‘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 reoffended. 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?’
She nodded again. Rebus remembered a rumour about a promotion. So Gill Templer remained the only female chief inspector in Lothian. Rebus studied her from behind his cigarette. She was tall, what his mother would have called ‘big-boned’. Shoulder-length brown hair fashioned into waves. Mustard-coloured two-piece with a light silk blouse. She sported a mole on one cheek and another on her chin. Mid-thirties...? Rebus was hopeless with ages.
‘Well...’ she said, ready to leave but looking for an excuse not to.
‘Goodbye then.’ A voice sounded behind them. They turned and watched Richard Cordover walking to his car. It was a red TVR with personalised plate. By the time he was unlocking the car, he seemed to have forgotten about them.
‘One cold bastard,’ Barbour muttered.
‘Must have saved him a few bob.’
She looked at Rebus. ‘How’s that?’
‘He could skip the TVR’s air-conditioning option. Sure about that drink? There’s something I wanted to ask you...’
They bypassed Deacon Brodie’s — too many ‘clients’ drank there — and headed for the Jolly Judge. Rebus had once had a drink there with an advocate who drank advocaat. Now Rangers had signed a Dutch manager called Advocaat and the jokes were being dusted off... He bought a Virgin Mary for Barbour and a half of Eighty for himself. They sat at a table below the stairs, well out of the way.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
Rebus raised his glass to her, then to his lips.
‘So what can I do for you?’
He put down the glass. ‘Just some background. You used to work MisPers, didn’t you?’
‘For my sins, yes.’
‘What did you do exactly?’
‘Collect, collate, stick them all into filing cabinets and computer memories. A bit of liaison, punting our MisPers to other forces and receiving theirs in return. Lots of meetings with the various charities...’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Lots of meetings with families, too, trying to help them understand what had happened.’