Tears dropped on to Archibald’s cheeks and down his chin. Bobby Hogan dabbed at them with the already damp napkin.
‘All these years not knowing... damned fool to think I could...’ He closed his eyes, crying softly. In the other beds, no one stirred. Crying in the night maybe wasn’t so unusual here. Bobby Hogan had taken hold of both the old man’s hands. It looked like Archibald was squeezing with all his might.
Alan Archibald was in hospital because he’d become obsessed with an idea. Rebus, knowing what he knew now, was wondering if Jim Margolies had become obsessed too. With nothing else to do, he headed back to St Leonard’s. It took a couple of hours, several phone calls, and a lot of grudging help before Rebus got what he wanted.
He sat at his desk scoring through points on his notepad. The people he’d spoken to from the Health Board and Social Work had all asked if it couldn’t wait till morning. Rebus had insisted it could not.
‘It’s a murder inquiry,’ had been his only line of attack. When pressed for details, he’d said he couldn’t add anything ‘at the present moment in time’, trying to sound like the sort of detective they’d expect him to be: a bureaucrat, a man following a preordained path of investigation where no overnight rest-stops could be taken.
In the end, he’d had to drive to the various offices himself to pick up the information he’d asked for. On each occasion, he’d been met by the official he’d spoken to on the phone. They’d all stared at him with ill-will and irritation. But they’d all handed over the documents. Which gave Rebus little to do but head back to St Leonard’s and plough through the field of information on Dr Joseph Margolies.
Dr Margolies had been born in Selkirk, and educated in the Borders and at Fettes. His medical degree was completed at the University of Edinburgh, with stints working in Africa for a Christian charity. He’d become a general practitioner, then had taken to lecturing, specialising in paediatrics. And eventually, as Siobhan’s note had said, he’d been employed to ‘look after’ the council-run children’s homes in Lothian, a job which also took him into private homes licensed by the council — such as those owned and operated by churches and charities.
What his job meant in effect was that he checked the children for signs of abuse, and would be brought in to make a physical examination should any accusations of abuse be made. Also, some of the kids were classed as ‘difficult cases’, and a medical prognosis would be part of their ongoing record. Dr Margolies might recommend psychiatric consultation, or a move to some other type of institution. He could prescribe treatments and medication. His powers, in effect, were almost without limit. His word was law.
About halfway through his reading, Rebus began to get a queasy feeling in his gut. He hadn’t eaten for hours, but didn’t think that had anything to do with it. Nevertheless, he forced himself to get some fresh air, visited Brattisani’s for a fish supper with buttered bread and tea. Afterwards, he knew he’d been away from the station for the best part of an hour, but couldn’t recall any of that time: no faces, no voices. Brain busy with other things.
He remembered a recent case, a priest who’d abused children for years. The children had been in the care of nuns, and when any of them complained they were thrashed by the nuns, told they were liars, and made to attend confession — where, listening to them, would be the same priest they’d just accused of abuse.
He knew that oftentimes paedophiles were well able to hide their true natures for months and years as they trained for positions in children’s homes and the like. They would pass all the checks and psychological tests, only later for the mask to slip. Their need was so great, they would go to extraordinary lengths to fulfil it. And sometimes it might have remained latent had they not encountered at some point a fellow traveller, each spurring the other on...
Like Harold Ince and Ramsay Marshall. Rebus could believe that either one, left in isolation, would never have found the strength to begin their eventual programme of systematic abuse. But together, working as a team, the effect had been to intensify their lusts and desires, making the eventual abuse so much more appalling.
Rebus looked back through all the paperwork on Dr Joseph Margolies, until he was sure of what he saw.
That Margolies had been attached to the city’s children’s homes at the time of the Shiellion scandal.
That he had retired soon afterwards — and prematurely — on ‘health grounds’.
That he was considered courageous by those he worked with for the way he’d kept going following his daughter’s suicide.
Rebus didn’t find much about the daughter. She’d killed herself at fifteen, hadn’t left a note. She’d been a quiet child, withdrawn. Adolescence had done her few favours. She’d been worried about upcoming exams. Her brother Jim had been devastated by her death...
She hadn’t leapt from some high spot. She’d slashed her wrists in the bathroom of her home. Her father had kicked open the door and found her there. It was believed she’d done the deed in the dead of night. Her father was always the first to rise in the morning.
Rebus put a call through to Jane Barbour. By dint of white lies and stubbornness, he secured her mobile number. When she picked up, he could hear loud music and cheering in the background.
‘Good party, is it?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘DI Rebus.’
Another wave of cheering behind her. ‘Hang on, I’ll just take this outside.’ The sounds died away. Barbour exhaled noisily. She sounded drunk. ‘We’re at the Police Club.’
‘What’s the celebration?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘Guilty verdicts?’
‘On both the bastards. Not a single juror went against us.’
Rebus sat back in his chair. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Cordover must be seething.’
‘Bugger Cordover. Petrie pronounces tomorrow. He’ll stick them away for ever and a day.’
‘Well, congratulations again. It’s a hell of a result.’
‘Why don’t you come down? We’ve enough booze here—’
‘Thanks all the same. But it’s a coincidence, I’m phoning about Ince and Marshall.’
‘Oh?’
‘Indirectly anyway. Dr Joseph Margolies.’
‘Yes?’
‘You know who he is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he called to give evidence?’
‘No, he wasn’t. Christ, it’s so mild out here tonight.’
Rebus wondered if she was on anything other than a natural high. ‘Why wasn’t he called?’
‘Because of the facts of the case. It’s true a few of the Shiellion kids made accusations at the time, but they weren’t believed.’
‘There’d be a medical check, though.’
‘Of course, carried out by Dr Margolies. I interviewed him several times. But the boys were known to be gay, insofar as they worked as occasional rent boys around Calton Hill. If they ran from Shiellion, that’s where everyone knew to find them. So you see, evidence of anal sex was not in itself evidence of abuse — I’m quoting the Procurator Fiscal’s line. To my mind, these kids were underage and in care, and anyone who had sex with them was guilty of abuse.’ She paused. ‘End of rant.’
‘Sooner you’re free of this case the better.’
‘So why are you dragging it all up again?’
‘I’m trying to get a fix on Dr Margolies.’
‘Why?’
‘When you talked to him, was he helpful?’
‘As much as he could be. He said himself the kids had been caught lying before, so who was going to believe them next time? And a lot of the abuse claims referred to oral sex and masturbation... not many medical tests for those, Inspector.’