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with his Meadows exploit dated and signed.
    For all of which the Procurator Fiscal was duly grateful. Darren Rough, by now twenty years old, was found guilty and sent to jail. A crate of beer was opened at St Leonard’s, and Jim Margolies sat at the top of the table.
    Rebus was there, too. He’d been part of the shift team interviewing Rough. He’d spent enough time with the prisoner to know that they were doing the right thing locking him up.
    ‘Not that it ever helps with those bastards,’ DI Alistair Flower had said. ‘Reoffend as soon as they’re out.’
    ‘You’re suggesting treatment replaces incarceration?’ Margolies had asked.
    ‘I’m suggesting we throw away the fucking key!’ To which there had been cheers of agreement. Siobhan Clarke had been too canny to add her own view, but Rebus knew what she’d been thinking. Nothing was said of the complaint Rough had made. Bruising to his face and body: he’d told his solicitor Jim Margolies had given him a beating. No witnesses. Self-inflicted was the consensus. Rebus knew he’d felt like giving Rough a couple of slaps himself, but Margolies had no history of aggression against suspects.
    There’d been an internal inquiry. Margolies had denied the accusation. A medical examination had been unable to determine whether Rough’s bruises were self-inflicted. And that’s where it had ended, with the faintest of blots on Margolies’ record, the faintest doubt hanging over the rest of his career.
    Rebus closed the case file and walked back to the vault with it.
    Mairie: I think something’s gone bad inside you .
    Rough’s social worker: Your lot wanted him here .
    Rebus went to the Farmer’s office, knocked on the door, entered when told.
    ‘What can I do for you, John?’
    ‘I had a word with Darren Rough’s social worker, sir.’
    The Farmer looked up from his paperwork. ‘Any particular reason?’
    ‘Just wanted to know why Rough had been given a flat with a view of a kiddies’ playground.’
    ‘I bet they loved you for that.’ Not sounding disapproving. Social workers rated only a rung or two above paedophiles on the Farmer’s moral stepladder.
    ‘They told me that we wanted him here in the first place.’
    The Farmer’s face furrowed. ‘Meaning what?’
    ‘They suggested I ask you.’
    ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ The Farmer sat back in his chair. ‘ We wanted him here?’
    ‘That’s what they said.’
    ‘Meaning Edinburgh?’
    Rebus nodded. ‘I’ve just been through the file on Rough. He was in a children’s home for a while.’
    ‘Not Shiellion?’ The Farmer was looking interested.
    Rebus shook his head. ‘Callstone House, other side of the city. Just for a short spell. Both parents were alcoholic, neglecting him. There was nowhere else for him to go.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘Mother dried out, Rough went back home. Then, later on, she was diagnosed with liver disease, only nobody bothered moving Rough.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because by that time, he was looking after his father.’
    The Farmer looked towards his collection of family snaps. ‘The way some people live …’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus agreed.
    ‘So where’s this leading?’
    ‘Only this: Rough comes back to Edinburgh, apparentlybecause we want him here. Next thing, the officer who put him away ends up walking off Salisbury Crags.’
    ‘You’re not suggesting a connection?’
    Rebus shrugged. ‘Jim goes out to dinner at some friends’ with his wife and kid. Drives home. Goes to bed. Next morning he’s dead. I’m looking for reasons why Jim Margolies would take his own life. Thing is, I’m not finding any. And I’m also wondering who’d want Darren Rough back here and why.’
    The Farmer was thoughtful. ‘You want me to talk to Social Work?’
    ‘They wouldn’t talk to me.’
    The Farmer reached for paper and a pen. ‘Give me a name.’
    ‘Andy Davies is Rough’s social worker.’
    The Farmer underlined the words. ‘Leave it with me,