“Yes. His body was found yesterday evening.”

He grinned, eyes suddenly more alive than before. “Good!”

“Why do you say that, George? Did you have any reason to dislike the sheriff?”

“I hated the bastard. I’m glad someone’s got to him.”

“Did you have anything to do with his death, George?” Corstorphine asked gently.

“Me? You have to be joking. I can’t even manage to kill meself. Tried enough times.”

“Can you tell us about life at the orphanage, George?” Corstorphine asked again, trying not to look towards the clock ticking each second away, one by one.

“It wasn’t a place any child should have been sent to. You think you know what hell is, Inspector? Let me tell you. Hell isn’t a place where you go when you die and red devils torment you in fire for all eternity. No, it’s a lot worse than that. It’s a place where poor defenceless kids are left as playthings for the rich and powerful, where they’re used and thrown away like garbage, where they are killed for fun.”

“You saw this yourself?”

“Aye. I saw it. And I saw who did it. Those faces will never leave me. They come out of the dark to torment me, even now when I try and sleep. Death will be a fucking relief, but I’m glad they’re being taken, one by one.”

Corstorphine leaned forward. “Who do you remember, George? What are their names?”

He suddenly clammed up. “I’m not saying anything. You can’t do anything about them, they’re too powerful.”

“We’ve already been given names, George. William Booth has given us names, Margo has given us names. The more people give us information, the more we can make sure that we take these abusers down. Will you help us?”

He looked at them both, greasy hair turning grey as it curled over the collar of a coat two sizes too big for him. “What the fuck? What can anyone do to me now, anyway? It’s not as if I can sink any lower.”

His eyes sank towards the table again, unwilling or unable to face the two policemen as he told his tale of lost childhood for the first time in his life. At the end, Corstorphine passed over the photographs of the children. He looked at them as if seeing ghosts.

“Do you recognise any of these children, George? Were they at the orphanage with you?”

“Aye, I know some of them.” He made two small piles of the photographs, pointing to the pile of eight. “These are the ones they killed, the people I told you about.” He spelled out their names as he placed each one down, then spread the remaining seven out on the table, pulling out one. “This is me.” Another three photographs were lifted out of the pile. “This one’s Craig, this one’s William Booth, and this one’s Oscar.”