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. Releasedinto 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 already 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
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. Releasedinto 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 already 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
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