting to him. Does this all come back to Shiellion?’
‘It’s got bugger all to do with Shiellion.’
‘I hear they’ve got you down to give evidence.’ She stared at him again, but all he did was shrug. ‘Only,’ she went on, ‘the knives are out as it is. If I do a story on a paedophile living in Greenfield of all places … it’d be incitement to murder.’
‘Come on, Mairie …’
‘Know what I think, John?’ She put down her knife and fork. ‘I think something’s gone bad inside you.’
‘Mairie, all I want …’
But she was on her feet, unhooking her coat from the back of the chair, collecting her phone, notebook, bag.
‘I don’t have much of an appetite any more,’ she said.
‘Time was, you’d have gnawed a story like this to the bone.’
She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘I hope to God you’re not, but maybe you are.’
She walked the length of the restaurant’s wooden floorboards on noisy heels. Rebus looked down at his lunch, at the untouched glass of juice. There was a pub not three minutes away. He pushed the plate away. He told himself Mairie was wrong: it had nothing to do with Shiellion. It was down to Jim Margolies, to the fact that Darren Rough had once made a complaint against him. Now Jim was dead, and Rebus wanted something back. Could he lay Jim’s ghost to rest by tormenting Jim’s tormentor? He reached into his pocket, found the sliver ofpaper there, the telephone number still perfectly legible.
I think something’s gone bad inside you .
Who was he to disagree?
8
Four years before, Jim Margolies had been passing through St Leonard’s, seconded to help with a staff shortfall. Three of the CID were down with flu, and another was in hospital for a minor op. Margolies, whose usual beat was Leith, came highly recommended, which made his new colleagues wary. Sometimes a recommendation was made so a station could offload dead weight elsewhere. But Margolies had proved himself quickly, handling a paedophile inquiry with dedication and tact. Two boys had been interfered with on The Meadows during, of all things, a children’s festival. Darren Rough was already in police files. At twelve, he’d interfered with a neighbour’s son, aged six at the time. He’d had counselling, and spent time in a children’s home. At fifteen, he’d been caught peeping in at windows at the student residences in Pollock Halls. More counselling. Another mark in his police file.
The schoolboys’ description of their attacker had taken police to the house Rough shared with his father. At nine in the morning, the father was drunk at the kitchen table. The mother had died the previous summer, which looked to be the last time the house had been cleaned. Soiled clothes and mouldy dishes were everywhere. It looked like nothing ever got thrown out: burst and rotting binbags stood inside the kitchen door; mail was piled high in a corner of the front hall, where damp had turned it into a single sodden mass. In Darren Rough’s bedroom, Jim Margolies found clothing catalogues, crude penned additions made to the child models. There were collections ofteen magazines under the bed, stories about – and pictures of – teenage girls and boys. And best of all from the police point of view, tucked under a corner of rotting carpet was Darren’s ‘Fantasy League’, detailing his sexual proclivities and wish lists,
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