The Whispering Rain

Mind me when mischief befalls me

from the cruel and the vain

The Bathers,

‘Ave the Leopards’

5

The Scots language is especially rich in words to do with the weather: ‘dreich’ and ‘smirr’ are only two of them.

It had taken Rebus an hour to drive to Raintown, but another forty minutes to find Dumbarton Road. He hadn’t been to the station before: Partick cop-shop had relocated in ’93. The old station, the ‘Marine’, he’d been there, but not the new place. Driving in Glasgow could be a nightmare for the uninitiated, a maze of one-way streets and ill-signposted intersections. Rebus twice had to leave his car and call in for instructions, both times queuing outside phone boxes in the rain. Only it wasn’t real rain, it was smirr, a fine spray-mist which drenched you before you knew it. It was blowing in from the west, moisture straight from the Atlantic Ocean. It was all Rebus needed first thing on a dreich Monday morning.

When he got to the station, he noticed a car in the car park, two figures inside, smoke billowing from an open window, radio playing. Reporters, had to be. They were the graveyard shift. At this point in a story, reporters divvied the hours into shifts, so they could go off and be somewhere else. Whoever was left on recce was on a promise to buzz any breaks in the story to the other journalists pronto.

When he finally pushed open the station door, there was scattered applause. He walked up to the desk.

‘Finally made it, then?’ the Duty Sergeant asked. ‘Thought we were going to have to send out search parties.’

‘Where’s CI Ancram?’

‘In a meeting. He said for you to go up and wait.’

So Rebus went upstairs, and found that the CID offices had become a sprawling Murder Room. There were photographs on the walls: Judith Cairns, Ju-Ju, in life and in death. More photos of the locus — Kelvingrove Park, a sheltered spot surrounded by bushes. A work rota had been posted — interview grind mostly, shoe-leather stuff, no big breaks expected but you had to make the effort. Officers clattered at keyboards, maybe using the SCRO computer, or even HOLMES — the major enquiry database. All murder cases — excluding those solved straight off — were put on the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. There were dedicated teams — detectives and uniforms — who operated the system, typing in data, checking and cross-referencing. Even Rebus — no great fan of new technology — could see the advantages over the old card-index system. He stopped by a computer terminal and watched someone entering a statement. Then, looking up, he saw a face he recognised, walked up to its owner.

‘Hiya, Jack, thought you were still in Falkirk?’

DI Jack Morton turned, his eyes opening wide in disbelief. He rose from his desk, took Rebus’s hand and pumped it.

‘I am,’ he said, ‘but they’re short-handed here.’ He looked around the room. ‘Understandably.’

Rebus looked Jack Morton up and down, couldn’t believe what he saw. Last time they’d met, Jack had been a couple of stone overweight, a heavy smoker with a cough that could crack patrol-car windscreens. Now he’d shed the excess weight, and the perennial ciggie was missing from his mouth. More, his hair was professionally groomed and he was dressed in an expensive-looking suit, polished black shoes, crisp shirt and tie.

‘What happened to you?’ Rebus asked.

Morton smiled, patted his near-flat stomach. ‘Just looked at myself one day and couldn’t understand why the mirror didn’t break. Got off the booze and the cigs, joined a health club.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Life and death decisions. You can’t afford to hem and haw.’

‘You look great.’

‘Wish I could say the same, John.’

Rebus was thinking up a comeback when CI Ancram entered the room.

‘DI Rebus?’ They shook hands. The Chief Inspector didn’t seem keen to let go. His eyes were soaking up Rebus. ‘Sorry to keep you.’

Ancram was in his early fifties, and every bit as well-dressed as Jack Morton. He was bald mostly, but with Sean Connery’s style and a thick dark moustache to match.

‘Has Jack been giving you the tour?’

‘Not exactly, sir.’

‘Well, this is the Glasgow end of the Johnny Bible operation.’

‘Is this the nearest station to Kelvingrove?’

Ancram smiled. ‘Proximity to the locus was just one consideration. Judith Cairns was his third victim, by then the media had already hit on the Bible John connection. And this is where all the Bible John files are stored.’

‘Any chance I can see them?’

Ancram studied him, then shrugged. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

Rebus followed Ancram along the corridor to another suite of offices. There was a musty smell in the air, more library than cop-shop. Rebus saw why: the room was full of old cardboard boxes, box-files with spring hinges, packets of curl-edged paper bound with string. Four CID officers — two male, two female — were working their way through everything and anything to do with the original Bible John case.

‘We had this lot stashed in a storeroom,’ Ancram said. ‘You should have seen the stoor that came off when we brought them out.’ He blew on a folder, fine powder rising from it.

‘You do think there’s a connection then?’

It was a question every police officer in Scotland had asked every other police officer, for there was always the chance that the two cases, the two killers, had nothing in common, in which event hundreds of man-hours were being wasted.

‘Oh yes,’ Ancram said. Yes: it was what Rebus felt, too. ‘I mean, the modus operandi is close enough to start with, then there are the souvenirs he takes from the scene. The description of Johnny Bible may be a fluke, but I’m sure he’s copying his hero.’ Ancram looked at Rebus. ‘Aren’t you?’

Rebus nodded. He was looking at all the material, thinking how he’d like to have a few weeks with it, how he might find something no one else had spotted... It was a dream, of course, a fantasy, but on slow nights sometimes it was motivation enough. Rebus had his newspapers, but they told only as much of the story as the police had wanted made public. He walked over to a row of shelves, read the spines of the box-files: Door to Door; Taxi Firms; Hairdressers; Tailors’ Shops; Hairpiece Suppliers.

‘Hairpiece suppliers?’

Ancram smiled. ‘His short hair, they thought maybe it was a wig. They talked to hairdressers to see if anyone recognised the cut.’

‘And to tailors because of his Italian suit.’

Again Ancram stared at him.

Rebus shrugged. ‘The case interests me. What’s this?’ He pointed to a wall chart.

‘Similarities and dissimilarities between the two cases,’ Ancram said. ‘Dancehalls versus the club scene. And the descriptions: tall, skinny, shy, auburn hair, well dressed... I mean, Johnny could almost be Bible John’s son.’

‘That’s something I’ve been asking myself. Supposing Johnny Bible is basing himself on his hero, and supposing Bible John’s still out there somewhere...’

‘Bible John’s dead.’

Rebus kept his eyes on the chart. ‘But just supposing he isn’t. I mean, is he flattered? Is he pissed off? What?’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘The Glasgow victim hadn’t been to a club,’ Rebus said.

‘Well, she wasn’t last seen in a club. But she’d been to one earlier that evening, he could have followed her from there to the concert.’

Victims one and two had been picked up by Johnny Bible in nightclubs, the nineties equivalent of a sixties dancehall: louder, darker, more dangerous. They’d been in parties, who were able to furnish only the vaguest descriptions of the man who had walked off into the night with their friend. But victim three, Judith Cairns, had been picked up at a rock concert in a room above a pub.

‘We’ve had others too,’ Ancram was saying. ‘Three unsolveds in Glasgow in the late seventies, all three missing some personal item.’

‘Like he never went away,’ Rebus muttered.

‘There’s too much to go on, yet not nearly enough.’ Ancram folded his arms. ‘How well does Johnny know the three cities? Did he pick the clubs at random, or did he know them to start with? Was each locus chosen beforehand? Could he be a brewery delivery-man? A DJ? Music journalist? Maybe he writes fucking travel guides for all I know.’ Ancram started a joyless laugh, and rubbed at his forehead.

‘Could always be Bible John himself,’ Rebus said.

‘Bible John’s dead and buried, Inspector.’

‘You really think so?’

Ancram nodded. He wasn’t alone. There were plenty of coppers who thought they knew who Bible John was, and knew him to be dead. But there were others more sceptical, and Rebus was among them. A DNA match probably wouldn’t have been enough to change his mind. There was always the chance that Bible John was out there.

They had a description of a man in his late twenties, but witness evidence was notoriously uneven. As a result, the original photofits and artists’ impressions of Bible John had been dusted off and put back into circulation with the media’s help. The usual psychological ploys were being used too — pleas in the press for the killer to come forward: ‘You obviously need help, and we’d like you to contact us.’ Bluff, with silence the retort.

Ancram pointed to photos on one wall: a photofit from 1970, aged by computer, beard and glasses added, the hair receding at crown and temples. They’d been made public too.

‘Could be anybody, couldn’t it?’ Ancram stated.

‘Getting to you, sir?’ Rebus was waiting for an invitation to call Ancram by his first name.

‘Of course it’s getting to me.’ Ancram’s face relaxed. ‘Why the interest?’

‘No real reason.’

‘I mean, we’re not here for Johnny Bible, are we? We’re here to talk about Uncle Joe.’

‘Ready when you are, sir.’

‘Come on then, let’s see if we can find two empty chairs in this fucking building.’


They ended up standing in the corridor, with coffee bought from a machine further along.

‘Do we know what he strangles them with?’ Rebus asked.

Ancram’s eyes widened. ‘More Johnny Bible?’ He sighed. ‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t leave much of an impression. The latest theory is a length of washing-line; you know, the nylon stuff, plastic-coated. The forensic labs have tested about two hundred possibles, everything from rope to guitar strings.’

‘What do you think about the souvenirs?’

‘I think we should go public with them. I know keeping them hush-hush helps us rule out the nutters who walk in to confess, but I honestly think we’d be better off asking the public for help. That necklace, I mean, you couldn’t get more distinctive. If someone out there has found it, or seen it... housey-housey.’

‘You’ve got a psychic working the case, haven’t you?’

Ancram looked nettled. ‘Not me personally, some arsehole further up the ranks. It’s a newspaper stunt, but the brass went for it.’

‘He hasn’t helped?’

‘We told him we needed a demonstration, asked him to predict the winner of the two-fifteen at Ayr.’

Rebus laughed. ‘And?’

‘He said he could see the letters S and P, and a jockey dressed in pink with yellow spots.’

‘That’s impressive.’

‘Thing is though, there was no two-fifteen at Ayr, or anywhere else for that matter. All this voodoo and profiling, a waste of time if you ask me.’

‘So you’ve nothing to go on?’

‘Not much. No saliva at the locus, not so much as a hair. Bastard uses a johnny, then takes it with him — wrapper included. My bet is, he wears gloves too. We’ve a few threads from a jacket or the like, forensics are still busy with them.’ Ancram raised his cup to his lips, blew on it. ‘So, Inspector, do you want to hear about Uncle Joe or not?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder.’ Rebus just shrugged, so Ancram took a deep breath. ‘OK, then listen. He controls a lot of the muscle-work — and I mean that literally; he has a share in a couple of bodybuilder gyms. In fact, he has a share in just about everything that’s the least bit dodgy: money-lending, protection, prozzy pitches, betting.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Maybe. There are a lot of maybes with Uncle Joe. You’ll see that when you read the files. He’s as slippery as a Thai bath — he owns massage parlours too. Then he’s got a lot of the taxi cabs, the ones that don’t switch their meters on when you get in; or if they do, the rate-per-mile’s been hiked. The cabbies are all on the broo, claiming benefit. We’ve approached several of them, but they won’t say a word against Uncle Joe. Thing is, if the DSS start sniffing around for scroungers, the investigators receive a letter. It details where they live, spouse’s name and daily movements, kids’ names, the school they go to...’

‘I get the picture.’

‘So they start requesting a transfer to another department, and meantime go to their doctor because they’re having trouble sleeping at night.’

‘OK, Uncle Joe isn’t Glasgow’s Man of the Year. Where does he live?’

Ancram drained his cup. ‘This is a beauty. He lives in a council house. But just remember: Robert Maxwell lived in a council house, too. You have to see this place.’

‘I intend to.’

Ancram shook his head. ‘He won’t talk to you, you won’t get past the door.’

‘Want a bet?’

Ancram narrowed his eyes. ‘You sound confident.’

Jack Morton walked past them, rolling his eyes: a general comment on life. He was searching his pockets for coins. As he waited for the machine to pour his drink, he turned to them.

‘Chick, The Lobby?’

Ancram nodded. ‘One o’clock?’

‘Braw.’

‘What about associates?’ Rebus asked. He noticed Ancram hadn’t yet said he could call him by his nickname.

‘Oh, he has plenty of those. His guards are bodybuilders, hand-picked. Then he has some nutters, real headbangers. The bodybuilders might look the business, but these others are the business. There was Tony El, poly-bag merchant with a penchant for power tools. Uncle Joe still has one or two like him. Then there’s Joe’s son, Malky.’

‘Mr Stanley knife?’

‘Emergency rooms all over Glasgow can testify to that particular hobby.’

‘But Tony El hasn’t been around?’

Ancram shook his head. ‘But I’ve had my grasses out sniffing on your behalf; I should hear back today.’

Three men pushed open the doors at the end of the hall.

‘Aye, aye,’ Ancram said in an undertone, ‘it’s the man with the crystal balls.’

Rebus recognised one of the men from a magazine photograph: Aldous Zane, the American psychic. He’d helped a US police force in their hunt for Merry Mac, so called because someone passing the scene of one of his murders — without realising what was happening on the other side of the wall — had heard deep gurgling laughter. Zane had given his impressions of where the killer lived. When police finally arrested Merry Mac, the media pointed out that the location bore a striking resemblance to the picture Zane had drawn.

For a few weeks, Aldous Zane was newsworthy all around the world. It was enough to tempt a Scottish tabloid to pay for him to offer his impressions in the Johnny Bible hunt. And the police brass were just desperate enough to offer their cooperation.

‘Morning, Chick,’ one of the other men said.

‘Morning, Terry.’

‘Terry’ was looking at Rebus, awaiting an introduction.

‘DI John Rebus,’ Ancram said. ‘DCS Thompson.’

The man stuck out his hand, which Rebus shook. He was a mason, like every second cop on the force. Rebus wasn’t of the brotherhood, but had learned to mimic the handshake.

Thompson turned to Ancram. ‘We’re taking Mr Zane along to have another look at some of the physical evidence.’

‘Not just a look,’ Zane corrected. ‘I need to touch it.’

Thompson’s left eye twitched. Obviously he was as sceptical as Ancram. ‘Right, well, this way, Mr Zane.’

The three men walked off.

‘Who was the silent one?’ Rebus asked.

Ancram shrugged. ‘Zane’s minder, he’s from the newspaper. They want to be in on everything Zane does.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I know him,’ he said. ‘Or I used to, years back.’

‘I think his name’s Stevens.’

‘Jim Stevens,’ Rebus said, still nodding. ‘By the way, there’s another difference between the two killers.’

‘What?’

‘Bible John’s victims were all menstruating.’


Rebus was left alone at a desk with the available files on Joseph Toal. He didn’t learn much more from them except that Uncle Joe seldom saw the inside of a court. Rebus wondered about that. Toal always seemed to know when police had him or his operations under surveillance, when the shit was heading fanwards. That way, they never found any evidence, or not enough to put him away. A couple of fines, that was about the sum total. Several big pushes had been made, but they’d always been abandoned for lack of hard evidence or because a surveillance was blown. As if Uncle Joe had a psychic of his own. But Rebus knew there was a more likely explanation: someone in CID was feeding gen back to the gangster. Rebus thought of the fancy suits everyone seemed to be wearing, the good watches and shoes, the general air of prosperity and superiority.

It was west coast dirt, let them sweep it up or push it into the corner. There was a hand-written notation towards the end of the file; he guessed it was Ancram’s writing:

‘Uncle Joe doesn’t need to kill people any more. His rep is weapon enough, and the bastard’s getting stronger all the time.’

He found a spare telephone, made a call to Barlinnie Prison, then, no sign of Chick Ancram, went walkabout.

As he’d known he would, he ended up back in the musty-smelling room dominated by the old monster, Bible John. People in Glasgow still talked about him, had done even before Johnny Bible had come along. Bible John was the bedtime bogeyman made flesh, a generation’s scare story. He was your creepy next-door neighbour; the quiet man who lived two flights up; he was the parcel courier with the windowless van. He was whoever you wanted him to be. Back in the early seventies, parents had warned their children, ‘Behave, or Bible John will get you!’

Bogeyman made flesh. Now reproducing.

The shift of detectives looked to have taken a collective break. Rebus was alone in the room. He left the door open, not sure why, and pored over the documents. Fifty thousand statements had been taken. Rebus read a couple of the newspaper headlines: ‘The Dance Hall Don Juan With Murder on his Mind’; ‘100 Day Hunt for Ladykiller’. In the first year of the hunt, over five thousand suspects had been interviewed and eliminated. When the third victim’s sister gave her detailed description, police knew so much about the killer: blue-grey eyes; straight teeth except for one on the upper-right which overlapped its neighbour; his preferred brand of cigarette was Embassy; he spoke of a strict upbringing, and he quoted passages from the Bible. But by then it was too late. Bible John was history.

Another difference between Bible John and Johnny Bible: the gaps between the killings. Johnny was killing every few weeks, while Bible John had killed to no pattern of weeks or even months. His first victim had been February ’68. There followed a gap of nearly eighteen months — August ’69, victim number two. And then two and a half months later, his third and final outing. Victims one and three had been killed on a Thursday night, the second victim on a Saturday. Eighteen months was a hell of a gap — Rebus knew the theories: that he’d been overseas, perhaps as a merchant seaman or navy sailor, or on some army or RAF posting; that he’d been in jail, serving time for some lesser offence. Theories, that’s all they were. All three of his victims were mothers of children: so far, none of Johnny Bible’s was. Was it important that Bible John’s victims had been menstruating, or that they had children? He’d tucked a sanitary towel under his third victim’s armpit — a ritual act. A lot had been read into that action by the various psychologists involved in the case. Their theory: the Bible told Bible John that women were harlots, and he was offered proof when married women left a dancehall with him. The fact that they were menstruating angered him somehow, fed his bloodlust, so he killed them.

Rebus knew there were those out there — always had been — who believed there to be no connection, other than pure circumstance, between the three killings. They posited three murderers, and it was true that only strong coincidences connected the murders. Rebus, no great champion of coincidence, still believed in a single, driven killer.

Some great policemen had been involved: Tom Goodall, the man who’d gone after Jimmy Boyle, who’d been there when Peter Manuel confessed; then when Goodall died, there’d been Elphinstone Dalgliesh and Joe Beattie. Beattie had spent hours staring at photos of suspects, using a magnifying glass sometimes. He’d felt that if Bible John walked into a crowded room, he would know him. The case had obsessed some officers, sent them spiralling downwards. All that work, and no result. It made a mockery of them, their methods, their system. He thought of Lawson Geddes again...

Rebus looked up, saw he was being watched from the doorway. He got up as the two men walked into the room.

Aldous Zane, Jim Stevens.

‘Any luck?’ Rebus asked.

Stevens shrugged. ‘Early days. Aldous came up with a couple of things.’ He put out his hand. Rebus took it. Stevens smiled. ‘You remember me, don’t you?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I wasn’t sure, back there in the hallway.’

‘I thought you were in London.’

‘I moved back three years ago. I’m mainly freelance now.’

‘And doing guard duty, I see.’

Rebus glanced towards Aldous Zane, but the American wasn’t listening. He was moving his palms over the paperwork on the nearest desk. He was short, slender, middle-aged. He wore steel-framed glasses with blue-tint lenses, and his lips were slightly parted, showing small, narrow teeth. He reminded Rebus a little of Peter Sellers playing Dr Strange-love. He wore a cagoule over his jacket, and made swishing sounds when he moved.

‘What is this?’ he said.

‘Bible John. Johnny Bible’s ancestor. They brought in a psychic on his case, too, Gerard Croiset.’

‘The paragnost,’ Zane said quietly. ‘Was there any success?’

‘He described a location, two shopkeepers, an old man who could help the inquiry.’

‘And?’

‘And,’ Jim Stevens interrupted, ‘a reporter found what looked like the location.’

‘But no shopkeepers,’ Rebus added, ‘and no old man.’

Zane looked up. ‘Cynicism is not helpful.’

‘Call me par-agnostic’

Zane smiled, held out his hand. Rebus took it, felt tremendous heat in the man’s palm. A tingle ran up his arm.

‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ Jim Stevens said, as though he could read Rebus’s mind.

Rebus waved a hand over the material on all four desks. ‘So, Mr Zane, do you feel anything?’

‘Only sadness and suffering, an incredible amount of both.’ He picked up one of the later photofits of Bible John. ‘And I thought I could see flags.’

‘Flags?’

‘The Stars and Stripes, a swastika. And a trunk filled with objects...’ He had his eyes shut, the lids fluttering. ‘In the attic of a modern house.’ The eyes opened. ‘That’s all. There’s a lot of distance, a lot of distance.’

Stevens had his notebook out. He wrote quickly in shorthand. There was someone else in the doorway, looking surprised at the assembly.

‘Inspector,’ Chick Ancram said, ‘time for lunch.’


They took one of the duty cars into the west end, Ancram driving. There was something different about him; he seemed at the same time more interested in Rebus and warier of him. Their conversation collapsed into point-scoring.

Eventually, Ancram pointed to a striped traffic-cone kerbside, protecting the only space left on the street.

‘Get out and move that, will you?’

Rebus obliged, placing the cone on the pavement. Ancram reversed the car inch-perfect into the space.

‘Looks like you’ve had practice.’

Ancram straightened his tie. ‘Patrons’ parking.’

They walked into The Lobby. It was a trendy-looking bar with too many high uncomfortable-looking bar-stools, black and white tiled walls, electric and acoustic guitars suspended from the ceiling.

There was a chalkboard menu behind the bar. Three staff were busy with the lunchtime crush; more perfume than alcohol in the air. Office girls, screeching over the slam of the music, nursing gaudy drinks; sometimes one or two men with them, smiling, saying nothing, older. They wore suits that said ‘management’: the banshees’ bosses. There were more cellphones and pagers on the tables than there were glasses; even the staff seemed to carry them.

‘What do you want?’

‘Pint of eighty,’ Rebus said.

‘To eat?’

Rebus ran down the menu. ‘Is there anything with meat?’

‘Game pie.’

Rebus nodded. They were a row back from the bar, but Ancram had caught a barman’s attention. He stood on tiptoe and yelled the order over the straw-perm heads of the teenagers in front. They turned, gave hostile looks: he’d jumped the queue.

‘All right, ladies?’ Ancram leered. They turned away again.

He led Rebus through the bar to a far corner, where a table groaned with green food: salads, quiche, guacamole. Rebus got himself a chair; there was one already waiting for Ancram. Three CID officers sat there, not one with a pint glass in front of him. Ancram made introductions.

‘Jack you already know.’ Jack Morton nodded, chewing pitta bread. ‘That’s DS Andy Lennox, and DI Billy Eggleston.’ The two men gave curt greetings, more interested in their food. Rebus looked around.

‘What about the drinks?’

‘Patience, man, patience. Here they come.’

The barman was approaching with a tray: Rebus’s pint and game pie; Ancram’s smoked salmon salad and gin and tonic.

‘Twelve pounds ten,’ the barman said. Ancram handed over three fives, told him to keep the change. He raised his glass to Rebus.

‘Here’s tae us.’

‘Wha’s like us,’ Rebus added.

‘Gey few, and they’re a’ deid,’ Jack Morton said, raising his own glass of what looked suspiciously like water. They all drank, got down to eating, exchanging the day’s gossip. There was a table of office girls nearby; Lennox and Eggleston tried intermittently to engage them in conversation. The girls got on with their own gossip. Clothes, Rebus reflected, did not necessarily make the man. He felt stifled, uncomfortable. There wasn’t enough space on the table; his chair was too close to Ancram’s; the music was using him as a punchbag.

‘So what do you reckon to Uncle Joe?’ Ancram asked at last.

Rebus chewed on a tough crescent of pastry. The others seemed to be waiting for his answer.

‘I reckon I’ll be visiting him some time today.’

Ancram laughed. ‘Let me know if you’re serious, we’ll lend you some armour.’ The others laughed too, and started eating again. Rebus wondered just how much of Uncle Joe’s money was floating around Glasgow CID.

‘John and me,’ Jack Morton was saying, ‘worked the Knots and Crosses case together.’

‘Is that right?’ Ancram looked interested.

Rebus shook his head. ‘Ancient history.’

Morton caught the tone of voice, lowered his head to his food, reached for the water.

Ancient history; and far, far too painful.

‘Speaking of history,’ Ancram said, ‘sounds like you’ve got a bit of trouble with the Spaven case.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘I read about it in the papers.’

‘It’s all hype for the TV show,’ was Rebus’s only comment.

‘We’ve got more problems with the DNAs, Chick,’ Eggleston was saying. He was tall, skinny, starched. He reminded Rebus of an accountant; he’d bet he was good with paperwork, lousy on the street — every station needed at least one.

‘They’re an epidemic,’ Lennox snarled.

‘Society’s problem, gentlemen,’ Ancram said, ‘which makes them our problem too.’

‘DNAs?’

Ancram turned to Rebus. ‘Do Not Accommodate. The council’s been turfing out a lot of “problem clients”, refusing to house them, even in the night shelters — druggies mostly, headers, the “psychologically disturbed” who’ve been returned to the community. Only the community’s telling them to fuck right off again. So they’re on the streets, making mischief, causing us grief. Kitting up in public, ODing on mainline Temazepam, you name it.’

‘Fucking shocking,’ Lennox offered. He had tight-curled ginger hair and crimson cheeks, his face heavily freckled, eyebrows and eyelashes fair. He was the only one smoking at the table. Rebus lit one up to join him: Jack Morton gave a reproachful look.

‘So what can you do?’ Rebus asked.

‘I’ll tell you,’ Ancram said. ‘We’re going to round them up next weekend, into a fleet of buses, and we’re going to drop the whole lot of them off on Princes Street.’

More laughter at the table, directed at the visitor — Ancram waving the baton. Rebus checked his watch.

‘Somewhere to be?’

‘Yes, and I’d better get going.’

‘Well, look,’ Ancram said, ‘if you do get an invite to Uncle Joe’s abode, I want to know about it. I’ll be here this evening, seven until ten. OK?’

Rebus nodded, waved a general goodbye, and got out.

Once outside, he felt better. He began to walk, not very sure in which direction he was headed. The city centre was laid out American-style, a grid system of one-way streets. Edinburgh might have its monuments, but Glasgow was built to monumental scale, making the capital seem like Toytown. Rebus walked until he saw something that looked more his kind of bar. He knew he needed shoring up for the trip he was about to take. A TV was playing quietly, but no music. And what conversation there was was muffled, low-key. He couldn’t make out what the two men nearest him were saying, their accents were so thick. The only woman in the place was the barmaid.

‘What’ll it be today?’

‘Grouse, make it a double. And a half-bottle to take out.’

He trickled water into the glass, reflected that if he’d eaten a couple of pies here and had a couple of whiskies, it wouldn’t have been half as expensive as The Lobby. But then Ancram had paid at The Lobby; three crisp fivers from the pocket of a sleek suit.

‘Just a Coke, please.’

Rebus turned to the new customer: Jack Morton.

‘You following me?’

Morton smiled. ‘You look rough, John.’

‘And you and your cronies look too good.’

‘I can’t be bought.’

‘No? Who can?’

‘Come on, John, I was making a joke.’ Morton sat down next to him. ‘I heard about Lawson Geddes. Does that mean the stooshie’ll die down?’

‘Some hope.’ Rebus drained his glass. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing out a machine on the corner of the bar. ‘Jelly bean dispenser, twenty pence a throw. Two things the Scots are famous for, Jack: our sweet tooth and alcohol consumption.’

‘Two more things we’re famous for,’ Morton said.

‘What?’

‘Avoiding the issue and feeling guilty all the time.’

‘You mean Calvinism?’ Rebus chuckled. ‘Christ, Jack, I thought the only Calvin you knew these days was Mr Klein.’

Jack Morton was staring at him, seeking eye-to-eye contact. ‘Give me another reason why a man would let himself go.’

Rebus snorted. ‘How long have you got?’

Morton to Rebus: ‘As long as it takes.’

‘Not nearly enough, Jack. Here, have a proper drink.’

‘This is a proper drink. That stuff you’re drinking, that’s not really a drink.’

‘What is it then?’

‘An escape clause.’


Jack said he’d drive Rebus to Barlinnie, didn’t ask why he wanted to go there. They took the M8 to Riddrie; Jack knew all the routes. They didn’t say much during the trip, until Jack asked the question which had been hanging between them.

‘How’s Sammy?’

Rebus’s daughter, now grown up. Jack hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years.

‘She’s fine.’ Rebus had a change of subject ready. ‘I’m not sure Chick Ancram likes me. He keeps... studying me.’

‘He’s a shrewd customer, be nice to him.’

‘Any particular reason?’

Jack Morton bit back an answer, shook his head. They turned off Cumbernauld Road, approached the jail.

‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘I can’t hang around. Tell me how long you’ll be and I’ll send a patrol car for you.’

‘An hour should do it.’

Jack Morton checked his watch. ‘An hour it is.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good to see you again, John.’

Rebus took the hand, squeezed.

6

‘Big Ger’ Cafferty was waiting when he reached the Interview Room.

‘Well, Strawman, this is an unexpected pleasure.’

Strawman: Cafferty’s name for Rebus. The prison guard who had brought Rebus seemed disinclined to leave, and there were already two guards in the room keeping an eye on Cafferty. He’d already escaped once from Barlinnie, and now that they had him back, they were intent on keeping him.

‘Hello, Cafferty.’ Rebus sat down across from him. Cafferty had aged in prison, losing his tan and some musculature, putting on weight in all the wrong places. His hair was thin and greying quickly, and there was stubble on chin and cheekbones. ‘I’ve brought you something.’ He looked at the guards, eased the half-bottle out of his pocket.

‘Not allowed,’ one guard snapped.

‘Don’t worry, Strawman,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’ve plenty of hooch, this place is practically swimming in the stuff. It’s the thought that counts, eh?’

Rebus dropped the bottle back into his pocket.

‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’

‘Yes.’

Cafferty crossed his legs, utterly at ease. ‘What is it?’

‘You know Joseph Toal?’

‘Everyone and their dog knows Uncle Joe.’

‘Yes, but you know him.’

‘So?’ There was an edge to Cafferty’s smile.

‘I want you to phone him, get him to speak to me.’

Cafferty considered the request. ‘Why?’

‘I want to ask him about Anthony Kane.’

‘Tony E1? I thought he was dead.’

‘He left his prints at a murder scene in Niddrie.’ Never mind what the boss said, Rebus was treating this as murder. And he knew the word would make more of an impression on Cafferty. It did. His lips rounded into an O, and he whistled.

‘That was stupid of him. Tony E1 didn’t used to be so stupid. And if he was still working for Uncle Joe... There could be fallout.’ Rebus knew that connections were being made in Cafferty’s mind, and they all led to Joseph Toal becoming his Barlinnie neighbour. There would be reasons for Cafferty to want Toal inside: old scores, debts unpaid, territory encroached. There were always old scores to be settled. Cafferty came to his decision.

‘You’ll need to get me a phone.’

Rebus got up, walked over to the guard who’d barked ‘Not allowed’, slipped the whisky into the man’s pocket.

‘We need to get him a phone,’ he said.


They marched Cafferty left and right through corridors until they reached a payphone. They’d had to pass through three sets of gates.

‘This is as near to the outside as I’ve been in a while,’ Cafferty joked.

The guards weren’t laughing. Rebus provided the money for the call.

‘Now,’ said Cafferty, ‘let’s see if I remember...’ He winked at Rebus, pressed seven digits, waited.

‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’ He listened to the name. ‘Never heard of you. Listen, tell Uncle Joe that Big Ger wants a word. Just tell him that.’ He waited, glanced at Rebus, licked his lips. ‘He says what? Tell him I’m phoning from the Bar-L and money’s short.’

Rebus pushed another coin home.

‘Well,’ Cafferty growing angry, ‘tell him he’s got a tattoo on his back.’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Not something Uncle Joe goes blabbing about.’

Rebus got as close as he could to the earpiece, heard a dull rasp of a voice.

‘Morris Gerald Cafferty, is that you? I thought someone was winding me up.’

‘Hello, Uncle Joe. How’s business?’

‘Loupin’. Who’s listening in?’

‘At the last count, three monkeys and a dick.’

‘You always liked an audience, that was your problem.’

‘Sound advice, Uncle Joe, but years too late.’

‘So what do they want?’ They: Rebus the dick and the three monkey guards.

‘The dick’s from Edinburgh CID, he wants to come talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Tony El.’

‘What’s to tell? Tony hasn’t worked for me in a twelvemonth.’

‘Then tell the nice policeman that. Seems Tony’s been up to his old tricks. There’s a cold one in Edinburgh, and Tony’s prints on the scene.’

A low growl: human.

‘You got a dog there, Uncle Joe?’

‘Tell the cop I don’t have anything to do with Tony.’

‘I think he wants to hear it for himself.’

‘Then put him on.’

Cafferty looked to Rebus, who shook his head.

‘And he wants to look you in the eye while you’re telling him.’

‘Is he a poof or what?’

‘He’s old school, Uncle Joe. You’ll like him.’

‘Why did he come to you?’

‘I’m his Last Chance Saloon.’

‘And why the fuck did you agree?’

Cafferty didn’t miss a beat. ‘A half-bottle of usquebaugh.’

‘Jesus, the Bar-L must be drier than I thought.’ The voice not so rough.

‘Send a whole bottle over and I’ll tell him to go fuck himself.’

A croaky laugh. ‘Christ, Cafferty, I miss you. How long to go?’

‘Ask my lawyers.’

‘Are you still keeping your hand in?’

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s what I hear.’

‘Nothing wrong with your hearing.’

‘Send the bastard over, tell him he gets five minutes. Maybe I’ll come see you one of these days.’

‘Better not, Uncle Joe, when visiting time ends they might have misplaced the key.’

More laughter. The line went dead. Cafferty put down the receiver.

‘You owe me, Strawman,’ he growled, ‘so here’s my favour: put that old bastard away.’

But Rebus was already walking towards freedom.


The car was waiting for him, Morton keeping his word. Rebus gave the address he’d memorised from the Toal files. He was sitting in the back, two woolly suits in the front. The passenger turned in his seat.

‘Isn’t that where Uncle Joe lives?’

Rebus nodded. The woolly suits exchanged a look.

‘Just get me there,’ Rebus ordered.

The traffic was heavy, people heading home. Elastic Glasgow, stretching in four directions. The housing scheme, when they reached it, was much like any scheme its size in Edinburgh: grey pebbledash, barren play areas, tarmac and a smattering of fortified shops. Kids on bikes stopping to watch the car, eyes as keen as sentries’; brisk baby buggies, shapeless mothers with dyed blonde hair. Further into the estate, driving slowly: people watching from behind their windows, men at pavement corners, muttered confabs. A city within a city, uniform and enervating, energy sapped, nothing left but obstinacy: the words NO SURRENDER on a gable-end, a message from Ulster just as relevant here.

‘Are you expected?’ the driver asked.

‘I’m expected.’

‘Thank Christ for that at least.’

‘Any other patrol cars around?’

The passenger laughed nervously. ‘This is the frontier, sir. The frontier has a way of keeping its own law and order.’

‘If you had his money,’ the driver said, ‘would you live here?’

‘He was born here,’ Rebus said. ‘And I believe his house is a bit special.’

‘Special?’ The driver snorted. ‘Well, judge for yourself.’

He brought the car to a stop at the entrance to a cul-de-sac. Rebus saw at the end of the cul-de-sac two houses which stood out from their neighbours for a single reason: they boasted stone cladding.

‘One of those?’ Rebus asked.

‘Pick either door.’

Rebus got out of the car, leaned back in. ‘Don’t you dare drive away.’ He slammed his door shut and walked up the cul-de-sac. He chose the left-hand of the two identical semi-detacheds. The door was opened from within, and an oversized man in a bulging T-shirt ushered him in.

‘You the rozzer?’ They were standing in a cramped hallway. Rebus nodded. ‘Through there.’

Rebus opened the door to the living room, and did a double-take. The connecting wall between the two semis had been knocked through, providing a double-sized living space, open plan. The room also went further back than should have been feasible. Rebus was reminded of Dr Who’s Tardis, and, alone in the room, walked towards the back of the house. A large extension had been added, including a sizeable conservatory. This should have minimised the space left for a garden, but the lawn outside was plentiful. There were playing-fields backing on to the house, and Rebus saw that Uncle Joe had taken a chunk out of these fields for his garden.

Planning permission, of course, was out of the question.

But then who needed planning permission?

‘I hope your ears don’t need cleaning,’ a voice said. Rebus turned and saw that a small, stooped man had entered the room. He held a cigarette in one hand, while his other was busy with a walking-stick. He shuffled in carpet slippers towards a well-used armchair and fell into it, hands gripping the greasy antimacassars, walking-stick lying across his lap.

Rebus had seen photographs of the man, but they hadn’t prepared him for the reality. Joseph Toal really did look like someone’s uncle. He was in his seventies, stocky, with the hands and face of a one-time coalminer. His forehead was all rippled flesh, and his thin grey hair was swept back and Brylcreemed. His jaw was square, eyes watery, and his glasses hung from a string around his neck. When he raised the cigarette to his lips, Rebus saw nicotine fingers, bruised ingrown nails. He was wearing a shapeless cardigan over an equally shapeless sports shirt. The cardigan was patched, loose threads hanging from it. His trousers were brown and baggy, stained at the knees.

‘Nothing wrong with my ears,’ Rebus said, coming forward.

‘Good, because I’ll say it only once.’ He sniffed, controlling his breathing. ‘Anthony Kane worked for me twelve, thirteen years, not all the time — short-term contracts. But then a year ago, maybe a little over, he told me he was walking, wanted to be his own boss. We parted on amicable terms, I haven’t seen him since.’

Rebus gestured to a chair. Toal nodded to let him know he could sit. Rebus took his time getting comfortable.

‘Mr Toal —’

‘Everybody calls me Uncle Joe.’

‘As in Stalin?’

‘You think that’s a new joke, son? Ask your question.’

Go: ‘What was Tony planning to do when he left your employ?’

‘He didn’t go into specifics. Our parting conversation was... curt.’

Rebus nodded. He was thinking: I had an uncle who looked very much like you; I can’t even remember his name.

‘Well, if that’s everything...’ Toal made a show of starting to rise.

‘Do you remember Bible John, Uncle Joe?’

Toal frowned, understanding the question but not its intent. He reached down to the floor for an ashtray, stubbed his cigarette into it. ‘I remember fine. Hundreds of coppers on the street, it was bad for business. We cooperated a hundred per cent, I had men out hunting the bugger for months. Months! And now this new bastard turns up.’

‘Johnny Bible?’

Pointing to himself: ‘I’m a businessman. The slaughter of innocents sickens me. I’ve had all my taxi drivers — ’ he paused — ‘I have interests in a local taxi firm — and I’ve instructed every single driver: keep your eyes peeled and your ears open.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘If anything comes to me, it’ll go straight to the cops.’

‘Very public spirited.’

Toal shrugged. ‘The public is my business.’ Another pause, a frown. ‘What’s all this to do with Tony El?’

‘Nothing.’ Toal looked unconvinced. ‘Call it tangential. Is it OK to smoke?’

‘You’re not staying long enough to enjoy it.’

Rebus lit up anyway, staying put. ‘Where did Tony El go?’

‘He didn’t send a postcard.’

‘You must have some idea.’

Toal thought about it, when he shouldn’t have needed to. ‘Somewhere south, I think. Maybe London. He had friends down there.’

‘London?’

Toal wouldn’t look at Rebus. He shook his head. ‘I heard he headed south.’

Rebus stood up.

‘Is it that time already?’ Toal showed effort getting to his feet, steadying himself with the walking-stick. ‘And here we were just getting to know one another. How’s Edinburgh these days? Know what we used to say about it? Fur coat and nae knickers, that’s Edinburgh.’ A hacking laugh turned into a hacking cough. Toal gripped the walking-stick with both hands, knees almost buckling.

Rebus waited until he’d finished. The old man’s face was puce, sweat breaking out. ‘That may be true,’ he said, ‘but I don’t see too many fur coats around here, never mind the knickers.’

Toal’s face broke into a grin, showing yellow dentures. ‘Cafferty said I’d like you, and you know what?’

‘What?’

The grin turned to a scowl. ‘He was wrong. And now I’ve seen you, I’m wondering more than ever why he sent you here. Not just for the price of a half-bottle, not even Cafferty’s that cheap. You better get yourself back to Edinburgh, laddie. And take care of yourself, I hear it’s not as safe as it used to be.’

Rebus walked to the far end of the living room, deciding to leave by the other front door. There was a staircase next to it, and someone came bounding down, nearly colliding with him. A big man in bad clothes, a face that said he wasn’t too bright, arms tattooed with thistles and pipers. He’d be about twenty-five, and Rebus recognised him from the photos in the file: Mad Malky Toal, a.k.a. ‘Stanley’. Joseph Toal’s wife had died in childbirth, too old really to be having kids. But their first two had died, one in infancy, one in a car smash. So now there was only Stanley, heir apparent, and towards the back of the queue when the IQs were being divvied.

He gave Rebus a long look, full of grudge and threat, then loped towards his father. He was wearing the trousers from a pinstripe suit with T-shirt, white socks, trainers — Rebus had yet to meet a gangster with dress sense: they spent money, but with no style — and his face sported half a dozen good-sized warts.

‘Hey, Da, I’ve lost my keys to the beamer, where’s the spare set?’

Rebus let himself out, relieved to see that the patrol car was still there. Boys were circling it on bikes, a cherokee party with scalps on their minds. Leaving the cul-de-sac, Rebus checked the cars: a nice new Rover; BMW 3 Series; an older Merc, one of the big ones, and a couple of less serious contenders. Had it been a used car lot, he’d have kept his money and looked elsewhere.

He squeezed between two bikes, opened the back door, got in. The driver started the engine. Rebus looked back to where Stanley was making for the BMW, bouncing on his heels.

‘Now,’ the passenger said, ‘before we leave, have you counted that you still have all your fingers and toes?’

‘West end,’ Rebus said, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. He needed another drink.


The Horseshoe Bar first, a jolt of malt, and then outside for a taxi. He told the driver he wanted Langside Place in Battlefield. From the moment he’d walked into the Bible John room, he’d known he would make this trip. He could have had the patrol car take him, but didn’t want to have to explain his interest.

Langside Place was where Bible John’s first victim had lived. She’d worked as a nurse, lived with her parents. Her father looked after her small son while she went out dancing. Rebus knew her original destination had been the Majestic Ballroom in Hope Street, but somewhere along the way she’d decided on the Barrowland instead. If only she’d stuck to her first choice. What force had nudged her towards the Barrowland? Could you just call it fate and be done with it?

He told the driver to wait, got out of the cab and walked up and down the street. Her body had been found nearby, outside a garage in Carmichael Lane, clothing and handbag missing. Police had spent a lot of time and effort searching for them. They’d also done their best to interview people who’d been at the Barrowland that night, only there was a problem: Thursday night there was notorious. It was Over Twenty-fives night, and a lot of married men and women went, leaving spouses and wedding rings behind. A lot of people shouldn’t have been there, and made unwilling material as witnesses.

The taxi’s engine was still running — and so was its meter. Rebus didn’t know what he’d expected to find here, but he was still glad he’d come. It was hard to look at the street and see the year 1968, hard to get any feel for that era. Everything and everyone had changed.

He knew the second address: Mackeith Street, where the second victim had lived and died. Here was one thing about Bible John: he’d taken the victims so close to their homes, a sign either of confidence or indecision. By August 1969 police had all but given up the initial investigation, and the Barrowland was thriving again. It was a Saturday night, and the victim left her three children with her sister, who lived across the landing. In those days, Mackeith Street was tenements, but as the taxi reached its destination Rebus saw terraced housing, satellite dishes. The tenements had long gone; in 1969 they’d been awaiting demolition, many of them empty. She’d been found in one of the derelict buildings, strangled with her tights. Some of her things were missing, including her handbag. Rebus didn’t get out of the taxi, didn’t see the point. His driver turned to him.

‘Bible John, is it?’

Surprised, Rebus nodded. The driver lit a cigarette. He’d be about fifty, thick curling grey hair, his face ruddy, a boyish gleam to the blue eyes.

‘See,’ he said, ‘I was a cabbie back then as well. Never really seem to have got out the rut.’

Rebus remembered the box-file with ‘Taxi Firms’ on its spine. ‘Did the police question you?’

‘Oh aye, but it was more that they wanted us to be on the lookout, you know, in case we ever got him in the back. But he looked like any other punter, there were dozens fit the description. We almost had a few lynchings. They had to give out cards to some of them: “This man is not Bible John”, signed by the Chief Constable.’

‘What do you think happened to him?’

‘Ach, who knows? At least he stopped, that’s the main thing, eh?’

‘If he stopped,’ Rebus said quietly. The third address was Earl Street in Scotstoun, the victim’s body found on Hallowe’en. The sister, who had accompanied the victim all evening, had painted a very full picture of that night: the bus to Glasgow Cross, the walk up the Gallowgate... shops they stopped at... drinks in the Traders’ Tavern... then the Barrowland. They both met men called John. The two men didn’t seem to hit it off. One went to catch a bus, the other stayed, sharing their taxi. Talking. It gnawed at Rebus, as it had at so many before him: why would Bible John leave such a good witness behind? Why had he gone on to kill his third victim, knowing her sister would be able to draw such a vivid portrait of him: his clothes, what he’d talked about, his overlapping front teeth? Why had he been so reckless? Had he been taunting the police, or was there some other reason? Maybe he was heading away from Glasgow, so could afford this casual exit. But heading where? Somewhere his description would mean nothing — Australia, Canada, the USA?

Halfway to Earl Street, Rebus said he’d changed his mind and directed his driver to the ‘Marine’ instead. The old Partick station — which had been the heart of the Bible John inquiry — was empty and near-derelict. It was still possible to gain access to the building if you unlocked the padlocks, and no doubt kids had found they could get in without undoing any locks at all. But all Rebus did was sit outside and stare. A lot of men were taken to the Marine, questioned, and put in a line-up. There were five hundred formal identity parades, and many more informal ones. Joe Beattie and the third victim’s sister would stand there and concentrate on faces, physiques, speech. Then there’d be a shake of the head, and Joe would be back to square one.

‘You’ll want to see the Barrowland next, eh?’ his driver said. Rebus shook his head. He’d had enough. The Barrowland wouldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.

‘Do you know a bar called The Lobby?’ he said instead. The driver nodded. ‘Let’s go there then.’

He paid off the cabbie, adding a fiver as a tip, and asked for a receipt.

‘No receipts, sorry, pal.’

‘You don’t happen to work for Joe Toal, do you?’

The man glared at him. ‘Never heard of him.’ Then he shifted into first and sped off.

Inside The Lobby, Ancram was standing at the bar, looking relaxed, the focus of a lot of attention: two men and two women in a huddle around him. The bar was full of after-work suits, careerists plotting furtively, women on the scent.

‘Inspector, what’ll it be?’

‘My shout.’ He pointed to Ancram’s glass, then to the others, but Ancram laughed.

‘You don’t buy them drinks, they’re journos.’

‘It’s my round anyway,’ one of the women said. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘My mother told me never to accept drinks from strangers.’

She smiled: lip gloss, eye-shadow, tired face trying for enthusiasm. ‘Jennifer Drysdale.’ Rebus knew why she was tired: it was hard work acting like ‘one of the boys’. Mairie Henderson had told him about it — the pattern was changing only slowly; a lot of surface gloss about equality sloshed over the same old wallpaper.

Jeff Beck on the sound system: ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’. Stupid lyric, and a hook that had lasted two decades and more. It comforted him that a place with The Lobby’s pretensions should still cling to old hooks.

‘Actually,’ Ancram was saying, ‘we should be making tracks. Right, John?’

‘Right.’ The use of his first name a hint: Ancram wanted out.

The reporters didn’t look so happy any more. They flung questions at Ancram: Johnny Bible. They wanted a story, any story.

‘I would if I could, but there’s nothing to give.’ Ancram had his hands up, trying to placate the foursome. Rebus saw that someone had placed a recording Walkman on top of the bar.

‘Anything,’ one of the men said. He even glanced towards Rebus, but Rebus was staying out of it.

‘If you want a story,’ Ancram said, pushing through the bodies, ‘get yourselves a psychic detective. Thanks for the drinks.’

Outside, the smile fell from Ancram’s face. An act, it had been no more than that. ‘Bastards are worse than leeches.’

‘And like leeches, they have their uses.’

‘True, but who would you rather have a drink with? I’ve no car, do you mind walking?’

‘Where to?’

‘The next bar we find.’

But in fact they had to walk past three pubs — not places a policeman could drink in safely — until they hit one Ancram liked the look of. It was still raining, but mild. Rebus could feel sweat glueing his shirt to his back. Despite the rain, Big Issue sellers were out in force, not that anyone was buying: good-cause fatigue.

They shook themselves dry and settled on stools at the bar. Rebus ordered — malt, gin and tonic — and lit a cigarette, offering one to Ancram, who shook his head.

‘So where have you been?’

‘Uncle Joe’s.’ Among other places.

‘How did you get on?’

‘I spoke to the man.’ And paid my respects...

‘Face to face?’ Rebus nodded; Ancram appraised him. ‘Where?’

‘At his house.’

‘The Ponderosa? He let you in without a search warrant?’

‘The place was immaculate.’

‘He’d probably spent half an hour before you got there sticking all the booty upstairs.’

‘His son was upstairs when I got there.’

‘Standing guard on the bedroom door, no doubt. Did you see Eve?’

‘Who’s she?’

‘Uncle Joe’s clippie. Don’t be fooled by the wheezing old pensioner routine. Eve’s around fifty, still in good nick.’

‘I didn’t see her.’

‘You’d’ve remembered. So, did anything rattle loose from the shaky old bugger?’

‘Not much. He swore Tony El’s been off the payroll for a year, and he hasn’t seen him.’

A man came into the bar, saw Ancram, and was about to do a U-turn. But Ancram had already spotted him in the bar mirror, so the man walked up to him, brushing rain off his hair.

‘Hiya, Chick.’

‘Dusty, how’s things?’

‘No’ bad.’

‘You’re doing away then?’

‘You know me, Chick.’ The man kept his head low, spoke in an undertone, shuffled off to the far end of the bar.

‘Just someone I know,’ Ancram explained: meaning, a snitch. The man was ordering a half and a ‘hauf’: whisky with a half-pint of beer to chase it down. He opened a packet of Embassy, made too much of a point of not looking along the bar.

‘So was that all Uncle Joe gave you?’ Ancram asked. ‘I’m intrigued, how did you get to him?’

‘A patrol car dropped me, I walked the rest of the way.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Uncle Joe and I have a mutual friend.’ Rebus finished his malt.

‘Same again?’ Ancram asked. Rebus nodded. ‘Well, I know you visited the Bar-L.’ Jack Morton talking? ‘And I can’t think of too many people there who have Uncle Joe’s ear... Big Ger Cafferty?’ Rebus gave silent applause. Ancram laughed for real this time, not a show for reporters. ‘And the old sod didn’t tell you anything?’

‘Just that he thought Tony El had moved south, maybe to London.’

Ancram picked the lemon out of his drink, discarded it. ‘Really? That’s interesting.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve had my friends reporting in.’ Ancram made the slightest movement with his head, and the snitch from the far end of the bar slid off his stool and came towards them. ‘Tell Inspector Rebus what you told me, Dusty.’

Dusty licked non-existent lips. He looked the kind who snitched to feel important, not just for money or revenge.

‘Word is,’ he said, face still bowed so Rebus was looking at the top of his head, ‘Tony El’s been working up north.’

‘North?’

‘Dundee... north-east.’

‘Aberdeen?’

‘Up that way, aye.’

‘Doing what?’

A fast shrug of the shoulders. ‘Independent operator, who knows. He’s just been seen around.’

‘Thanks, Dusty,’ Ancram said. Dusty sloped back to his end of the bar. Ancram signalled for the barmaid. ‘Two more,’ he said, ‘and whatever Dusty’s drinking.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘So who do you believe, Uncle Joe or Dusty?’

‘You think he lied just to wind me up?’

‘Or wind you down.’

Yes, down as far as London, a false trail that could have eaten into the investigation: wasted time, manpower, effort.

‘The victim worked out of Aberdeen,’ Rebus said.

‘All roads leading to.’ The drinks had arrived. Ancram handed over a twenty. ‘Don’t bother with change, keep it to pay for whatever else Dusty drinks, and give him what’s left at the end. Plus one for yourself.’

She nodded, knew the routine. Rebus was thinking hard, routes leading north. Did he want to go to Aberdeen? It would keep him away from The Justice Programme, maybe keep him from thinking about Lawson Geddes. Today had been like a holiday in that respect. Edinburgh was too full of ghosts; but then so was Glasgow — Jim Stevens, Jack Morton, Bible John and his victims...

‘Did Jack tell you I’d been to the Bar-L?’

‘I pulled rank on him, don’t blame Jack.’

‘He’s changed a lot.’

‘Has he been nagging you? I wondered why he chased after you at lunchtime. The zeal of the converted.’

‘I don’t get it.’ Rebus lifted the glass to his lips, poured it in smoothly.

‘Didn’t he say? He’s joined AA, and I don’t mean breakdown insurance.’ Ancram paused. ‘Come to think of it though, maybe I do.’ He winked, smiled. There was something annoying about his smile; it was like he was party to secrets and motives — a patronising smile.

A very Glaswegian sort of smile.

‘He was an alcoholic,’ Ancram went on. ‘I mean, he still is. Once an alky, always an alky, that’s what they say. Something happened to him in Falkirk, he ended up in hospital, nearly in a coma. Sweats, spewing, slime dripping off the ceiling. Gave him a hell of a fright. First thing he did when he got out was look up the phone number for Samaritans, and they put him on to the Juice Church.’ He looked at Rebus’s glass. ‘Christ, that was quick. Here, have another.’ The barmaid already had a glass in her hand.

‘Thanks, I will,’ said Rebus, wishing he didn’t feel so calm. ‘Since you seem to be so loaded. Nice suit, too.’

The humour left Ancram’s eyes. ‘There’s a tailor on Argyle Street, ten per cent discount for serving officers.’ The eyes narrowed. ‘Spit it out.’

‘No, it’s nothing really, just that when I was going through the files on Toal, I couldn’t help noticing that he always seemed to have inside info.’

‘Careful, laddie.’

The ‘laddie’ rankled; it was meant to.

‘Well,’ Rebus went on, ‘everyone knows the west coast is open to bungs. Not always cash, you understand. Could be watches, ID bracelets, rings, maybe even a few suits...’

Ancram looked around the bar, as though begging for witnesses to Rebus’s remarks.

‘Would you care to name any names, Inspector, or is hearsay good enough for Edinburgh CID? The way I hear it, there’s no cupboard-space left in Fettes, they’re so jam-packed with skeletons.’ He picked up his drink. ‘And half those skeletons seem to have your fingerprints all over them.’

The smile again, sparkling eyes, laughter lines. How did he know? Rebus turned to go. Ancram’s voice followed him out of the pub.

‘We can’t all go running to friends in Barlinnie! I’ll see you around, Inspector...’

7

Aberdeen.

Aberdeen meant away from Edinburgh; no Justice Programme, no Fort Apache, no shite for him to skite in. Aberdeen looked good.

But Rebus had things to do in Edinburgh. He wanted to see the locus in daylight, so drove out there, not risking his own Saab; leaving it at Fort Apache and taking the spare Escort. Jim MacAskill wanted him on the case because he hadn’t been around long enough to make enemies; Rebus was wondering how you ever made friends in Niddrie. The place was if anything bleaker by day: blocked-in windows, glass like shrapnel on the tarmac, kids playing in the sunshine with no real enthusiasm, eyes and mouths narrowing as his car cruised past.

They’d knocked a lot of the estate down; behind it was better housing, semi-detached. Satellite dishes a status symbol: the owners’ status — unemployed. The estate boasted a derelict pub — insurance job blaze — and one all-purpose corner shop, its window full of video posters. The kids made this last their base. BMX bandits blowing bubble-gum. Rebus drove past slowly, his eyes on them. The death flat wasn’t quite on the edge of the estate, not quite visible from Niddrie Mains Road. Rebus was thinking: Tony El didn’t come from round here, and if he’d picked the spot by chance, there were other derelict flats nearer the main road.

Two men plus the victim. Tony El and an accomplice.

The accomplice had local knowledge.

Rebus climbed the stairs to the flat. The place had been sealed, but he had keys to both padlocks. The living room as before, upside-down table, blanket. He wondered who’d slept there, maybe they’d seen something. He reckoned his chances of finding them were one per cent; of getting them to talk, slightly less. Kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms, hallway. He kept close to the walls, so as not to fall through the floor. There was no one living in the block, but the next block along had glass in a couple of its windows: one on the first storey, one on the second. Rebus knocked on the first door. A dishevelled woman answered, an infant clinging round her neck. He didn’t need to introduce himself.

‘I don’t know anything, and I didn’t see or hear anything.’ She made to close the door.

‘You married?’

She opened the door again. ‘What’s it to you?’

Rebus shrugged; good question.

‘He’s down the boozer, most likely,’ she said.

‘How many kids have you got?’

‘Three.’

‘Must be pushed for space.’

‘That’s what we keep telling them. All they’ll say is our name’s on the list.’

‘What age is your oldest?’

Eyes narrowing. ‘Eleven.’

‘Any chance he saw something?’

She shook her head. ‘He’d’ve told me.’

‘What about your man?’

She smiled. ‘He’d have seen everything twice.’

Rebus smiled too. ‘Well, if you hear anything... from the kids or your man...’

‘Aye, right.’ Slowly, so as not to cause offence, she shut the door on him.

Rebus climbed the next flight. Dog shit on the landing, a used condom: he tried not to connect the two. Felt-marker graffiti on the door — Wanker, HMFC, cartoon coitus. The occupier had given up trying to wipe it off. Rebus pushed the doorbell. No answer; he tried again.

A voice from within: ‘Bugger off!’

‘Could I have a word?’

‘Who is it?’

‘CID.’

A chain rattled, and the door opened two inches. Rebus saw half a face: an old woman, or maybe an old man. He showed his warrant card.

‘You’re not moving me out. I’ll be here when they pull the place down.’

‘I don’t want to move you out.’

‘Eh?’

Rebus raised his voice. ‘Nobody wants to move you out.’

‘Aye they do, but I’m not moving, you can tell them that.’ Rebus caught foul breath, a meaty smell.

‘Look, have you heard what happened next door?’

‘Eh?’

Rebus peered through the gap. The hallway was littered with sheets of newspaper, empty cat-food tins. One more try.

‘Someone was killed next door.’

‘Don’t try your tricks with me, boyo!’ Anger in the voice.

‘I’m not trying any... ach, to hell with it.’ Rebus turned, started back downstairs. Suddenly the outside world looked good to him in the warm sunshine. It was all relative. He walked over to the corner shop, asked the kids a few questions, handed out mints to anyone who wanted one. He didn’t learn anything, but ended up with an excuse to go inside. He bought a packet of extra-strong, put it in his pocket for later, asked the Asian behind the counter a couple of questions. She was fifteen, maybe sixteen, extraordinarily pretty. A video was playing on the TV, high up on one wall. Hong Kong gangsters shooting chunks out of each other. She didn’t have anything to tell him.

‘Do you like Niddrie?’ he asked.

‘It’s all right.’ Her voice was pure Edinburgh, eyes on the TV.

Rebus drove back to Fort Apache. The Shed was empty. He drank a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. Niddrie, Craigmillar, Wester Hailes, Muirhouse, Pilton, Granton... They all seemed to him like some horrible experiment in social engineering: scientists in white coats sticking families down in this maze or that, seeing what would happen, how strong they’d have to become to cope, whether or not they’d find the exit... He lived in an area of Edinburgh where six figures bought you a three-bedroom flat. It amused him that he could sell up and be suddenly rich... except, of course, that he’d have nowhere to live, and couldn’t afford to move anywhere nicer in the city. He realised he was just about as trapped as anyone in Niddrie or Craigmillar, nicer model of trap, that was all.

His phone rang. He picked it up and wished he hadn’t.

‘Inspector Rebus?’ A woman’s voice: administrative. ‘Could you attend a meeting tomorrow at Fettes?’

Rebus felt a chill run the length of his spine. ‘What sort of meeting?’

A cool smiling voice. ‘I don’t have that information. The request comes from the ACC’s office.’

The Assistant Chief Constable, Colin Carswell. Rebus called him the ‘CC Rider’. A Yorkshireman — as close to a Scot as the English got. He’d been with Lothian and Borders two and a half years, and so far nobody had a bad word to say about him, which should have put him in the Guinness Book of Records. There had been a hairy few months after the last Deputy Chief Constable resigned and before they appointed a new one, but Carswell had coped. Some were of the opinion that he was just too good, and therefore would never make it to Chief Constable. Lothian and Borders used to boast one DCC and two ACCs, but one of the ACC posts had now become ‘Director of Corporate Services’, about which no one on the force seemed to know anything at all.

‘What time?’

‘Two o’clock, it shouldn’t take long.’

‘Will there be tea and biccies? I’m not coming otherwise.’

A shocked pause, then a release of breath as she realised he was joking. ‘We’ll see what we can manage, Inspector.’

Rebus put down the phone. It rang again and he picked it up.

‘John? It’s Gill, did you get my message?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Oh. I thought you might have tried to call me.’

‘Mmm.’

‘John? Is something wrong?’

He shook himself. ‘I don’t know. The CC Rider wants to see me.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Nobody’s saying.’

A sigh. ‘What have you been up to this time?’

‘Absolutely nothing, Gill, that’s the God’s honest truth.’

‘Made any enemies yet at your new posting?’ As she spoke, Bain and Maclay walked through the door. Rebus nodded a greeting.

‘No enemies. Do you think I’m doing something wrong?’ Maclay and Bain were shedding jackets, pretending not to be interested.

‘Listen, about that message I left...?’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ Maclay and Bain dropped the pretence.

‘Can we meet?’

‘I don’t see why not. Dinner tonight?’

‘Tonight... yes, why not?’

She lived in Morningside, Rebus in Marchmont... make it a Tollcross rendezvous.

‘Brougham Street,’ Rebus said, ‘that Indian place with the slat blinds. Half eight?’

‘Sure.’

‘See you there, Chief Inspector.’

Bain and Maclay went about their business, said nothing for a minute or two. Then Bain coughed, swallowed, spoke.

‘How was Raintown?’

‘I got out alive.’

‘Find out anything about Uncle Joe and Tony El?’ Bain’s finger went to the nick below his eye.

Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing.’

‘All right, don’t tell us,’ Maclay said. He looked funny, sitting at his desk. An inch had been sawn off each of the legs of his chair, so his thighs would fit under the lip of the desk. When Rebus had first arrived, he’d asked why Maclay hadn’t just lifted the table legs up an inch. Until then, Maclay hadn’t thought of it — sawing the chair legs had been Bain’s idea.

‘Nothing to tell,’ Rebus argued. ‘Except this — word is, Tony El’s a free agent, working out of the north-east, so we need to contact Grampian CID and ask about him.’

‘I’ll fax them his details,’ Maclay said.

‘I take it there’s been no sign?’ Rebus asked.

Bain and Maclay shook their heads.

‘I’ll let you into the secret though,’ Bain said.

‘What?’

‘There are at least two Indians on Brougham Street with slatted blinds.’

Rebus watched them have a good laugh about that, then asked what the background check on the decedent had produced.

‘Not much,’ Bain said, leaning back in his chair and waving a sheet of paper. Rebus got up, took the paper from him.

Allan Mitchison. Only child. Born in Grangemouth. His mother died in childbirth; his father went into decline, followed her two years later. Infant Allan was taken into care — no other kin found. Children’s home, then a foster family. Put up for adoption, but was an unruly kid, a trouble-maker. Screaming fits, tantrums, then long sulks. He always ran away eventually, always found his way back to the children’s home. Grew up into a quiet teenager, still prone to black sulks, the occasional outburst, but talented in some school subjects — English, geography, art, music — and mostly docile. Still preferred the children’s home to foster life. Left school at seventeen. Having seen a documentary on life on a North Sea platform, decided he liked the look of it. Miles from anywhere, and an existence not unlike the children’s home — regimented. He liked group life, dormitories, shared rooms. Painter. His work pattern was uneven — he’d spent time onshore as well as off — a spell of training at RGIT-OSC...

‘What’s RGIT-OSC?’

Maclay had been waiting for the question. ‘Robert Gordon Institute of Technology’s Offshore Survival Centre.’

‘Is that the same as Robert Gordon’s University?’

Maclay and Bain looked at one another, shrugged.

‘Never mind,’ Rebus said, thinking: Johnny Bible’s first victim had attended RGU.

Mitchison had also worked at the Sullom Voe terminal on Shetland, a few other locations. Friends and workmates: plenty of the latter, precious few of the former. Edinburgh had proved a dead end: none of his neighbours had ever clapped eyes on him. And the word from Aberdeen and points north was only a little more encouraging. A couple of names: one on a production platform, one at Sullom Voe...

‘Are these two willing to be interviewed?’

Bain: ‘Christ, you’re not thinking of going up there? First Glasgow, now teuchter-land — didn’t you get a holiday this year?’

Maclay’s high-pitched laughter.

Rebus: ‘I seem to be a sitting target down here. I had a thought today — whoever picked out that flat knew the area. I’m thinking a local. Either of you have snitches in Niddrie?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then get talking to them, a man answering Tony El’s description, he might’ve been hanging around the pubs and clubs, looking for local talent. Is there anything on decedent’s employer?’

Bain lifted another sheet, waved it, smiling. Rebus had to get up again, go fetch it.

T-Bird Oil got its name from Thom Bird, who had been co-founder with ‘Major’ Randall Weir.

‘Major?’

Bain shrugged. ‘That’s what they call him: Major Weir.’

Weir and Bird were both Americans, but with strong Scottish roots. Bird had died in 1986, leaving Weir in charge. It was one of the smaller companies hoovering up oil and gas from below the sea bed...

Rebus realised that he knew almost nothing about the oil industry. He had some pictures in his head, mostly disasters — Piper Alpha, the Braer.

T-Bird had its UK base in Aberdeen, near Dyce Airport, but the global HQ was in the US, and the company held other oil and gas interests in Alaska, Africa, and the Gulf of Mexico.

‘Boring, eh?’ Maclay offered.

‘Is that meant to be a joke?’

‘Just making conversation.’

Rebus got to his feet, put his jacket on. ‘Well, much as I could listen to your dulcet tones all day...’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Station to station.’


No one seemed very interested in his return to St Leonard’s; a couple of woolly suits stopped to say hello — it turned out they didn’t even know he’d been transferred.

‘I don’t know who that says more about — me or you.’

In the CID offices he saw Siobhan Clarke at her desk. She was on the phone, and waved her pen at him as he passed. She wore a white short-sleeved blouse, and her bare arms were deeply tanned, as were her neck and face.

Rebus kept looking, and acknowledged a few lukewarm greetings. Jings, but it was rare to be ‘home’. He thought of Allan Mitchison and his empty flat: he’d come back to Edinburgh because it was as close to a home as he had.

Eventually he spotted Brian Holmes, chatting up a WPC, giving it plenty.

‘Hello, Brian, how’s the wife?’

The WPC turned red, mumbled some excuse and left.

‘Ha fucking ha,’ Holmes said. Now that the WPC had gone, he looked dead done in, shoulders slumped, skin grey, specks of stubble left behind by a too-casual razor.

‘That favour...’ Rebus prompted.

‘I’m on it.’

‘And?’

I’m on it!

‘Go easy, son, we’re all friends here.’

Holmes seemed to deflate. He rubbed his eyes, clawed fingers through his hair.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m beat, that’s all it is.’

‘Would coffee help?’

‘Only if you can buy it by the vat.’

The canteen could stretch to an ‘Extra Large’. They sat down, Holmes tearing open sachets of sugar and pouring them in.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘about the other night, Mental Minto...’

‘We don’t talk about that,’ Rebus said firmly. ‘It’s history.’

‘Too much history around here.’

‘What else have the Scots got?’

‘You two look about as happy as nuns on a Club 18–30.’ Siobhan Clarke pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘Nice holiday?’ Rebus asked.

‘Relaxing.’

‘I see the weather was lousy.’

She ran a hand up one arm. ‘Took hours of work on the beach to get this.’

‘You’ve always been conscientious.’

She sipped Diet Pepsi. ‘So why’s everyone so down in the dumps?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Two tired, grey men; one young woman, tanned and brimming with life. Rebus knew he’d have to gee himself up for his evening date.

‘So,’ he asked Holmes casually, ‘that thing I asked you to look into...?’

‘It’s slow going. If you want my opinion,’ he looked up at Rebus, ‘whoever wrote up the notes was a master of circumlocution. There’s a lot of circling around the subject. I’d guess most casual readers would give up rather than plough on.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Why would the writer have done that?’

‘To put people off reading it. He probably thought they’d flick to the summing-up, miss out all the rubbish in the middle. Thing is, you can lose things that way, bury them in the text.’

‘Excuse me,’ Siobhan said, ‘have I walked into a masonic meeting by mistake? Is this some code I’m not supposed to get?’

‘Not at all, Brother Clarke,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet. ‘Maybe Brother Holmes will tell you about it.’

Holmes looked to Siobhan. ‘Only if you promise not to show me any holiday snaps.’

‘I wasn’t intending to.’ Siobhan straightened her back. ‘I know naturist beaches aren’t your thing.’


Rebus was purposely early for the rendezvous. Bain hadn’t been lying: there were two restaurants with wood-slatted blinds. They were eighty yards apart, and Rebus walked relays between the two. He saw Gill rounding the corner at Tollcross and waved to her. She hadn’t over-dressed for the occasion: new-looking denims, plain cream blouse, and a yellow cashmere jumper tied around her neck. Sunglasses, gold-chain necklace, and two-inch heels — she liked to make a noise when she walked.

‘Hello, John.’

‘Hiya, Gill.’

‘Is this the place?’

He looked at the restaurant. ‘There’s another one just up the road if you’d prefer. Or there’s French, Thai...’

‘This is fine.’ She pulled open the door, walked in ahead of him. ‘Did you book a table?’

‘Didn’t think they’d be busy,’ Rebus said. The restaurant wasn’t empty, but there was a spare table for two by the window, directly beneath a distorting loudspeaker. Gill removed her brown leather shoulder-bag and laid it under her chair.

‘Something to drink?’ their waiter asked.

‘Whisky and soda for me,’ Gill said.

‘Whisky, no additives,’ Rebus ordered. As the first waiter left, another appeared with menus, popadums and pickles. After he’d gone, Rebus looked around, saw that no one at the other tables was paying attention, and reached up to tug at the speaker-cable, disconnecting it. The music above them stopped.

‘Better,’ Gill said, smiling.

‘So,’ Rebus said, laying his napkin across his thighs, ‘is this business or social?’

‘Both,’ Gill admitted. She broke off as the drinks arrived. The waiter knew something was wrong, eventually placed it. He looked up at the silent speaker.

‘It can be easily mended,’ he told them. They shook their heads, then studied the menus. Having ordered, Rebus raised his glass.

Slàinte.’

‘Cheers.’ Gill took a gulp of her drink, exhaled afterwards.

‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘niceties taken care of... to business.’

‘Do you know how many women make chief inspector in the Scottish force?’

‘I know we’re talking the fingers of a blind carpenter’s hand.’

‘Exactly.’ She paused, realigned her cutlery. ‘I don’t want to screw up.’

‘Who does?’

She glanced at him, smiled. Rebus: world’s supply of fuck-ups, his life a warehouse filled to the rafters with them. Harder to shift than eight-track cartridges.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘so I’m an authority.’

‘And that’s good.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Because I’m still fucking up.’

She smiled. ‘Five months, John, and I haven’t made a good collar yet.’

‘But that’s about to change?’

‘I don’t know.’ Another gulp of courage. ‘Someone’s passed me some information about a drug deal... a biggie.’

‘Which protocol dictates you should pass on to the Scottish Crime Squad.’

She gave him a look. ‘And hand those lazy bastards the glory? Come on, John.’

‘I’ve never been a great believer in protocol myself. All the same...’ All the same: he didn’t want Gill fucking up. He could see this was important to her: maybe too important. She needed perspective, same as he needed on Spaven.

‘So who passed you the info?’

‘Fergus McLure.’

‘Feardie Fergie?’ Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Wasn’t he one of Flower’s snitches?’

Gill nodded. ‘I took over Flower’s list when he moved.’

‘Jesus, how much did he screw out of you?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘Most of Flower’s grasses are worse than anyone they could possibly snitch on.’

‘Nevertheless, he gave me his list.’

‘Feardie Fergie, eh?’

Fergus McLure had been in and out of private hospitals half his life. A nervous wreck, he drank nothing stronger than Ovaltine, and couldn’t watch anything more exciting than Pets Win Prizes. His constant supply of prescription drugs bolstered the profits of the British pharmaceutical industry. This said, he ran a nice little empire which just bordered on the legal: jeweller by trade, he also put on sales of Persian rugs, fire-damaged and water-damaged merchandise, receivership auctions. He lived in Ratho, a village on the edge of the city. Feardie Fergie was a known homosexual, but lived quietly — unlike some judges of Rebus’s acquaintance.

Gill crunched on a popadum, dribbled chutney on the remaining piece.

‘So what’s the problem?’ Rebus asked.

‘How well do you know Fergus McLure?’

Rebus shrugged, lied. ‘Reputation only. Why?’

‘Because I want this watertight before I act on it.’

‘Problem with snitches, Gill, you can’t always have corroboration.’

‘No, but I can have a second opinion.’

‘You want me to talk to him?’

‘John, for all your flaws—’

‘For which I am famous.’

‘— you’re a good judge of character, and you know enough about informers.’

‘My back-up subject for Mastermind.’

‘I just want to know if you think he’s on the level. I don’t want to go to all the trouble and effort of opening an investigation, maybe setting up surveillance, taps, even a sting operation, only to have the carpet pulled out from under me.’

‘Understood, but you know the Squaddies will be peeved if you keep them in the dark. They’ve got the manpower and experience for this sort of thing.’

She just stared at him. ‘Since when did you start going by the book?’

‘We’re not talking about me. I’m the L&B bad apple — doubtless they think one’s more than enough.’

Their food arrived, the table filling with platters and dishes, a nan bread big enough to be plotting world domination. They looked at one another, realising they didn’t feel that hungry any more.

‘A couple more of the same,’ Rebus said, handing the waiter his empty glass. To Gill: ‘So tell me Fergie’s story.’

‘It’s sketchy. Some drugs are coming north in a consignment of antiques. They’re going to be handed over to the dealers.’

‘The dealers being...?’

She shrugged. ‘McLure thinks they’re Americans.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Who? The sellers?’

‘No, the buyers. The sellers are German.’

Rebus went through the major Edinburgh dealers, couldn’t think of a single American.

‘I know,’ Gill said, reading his thoughts.

‘New boys trying to break in?’

‘McLure thinks the stuff’s headed further north.’

‘Dundee?’

She nodded. ‘And Aberdeen.’

Aberdeen again. Jesus. A town called malice. ‘So how’s Fergie involved?’

‘One of his sales would be the perfect cover.’

‘He’s fronting?’

Another nod. She chewed on a piece of chicken, dipped nan bread into the sauce. Rebus watched her eat, remembering little things about her: the way her ears moved when she chewed, the way her eyes flicked over the different dishes, the way she rubbed her fingers together afterwards... There were rings around her neck that hadn’t been there five years ago, and maybe when she visited her hairdresser they added some colour to her roots. But she looked good. She looked great.

‘So?’ she asked.

‘Is that all he told you?’

‘He’s scared of these dealers, too scared to tell them to get lost. But the last thing he wants is us catching on and putting him in jail as an accessory. That’s why he’s grassing.’

‘Even though he’s scared?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘When’s all this supposed to happen?’

‘When they phone him.’

‘I don’t know, Gill. If it were a peg, you couldn’t hang a fucking hankie on it, never mind your coat.’

‘Colourfully put.’

She was staring at his tie as she said it. It was a loud tie, purposely so: it was supposed to distract attention from his unironed shirt with the missing button.

‘OK, I’ll go talkies tomorrow, see if I can wring any more out of him.’

‘But gently.’

‘He’ll be putty in my hands.’


They ate only half the food, still felt bloated. Coffee and mints came: Gill put both mints into her bag for later. Rebus had a third whisky. He was looking ahead, seeing them standing outside the restaurant. He could offer to walk her home. He could ask her back to his flat. Only she couldn’t stay the night: there might be reporters outside in the morning.

John Rebus: presumptuous bastard.

‘Why are you smiling?’ she asked.

‘Use it or lose it, they say.’

They split the bill, the drinks coming to as much as the food. And then they were outside. The night had grown cool.

‘What are my chances of finding a taxi?’ Gill was looking up and down the street.

‘Pubs aren’t out yet, you should be OK. My car’s back at the flat...’

‘Thanks, John, I’ll be all right. Look, here’s one.’ She waved to it. The driver signalled and pulled over with a squeak of brakes. ‘Tell me how you get on,’ she said.

‘I’ll phone you straight after.’

‘Thanks.’ She pecked his cheek, a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Then she got into the taxi and closed the door, giving her address to the driver. Rebus watched the cab execute a slow U-turn into the traffic heading for Tollcross.

Rebus stood there for a moment, looking at his shoes. She’d wanted a favour, that was all. Good to know he was still useful for some things. ‘Feardie Fergie’, Fergus McLure. A name from the past; one-time friend of a certain Lenny Spaven. Worth a morning trip to Ratho for definite.

He heard another taxi coming — unmistakable engine sound. Its yellow light was on. He waved it down, got in.

‘The Oxford Bar,’ he said.


The more Bible John thought about the Upstart... the more he learned about him... the surer he felt that Aberdeen was the key.

He sat in his study, door locked against the outside world, and stared at the UPSTART file on his laptop. The gap between victims one and two was six weeks, between victims two and three only four. Johnny Bible was a hungry little devil, but so far he hadn’t killed again. Or if he had, he was still playing with the body. But that wasn’t the Upstart’s way. He killed them quick, then presented the bodies to the world. Bible John had worked back, and had found two newspaper stories — both in the Aberdeen Press and Journal. A woman attacked on her way home from a nightclub, a man attempting to drag her into an alley. She’d screamed, he’d panicked and fled. Bible John had driven out to the scene one night. He stood in the alley and thought of the Upstart standing there, biding his time till the nightclub emptied. There was a housing scheme nearby, and the route home passed the mouth of the alley. Superficially, it was the perfect spot, but the Upstart had been nervous, ill-prepared. He’d probably been waiting there for an hour or two, standing back in the shadows, afraid someone would stumble upon him. His nerve had come and gone. When he’d finally picked a victim, he hadn’t disabled it quickly enough. A scream was all it had taken to send him running.

Yes, it could well be the Upstart. He’d studied his failure, come up with a better plan: go into the nightclub, get talking to the victim... put the victim at its ease, then strike.

Second newspaper item: a woman complaining of a peeper in her back garden. When police were called, they found marks on her kitchen door, clumsy attempts at entering. Maybe connected to the first story, maybe not. Story one: eight weeks before the first murder. Story two: a further four weeks back. A pattern of months establishing itself. And another pattern on top of the first: peeper becoming attacker. Of course, there could be other stories he’d missed, ones from other cities, making for different theories, but Bible John was happy to go with Aberdeen. First victim: often the first victim was local. Once the killer’s confidence was up, he would range further afield. But that first success was so very important.

A timid knock at the study door. ‘I’ve made coffee.’

‘I’ll be out soon.’

Back to his computer. He knew the police would be busy compiling their own composites, their psychological profiles, remembered the one a psychiatrist had compiled of him. You knew he was ‘an authority’ because of all the letters after his name: BSc, BL, MA, MB, ChB, LLB, DPA, FRCPath. Meaningless in the wider scheme, as was his report. Bible John had read it in a book years back. The few things about him it got right, he attempted to remedy. The serial murderer was supposedly withdrawn, with few close friends, so he had forced himself to become gregarious. The type was known for a lack of drive and fear of adult contacts, so he took a job where drive and contacts were crucial. As for the rest of the thesis... rubbish, mostly.

Serial killers not infrequently had a history of homosexual activity — not guilty.

They were usually unmarried — tell that to the Yorkshire Ripper.

They often heard two voices inside their heads, one good and the other evil. They collected weapons, and gave them pet names. Many dressed up in women’s clothes. Some showed an interest in black magic or in monsters, and collected sadistic pornography. Many had a ‘private place’ where objects such as hoods, dolls and rubber diving-suits would be kept.

He looked around his study and shook his head.

There were only a few points where the psychiatrist got it right. Yes, he would say he was egocentric — like half the population. Yes, he was neat and tidy. Yes, he had an interest in the Second World War (but not solely Nazism or concentration camps). Yes, he was a plausible liar — or rather, people were gullible listeners. And yes, he planned his culls well in advance, as it appeared the Upstart was now doing.

The librarian had not yet finished compiling his newspaper list. A check of requests for Bible John literature had drawn a blank. That was the bad news. But there was good news too. Thanks to the recent upsurge of interest in the original Bible John case, he had newspaper details of other unsolved murders, seven of them. Five took place in 1977, one in ’78, and one much more recently. These gave him a second thesis. The first had the Upstart just beginning his career; the second had him recommencing it after a long gap. He might have been out of the country, or in some institution, or even in a relationship where he did not feel it necessary to kill. If the police were being meticulous — which he doubted — they’d be looking at recent divorces of men who had married in ’78 or ’79. Bible John did not have the means at his disposal to do this, which was frustrating. He got up and stared at his shelves of books, not really seeing them. There was an opinion that the Upstart was Bible John, that the eyewitness descriptions were flawed. As a result, the police and the media had dusted off their photofits and artists’ impressions.

Dangerous. He knew the only way to quash such speculation was to locate the Upstart. Imitation was not the sincerest form of flattery. It was potentially lethal. He had to find the Upstart. Either that or lead the police to him. One way or another, it would be done.

8

He was in a six a.m. opener, drinking off a good sleep.

He’d woken up way too early, got dressed, and decided to go for a walk. He crossed the Meadows, headed down George IV Bridge and the High Street, left on to Cockburn Street. Cockburn Street: shopping mecca to teenagers and hippies; Rebus remembered Cockburn Street market when it was a damned sight more disreputable than these days. Angie Riddell had bought her necklace in a shop on Cockburn Street. Maybe she’d worn it the day he’d taken her to the café, but he didn’t think so. He switched off the thought, turned down a passageway, a steep flight of steps, and took another left on Market Street. He was opposite Waverley Station, and there was a pub open. It catered to night-shift workers, a drink or two before home and bed. But you saw businessmen in it too, bracing themselves for the day ahead.

With newspaper offices nearby, the regulars were print-workers and subs, and there were always first editions available, the ink just dry. Rebus was known here, and no one ever bothered him. Even if a reporter was having a drink, they didn’t hassle him for stories or quotes — it was an unwritten rule, never breached.

This morning, three teenagers sat slumped at a table, barely touching their drinks. Their dishevelled and sleepy state told Rebus they’d just completed a ‘twenty-four’: round-the-clock drinking. The daytime was easy: you started at six in the morning — somewhere like this — and the pubs were licensed till midnight or one o’clock. After that, it had to be clubs, casinos, and you finished the marathon at a pizza parlour on Lothian Road, open till six a.m., at which point you returned here for the last drink of the session.

The bar was quiet, no TV or radio, the fruit machine not yet plugged in: another unwritten rule. At this time of day, what you did in this place was drink. And read the papers. Rebus poured a helping of water into his whisky, took it and a paper to a table. The sun outside the windows was skin-tone pink against a milky sky. It had been a good walk; he liked the city quiet: taxis and early risers, first dogs being exercised, clear, clean air. But the night before still clung to the place: a litter-bin upturned, a bench on the Meadows with a broken back, traffic cones hoisted on to bus shelter roofs. It was true of the bar too: last night’s fug had not had time to dissipate. Rebus lit a cigarette and read his paper.

A story on the inside page caught his attention: Aberdeen was hosting an international convention on offshore pollution and the role of the oil industry. Delegates from sixteen countries were expected to attend. There was a smaller story tacked on to the article: the Bannock oil and gas field, 100 miles north-east of Shetland, was coming to the end of its ‘useful economic life’, and was about to undergo decommissioning. Environmentalists were making an issue of Bannock’s main production platform, a steel and concrete structure weighing 200,000 tonnes. They wanted to know what the owners, T-Bird Oil, planned to do with it. As required by law, the company had submitted an Abandonment Programme to the Oil and Gas Division of the Department of Trade and Industry, but its contents had not been made public.

The environmentalists were saying that there were over 200 oil and gas installations on the UK Continental Shelf, and they all had a finite production life. The government seemed to be backing an option which would leave the majority of the deep-water platforms in place, with only minimal maintenance. There was even talk of selling them off for alternative use — plans included prisons and casino/hotel complexes. The government and the oil companies were talking cost-effectiveness, and about striking a balance between cost, safety and the environment. The protesters’ line was: the environment at any cost. Stoked up from their victory over Shell with the Brent Spar, the pressure groups were planning to make Bannock an issue too, and would be holding marches, rallies, and an open-air concert close to the site of the Aberdeen convention.

Aberdeen: fast becoming the centre of Rebus’s universe.

He finished his whisky, decided against a second, then changed his mind. Flicked through the rest of the paper: nothing new on Johnny Bible. There was a property section; he checked the Marchmont/Sciennes prices, then laughed at some of the New Town specs: ‘luxurious townhouse, elegant living on five floors...’; ‘garage for sale separately, £20,000’. There were still a few places in Scotland where £20,000 would buy you a house, maybe with the garage thrown in. He looked down the ‘Country Property’ list, saw more wild prices, flattering photos attached. There was a place on the coast south-east of the city, picture windows and sea views, for the price of a Marchmont flat. Dream on, sailor...

He walked home, got in his car, and drove out to Craigmillar, one area of the city not yet represented in the property section, and not likely to be for some time to come.

The night shift was just about to come off. Rebus saw officers he hadn’t seen before. He asked around: it had been a quiet night; the cells were empty, ditto the biscuit-tins. In the Shed, he sat at his desk and saw new paperwork staring up at him. He fetched himself a coffee and picked up the first sheet.

More dead ends on Allan Mitchison; the head of his children’s home interviewed by local CID. A check of his bank account, nothing amiss. Nothing from Aberdeen CID on Tony El. A woolly suit came in with a package addressed to Rebus. Postmarked Aberdeen, a printed label: T-Bird Oil. Rebus opened it. Publicity material, a compliment slip from Stuart Minchell, Personnel Dept. Half a dozen A4 pamphlets, quality layout and paper, colour throughout, facts kept to a minimum. Rebus, author of five thousand reports, knew waffle when he saw it. Minchell had enclosed a copy of ‘T-BIRD OIL — STRIKING THE BALANCE’, identical to the one in the side pocket of Mitchison’s rucksack. Rebus opened it, saw a map of the Bannock field, laid out across a grid showing which blocks it occupied. A note explained that the North Sea had been divided into blocks of 100 square miles apiece, and oil companies initially made bids for exploration rights to these blocks. Bannock was slap-bang up against the international boundary — a few miles east and you came to more oil fields, but this time Norwegian rather than British.

‘Bannock will be the first T-Bird field to undergo rigorous decommissioning,’ Rebus read. There seemed to be seven options available, from Leave In Place to Total Removal. The company’s ‘modest proposal’ was for mothballing: leaving the structure to be dealt with at a later date.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Rebus muttered, noting that mothballing ‘would leave funds available for future exploration and development’.

He put the pamphlets back in their envelope and shoved it in a drawer, returning to his paperwork. A sheet of fax paper was hidden near the bottom. He pulled it out. It was from Stuart Minchell, sent the previous day at seven in the evening: further details on Allan Mitchison’s two workmates. The one who worked at the Sullom Voe terminal was called Jake Harley. He was on a walking/birdwatching holiday somewhere on Shetland, and probably hadn’t yet heard of his friend’s demise. The one who worked offshore was called Willie Ford. He was halfway through a sixteen-day stint, and ‘of course’ had learned about Allan Mitchison.

Rebus picked up his telephone, reached into the drawer for Minchell’s compliment slip. He got the number from it and pushed the buttons. It was early; all the same...

‘Personnel.’

‘Stuart Minchell, please.’

‘Speaking.’ Bingo: Minchell a company man, early starter.

‘Mr Minchell, it’s Inspector Rebus again.’

‘Inspector, you’re lucky I picked up the phone. Usually I just let it ring, only way I can get some work done before the rush.’

‘Your fax, Mr Minchell — why did you say “of course” Willie Ford had learned of Allan Mitchison’s death?’

‘Because they worked together, didn’t I tell you?’

‘Offshore?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which platform, Mr Minchell?’

‘Didn’t I tell you that either? Bannock.’

‘The one that’s being mothballed?’

‘Yes. Our Public Relations team’s got its work cut out there.’ A pause. ‘Is it important, Inspector?’

‘Probably not, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Rebus put down the receiver, drummed his fingers against it.

He went out to the shops, bought a filled roll for breakfast — corned beef and onion. The roll was too floury, and stuck to the roof of his mouth. He bought himself a coffee to wash it down. When he got back to the Shed, Bain and Maclay were at their desks, feet up, tabloid reading. Bain was eating a dough-ring; Maclay burping sausage-meat.

‘Snitch reports?’ Rebus asked.

‘Nothing so far,’ Bain said, not taking his eyes from the paper.

‘Tony El?’

Maclay’s turn: ‘Description’s gone out to every Scottish force, nothing’s come back.’

‘I phoned Grampian CID myself,’ Bain added, ‘told them to check out Mitchison’s Indian restaurant. Looks like he was a regular, they might know something.’

‘Nice one, Dod,’ Rebus said.

‘Not just a pretty face, is he?’ Maclay said.


The weather forecast was for sunshine and showers. It seemed to Rebus, as he drove out to Ratho, that they were coming at ten-minute intervals. Brisk black clouds, shafts of sunlight, blue skies, then clouds gathering again. At one point, it started raining when there didn’t seem to be a cloud in the sky.

Ratho was surrounded by farmland, with the Union Canal bordering it to the north. It was popular in the summer: you could take a boat trip on the canal, or feed the ducks, or eat at a waterfront restaurant. Yet it was less than a mile from the M8, two miles from Turnhouse Airport. Rebus drove out along Calder Road, trusting to his sense of direction. Fergus McLure’s house was on Hallcroft Park. He knew he could find it: there were only a dozen streets in the whole village. McLure was known to work from home. Rebus had decided against phoning ahead: he didn’t want Fergie forewarned.

When he reached Ratho, it took him five minutes to locate Hallcroft Park. He found Fergie’s address, stopped the car, and walked up to the door. There was no sign of life. He rang the bell a second time. Net curtains stopped him peering through the window.

‘Should have phoned,’ Rebus muttered.

A woman was walking past, terrier straining on its leash. The small dog made terrible choking sounds as it sniffed the pavement.

‘Is he not in?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Funny, his car’s here.’ She had time to nod in the direction of a parked Volvo before the dog hauled her away. It was a blue 940 estate. Rebus looked in through the windows, but all he saw was how clean the interior looked. He checked the mileage: low. A new car. The tyre-walls hadn’t even had time to lose their shine.

Rebus got back into his own car — mileage to date fifty times the Volvo’s — and decided to head back into town by the Glasgow Road. But as he made to drive over the canal bridge, he saw a police car at the far end of the restaurant car park, sitting on the slip-road down to the canal. There was an ambulance parked next to it. Rebus braked, reversed, and turned into the car park, crawling towards the scene. A woolly suit came to warn him off, but Rebus had his warrant card ready. He parked and got out.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Somebody went for a dip with their clothes on.’

The constable followed Rebus down to the jetty. There were cruise boats moored there, and a couple of tourist-types who looked like they’d come for a trip on one of them. The rain had started again, pockmarking the surface of the canal. The ducks were keeping their distance. A body had been hauled out of the water, clothes sodden, and laid on the wooden slats that constituted the jetty. A man who looked like a doctor was checking for signs of life, no real hope in his face. The back door to the restaurant was open, staff members standing there, faces interested but full of horror.

The doctor shook his head. One of the tourists, a woman, began to cry. Her companion, a man, cradled his video camera and put an arm around her.

‘He must’ve slipped and fallen in,’ someone said, ‘banged his head.’

The doctor checked the corpse’s head, found a clean gash.

Rebus looked up towards the staff. ‘Anyone see anything?’ Headshakes. ‘Who reported it?’

‘I did.’ The woman tourist, English accent.

Rebus turned to the doctor. ‘How long has he been in the water?’

‘I’m just a GP, not an expert. All the same, if you want a guess... not long. Certainly not overnight.’ Something had rolled out of the drowned man’s jacket pocket and wedged between two of the slats. A small brown bottle with white plastic top. Prescription pills. Rebus looked at the bloated face, fixed it to a much younger man, a man he’d interviewed in 1978 about his connection to Lenny Spaven.

‘He’s a local,’ Rebus told the company. ‘His name’s Fergus McLure.’


He tried phoning Gill Templer, couldn’t track her down, ended up leaving messages for her in half a dozen different places. Back home, he polished his shoes and changed into his best suit, picked out the shirt with the fewest creases, and found the most sober tie he had (excepting his funeral one).

He looked at himself in the mirror. He’d showered and shaved, dried his hair and combed it. The knot in his tie looked OK, and for once he’d found a matching pair of socks. He looked fine, felt anything but.

It was half past one, time to go to Fettes.

The traffic wasn’t too bad, the lights with him, like they didn’t want to hold up his appointment. He was early at L&B HQ thought of driving around, but knew it would only make him more nervous. Instead, he went inside, and sought out the Murder Room. It was on the second floor, a large central office space with smaller compartments off for the senior officers. This was the Edinburgh side of the triangle Johnny Bible had created, the heart of the Angie Riddell investigation. Rebus knew some of the faces on duty, smiled, nodded. The walls were covered with maps, photographs, charts — an attempt at order. So much of police work was putting things in some kind of order: fixing chronology, getting the details right, tidying up after the mess of people’s lives as well as their deaths.

Most of the people on duty this afternoon looked tired, lacking enthusiasm. They were waiting by telephones, waiting for the elusive tip-off, the missing link, a name or a sighting, waiting for the man... They’d been waiting a long time. Someone had mocked up a photofit of Johnny Bible: horns curling from the head, wisps of smoke from the flared nostrils, fangs and a serpent’s forked tongue.

The Bogeyman.

Rebus looked closer. The photofit had been done on computer. The starting-point had been an old photofit of Bible John. With the horns and fangs, he bore a vague likeness to Alister Flower...

He examined the photographs of Angie Riddell in life, kept his eyes away from her autopsy pics. He remembered her the night he’d arrested her, remembered her sitting in his car talking, almost too full of life. Her hair seemed to be dyed a different colour in almost every picture, like she was never quite happy with herself. Maybe she’d just needed to keep changing, running from the person she’d been, laughing to stop herself crying. Circus clown, painted smile...

Rebus checked his watch. Fuck it: it was time.

9

There was just the CC Rider himself, Colin Carswell, waiting for Rebus in the comfortable and carpeted office.

‘Take a seat, won’t you?’ Carswell had half-risen to welcome Rebus, now sat down again. Rebus sat opposite him, studying the desktop, looking for clues. The Yorkshireman was tall, with a body that sagged towards a beer drinker’s gut. His hair was brown, thinning, his nose small, almost flat like a pug’s. He sniffed. ‘Sorry, can’t oblige with your request for biscuits, but there’s tea or coffee if you want it.’

Rebus remembered the phone call: Will there be tea and biccies? I’m not coming otherwise. The remark had been passed along.

‘I’m fine, thanks, sir.’

Carswell opened a folder, picked something up, a newspaper clipping. ‘Damned shame about Lawson Geddes. I hear he was an exceptional officer in his day.’

The story concerned Geddes’ suicide.

‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said.

‘They say it’s a coward’s way out, but I know I wouldn’t have the guts.’ He looked up. ‘What about you?’

‘I hope I never have to find out, sir.’

Carswell smiled, put the cutting back, closed the folder. ‘John, we’re getting flak from the media. At first it was just that TV crew, but now everyone seems to want to join the circus.’ He stared at Rebus. ‘Not good.’

‘No sir.’

‘So we’ve decided — the Chief Constable and myself — that we should make an effort.’

Rebus swallowed. ‘You’re reopening the Spaven case?’

Carswell brushed invisible dust off the folder. ‘Not straight away. There’s no new evidence, therefore no real need to.’ He looked up quickly. ‘Unless you know some reason why we should?’

‘It was cut and dried, sir.’

‘Try telling the media that.’

‘I have, believe me.’

‘We’re going to open an internal inquiry, just to satisfy ourselves that nothing was overlooked or... untoward... at the time.’

‘Putting me under suspicion.’ Rebus could feel his hackles rising.

‘Only if you’ve got something to hide.’

‘Come on, sir, you reopen an investigation, everyone begins to look dirty. And with Spaven and Lawson Geddes dead, I’m left carrying the can.’

‘Only if there’s a can to carry.’

Rebus leapt to his feet.

Sit down, Inspector, I’ve not finished with you yet!

Rebus sat down, made his hands grip the sides of the chair. He felt if he let go, he might fly clean through the ceiling. Carswell was taking a second to regain his own composure.

‘Now, to keep things objective, the inquiry will be headed by someone from outside Lothian and Borders, reporting directly to me. They’ll go through the original files...’

Warn Holmes.

‘... do any follow-up interviews deemed necessary, and compile their report.’

‘Is this going to be made public?’

‘Not until I have the finished report. It can’t look like a whitewash, that’s all I’ll say. If any breach of the rules has taken place anywhere down the line, it’ll be dealt with. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now, is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

‘Just between us, or do you want to bring the strongarm in?’

Carswell allowed this as a joke. ‘I’m not sure you could call him that.’

Him.

‘Who’s in charge, sir?’

‘An officer from Strathclyde, DCI Charles Ancram.’

Oh dear Jesus fucking Christ. His goodbye to Ancram: an accusation of graft. And Ancram had known, all that day he’d known this was coming, the way he’d smiled, like he had secrets, the way he’d studied Rebus, like they might well become adversaries.

‘Sir, there may be some bad blood between CI Ancram and myself.’

Carswell stared at him. ‘Care to elucidate?’

‘No, sir, with respect.’

‘Well, I suppose I could get Chief Inspector Flower instead. He’s the bee’s knees just now, nabbing that MP’s son for cannabis growing...’

Rebus swallowed. ‘I’d prefer CI Ancram, sir.’

Carswell glowered. ‘It’s not your bloody decision, is it, Inspector?’

‘No, sir.’

Carswell sighed. ‘Ancram’s already been briefed. Let’s stick with him... if that’s all right with you?’

‘Thank you, sir.’ How did I get here, Rebus thought: thanking the man for putting Ancram on my tail... ‘Can I go now, sir?’

‘No.’ Carswell was looking in the folder again, while Rebus tried to get his heart-rate down. Carswell read a note, spoke without looking up.

‘What were you doing in Ratho this morning?’

‘Sir?’

‘A body was hauled out of the canal. I’ve had word you were there. Not exactly Craigmillar, is it?’

‘I was just in the area.’

‘Apparently you ID’d the body?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re a handy man to have around.’ Heavy with irony. ‘How did you know him?’

Blurt it out or clam up? Neither. Dissemble. ‘I recognised him as one of our snitches, sir.’

Carswell looked up. ‘Whose in particular?’

‘DI Flower’s.’

‘Were you looking to poach him?’ Rebus kept his mouth shut, letting Carswell draw his own conclusions. ‘On the very morning he took a tumble into the canal... strange coincidence?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘These things happen, sir.’ He fixed his eyes on Carswell’s. They stared one another out.

‘Dismissed, Inspector,’ Carswell said.

Rebus didn’t blink until he was back in the corridor.


He phoned St Leonard’s from Fettes, his hand shaking. But Gill wasn’t there, and nobody seemed to know where she was. Rebus asked the switchboard to page her, then asked to be put through to CID. Siobhan answered.

‘Is Brian there?’

‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of hours. Are you two cooking something up?’

‘The only thing cooking around here is my fucking goose. When you see him, tell him to call. And pass the same message along to Gill Templer.’

He broke the connection before she could say anything. Probably she’d have offered to help, and the one thing Rebus didn’t want right now was anyone else involved. Lying to protect himself... lying to protect Gill Templer... Gill... he had questions for her, urgent questions. He tried her home number, left a message on the answering machine, then tried Holmes’s home number: another machine, same message. Call me.

Wait. Think.

He’d asked Holmes to read up on the Spaven case, and that meant going through the files. When Great London Road police station had been burnt to the ground, a lot of files had gone up with it, but not the older stuff, because by then the older files had been shipped out to make space. They were stored with all the other ancient cases, all the clanking old skeletons, in a warehouse near Granton Harbour. Rebus had guessed Holmes would sign them out, but maybe not...

It was a ten-minute drive from Fettes to the warehouse. Rebus did it in seven. He allowed himself a grin when he saw Holmes’s car in the car park. Rebus walked over to the main door, pulled it open, and was in a vast, dark, echoing space. Regimented rows of green metal shelves ran the length of the warehouse, filled with heavy-duty cardboard boxes, inside which lay the mouldering history of the Lothian and Borders force — and the City of Edinburgh force until its demise — from the 1950s to the 1970s. Documents were still arriving: tea-chests with labels hanging from them sat waiting to be unpacked, and it looked like a changeover was taking place — lidded plastic boxes replacing heavy-duty board. A small elderly man, very trim, with a black moustache and jam-jar glasses, was marching towards Rebus.

‘Yes, can I help you?’

The man defined ‘clerical’. When he wasn’t looking at the floor, he was staring off somewhere past Rebus’s right ear. He wore a grey nylon overall over a white shirt with frayed collar and green tweed tie. Pens and pencils protruded from his top pocket.

Rebus showed his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for a colleague, DS Holmes, I think he may be looking through some old casenotes.’

The man was studying the warrant card. He walked over to a clipboard and wrote down Rebus’s name and rank, plus date and time of arrival.

‘Is that necessary?’ Rebus asked.

The man looked like he’d never in his life been asked such a thing. ‘Paperwork,’ he snapped, looking around at the warehouse’s contents. ‘It’s all necessary, or I wouldn’t be here.’

And he smiled, the overhead lighting glinting from his lenses. ‘This way.’

He led Rebus down an alleyway of boxes, then took a right turn and finally, after a moment’s hesitation, a left. They came into a clearing, where Brian Holmes sat at what looked like an old school desk, inkwell intact. There was no chair, so he was using an upturned box. His elbows rested on the desk, head in hands. There was a lamp on the desk, bathing the scene in light. The clerk coughed.

‘Someone to see you.’

Holmes turned, stood up when he saw who it was. Rebus turned quickly to the clerk.

‘Thanks for your help.’

‘No trouble. I don’t get many visitors.’

The little man shuffled away, footsteps receding into the distance.

‘Don’t worry,’ Holmes said. ‘I’ve laid a trail of breadcrumbs so we can find our way back.’ He looked around. ‘Isn’t this the creepiest place you’ve ever been?’

‘It’s straight into the top five. Listen, Brian, there’s a problem.’ He held up his right hand. ‘Fan.’ Then his left. ‘Shit.’ He clapped both hands together. The sound reverberated through the warehouse.

‘Tell me.’

‘The CC Rider’s opening an inquiry into the Spaven case, prior to reopening the case itself. And he’s managed to put in charge someone I recently rubbed up the wrong way.’

‘Silly you.’

‘Silly me. So no doubt they’ll be down here some day soon to lift the casenotes. And I don’t want them lifting you.’

Holmes looked at the bulging files, the faded black ink on each cover. ‘The files could get lost, couldn’t they?’

‘They could. Two problems. One, that would look highly suspicious. Two, I’m assuming Mr Clipboard knows which files you’ve been consulting.’

‘That’s true,’ Holmes conceded. ‘And it went down on his sheet.’

‘Along with your name.’

‘We could try slipping him some cash.’

‘He doesn’t look the type. He’s not in this for money, is he?’

Holmes looked thoughtful. He also looked terrible: unevenly shaven, his hair uncombed and needing a trim. The bags under his eyes could have carried half a hundredweight of coal.

‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘I’m halfway through... more than halfway. If I burn the candle tonight, maybe speed up my reading, I could have it finished by tomorrow.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘What do you think so far?’ He was almost scared to touch the files, to flip through them. It wasn’t history, it was archaeology.

‘I think your typing hasn’t improved. Straight answer: there’s something dodgy going on, that much I can read between the lines. I can see exactly where you’re covering up, rewriting the true story to fit your version. You weren’t quite so subtle in those days. Geddes’ version reads better, more confident. He glosses over stuff, he’s not afraid to understate. What I’d like to know is, what was the story with him and Spaven in the first place? I know you told me they served together in Burma or somewhere; how did they come to fall out? See, if we knew that, we’d know how valid the chip on Geddes’ shoulder was, and maybe how far it would take him.’

Rebus clapped his hands again, this time in muffled applause.

‘That’s good going.’

‘So give me another day, see what else I come up with. John, I want to do this for you.’

‘And if they catch you?’

‘I’ll talk my way out, don’t worry.’

Rebus’s pager sounded. He looked to Holmes.

‘Sooner you go,’ Holmes said, ‘sooner I can get back to it.’

Rebus patted him on the shoulder and headed back along the stacks. Brian Holmes: friend. Difficult to equate with the person who had roughed up Mental Minto. Schizophrenia, the policeman’s ally: a dual personality came in handy...

He asked the clerk if he could use a telephone. There was one on the wall. He called in.

‘DI Rebus.’

‘Yes, Inspector, apparently you’ve been trying to reach DCI Templer.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I have a location for her. She’s in Ratho, at some restaurant.’

Rebus slammed down the phone, cursing himself for not thinking of it sooner.


The wooden walkway where McLure’s body had lain had been blown dry by the wind, leaving nothing to indicate that a death had occurred so recently. The ducks were skimming the water; one of the boats had just left with half a dozen passengers; diners in the restaurant chewed on their food and stared out at the two figures on the canal bank.

‘I was in meetings half the day,’ Gill said. ‘I didn’t hear about it until an hour ago. What happened?’

She had her hands deep in coat pockets, the coat a cream Burberry. She looked sad.

‘Ask the pathologist. There was a cut on McLure’s head, but that doesn’t tell us a lot. He could have hit it when he slipped.’

‘Or he could have been whacked and pushed in.’

‘Or he could have jumped.’ Rebus shivered; the death reminded him of the Mitchison options. ‘My guess is, all the autopsy will tell us is whether he was alive when he hit the water. Right now I’ll tell you he was probably alive, which still doesn’t answer the question: accident, suicide, or a whack and a push?’ He watched Gill turn away, begin to walk the towpath. He caught up with her. It was starting to rain again, small drops, sparse. He watched them land on her coat, darkening it by degrees.

‘Bang goes my big collar,’ she said, an edge to her voice. Rebus turned up the collar of her coat, and she caught the joke, smiled.

‘There’ll be others,’ he told her. ‘Meantime, a man’s dead — don’t forget that.’ She nodded. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘the ACC had me on the carpet this afternoon.’

‘The Spaven case?’

He nodded. ‘Plus he wanted to know what I was doing out here this morning.’

She glanced towards him. ‘What did you say?’

‘I didn’t say anything. But the thing is... McLure ties in to Spaven.’

‘What?’ He had her full attention now.

‘They palled around years back.’

‘Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It didn’t seem an issue.’

Gill was thinking hard. ‘But if Carswell links McLure to Spaven...?’

‘Then my being out here on the very morning Feardie Fergie met the big cheerio is going to look just a tad suspicious.’

‘You have to tell him.’

‘I don’t think so.’

She turned to him, her hands gripping his lapels. ‘You’re protecting me from the fallout.’

The rain was growing heavier, drops sparkling in her hair. ‘Let’s just say I’m radiation-proof,’ he said, leading her by the hand into the bar.

They ate a snack, neither of them bringing an appetite with them. Rebus’s came with a whisky; Gill’s with Highland spring water. They sat facing one another at an alcove table. The place was a third full, nobody near enough to overhear.

‘Who else knew?’ Rebus said.

‘You’re the first person I’ve told.’

‘Well, they could find out anyway. Maybe Fergie’s nerve went, maybe he owned up. Maybe they just guessed.’

‘Plenty of maybes.’

‘What else have we got?’ He paused, chewing. ‘What about the other snitches you inherited?’

‘What about them?’

‘Snitches hear things, maybe Fergie wasn’t the only one who knew about this drugs thing.’

Gill was shaking her head. ‘I asked him at the time. He seemed confident it was being kept very quiet. You’re assuming he was killed. Remember, he has a history of bad nerves, mental problems. Maybe the fear just got too much for him.’

‘Do us both a favour, Gill, stick close to the investigation. See what the neighbours say: did he have any visitors this morning? Anyone out of the ordinary or suspicious? See if you can check his phone calls. My bet is it’ll go down as an accident, which means no one’s going to be working too hard on it. Push them, ask favours if you have to. Did he normally go for morning walks?’

She was nodding. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes... who’s got the keys to his house?’


Gill made the calls, and they drank coffee until a DC turned up with the keys, fresh from the mortuary. Gill had asked about the Spaven case, Rebus giving only vague answers. Then they’d talked about Johnny Bible, Allan Mitchison... all shop-talk, steering a wide berth around anything personal. But at one point they’d locked eyes, shared a smile, knowing the questions were there, whether they asked them or not.

‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘what do you do now?’

‘About the gen McLure gave me?’ she sighed. ‘There’s nowhere to go with it, it was all so vague — no names or details, no date for the meeting... it’s gone.’

‘Well, maybe.’ Rebus lifted the keys, shook them. ‘Depends whether you want to come snooping or not.’

The pavements in Ratho were narrow. To keep his distance from Gill, Rebus walked on the road. They didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. This was their second evening together; Rebus felt comfortable sharing everything but close proximity.

‘That’s his car.’

Gill walked around the Volvo, peered in through the windows. On the dashboard a small red light was blinking: the automatic alarm. ‘Leather upholstery. Looks straight out of the showroom.’

‘Typical Feardie Fergie car though: nice and safe.’

‘I don’t know,’ Gill mused. ‘It’s the turbo version.’

Rebus hadn’t noticed. He thought of his own aged Saab. ‘Wonder what’ll happen to it...’

‘Is this his house?’

They walked up to the door, used a mortise and a yale to open it. Rebus turned on the hall lights.

‘Do you know if any of our lot has been in here?’ Rebus asked.

‘As far as I know, we’re the first. Why?’

‘Just trying out a scenario or two. Say someone came to see him here, and they frightened him. Say they told him to take a walk...’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, he still had the presence of mind to double-lock the door. So either he wasn’t that scared...’

‘Or whoever was with him double-locked the door, assuming that’s what McLure would normally do.’

Rebus nodded. ‘One more thing. Alarm system.’ He pointed to a box on the wall, its light a steady green. ‘It hasn’t been switched on. If he was in a flap, he might forget. If he thought he wasn’t coming back alive, he wouldn’t bother.’

‘He might not bother for a short stroll either though.’

Rebus conceded the point. ‘Final scenario: whoever double-locked the door forgot or plain didn’t know the alarm was there. See, door double-locked but alarm system off — it’s not consistent. And someone like Fergie, Volvo driver, my guess is he’d always be consistent.’

‘Well, let’s see if he had anything worth nicking.’

They walked into the living room. It was crammed to bursting with furniture and nick-nacks, some modern, a lot looking like they’d been handed down the generations. But though overfilled, the room was neat, dust-free, with expensive-looking rugs on the floor — far from fire-damaged stock.

‘Supposing someone did come to see him,’ Gill said. ‘Maybe we should dust for prints.’

‘Definitely maybe. Get forensics on to it first thing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

They kept their hands in their pockets as they walked through the room: the reflex to touch things was always strong.

‘No signs of a struggle, and nothing looks like it’s been put back in the wrong place.’

‘Agreed.’

Past the living room there was another, shorter hallway, leading to a guest bedroom and what had probably once been the lounge: only used when visitors called. Fergus McLure had turned it into an office. There was paperwork everywhere, and on a fold-out dining table sat a new-looking computer.

‘I suppose someone’s going to have to go through this lot,’ Gill said, not relishing the task.

‘I hate computers,’ Rebus said. He had noticed a fat notepad beside the keyboard. He slipped a hand from his pocket and picked it up by its edges, angling it into the light. There were indents in the paper from the last written sheet. Gill came over to see.

‘Don’t tell me.’

‘Can’t make it out, and I don’t think the pencil trick would help.’

They looked at one another, spoke their thoughts together.

‘Howdenhall.’

‘Check the bins next?’ Gill said.

‘You do it, I’ll look upstairs.’

Rebus went back into the front hall, saw more doors, tried them: a small old-fashioned kitchen, family pictures on the walls; a toilet; a box room. He climbed the stairs, his feet sinking into deep-pile carpeting which muffled all sound. It was a quiet house; Rebus got the feeling it had been quiet even when McLure had been there. Another guest bedroom, large bathroom — unmodernised like the kitchen — and main bedroom. Rebus gave his attention to the usual places: beneath the bed, mattress and pillows; bedside cabinets, chest of drawers, wardrobe. Everything was obsessively arranged: cardigans folded just so and layered by colour; slippers and shoes in a row — all the browns together, then the blacks. There was a small bookcase boasting an uninspired collection: histories of carpets and Eastern art; a photographic tour of the vineyards of France.

A life without complications.

Either that or the dirt on Feardie Fergie was elsewhere.

‘Found anything?’ Gill called up the stairs. Rebus walked back along the corridor.

‘No, but you might want to have someone check his business premises.’

‘First thing tomorrow.’

Rebus came back down. ‘What about you?’

‘Nothing. Just what you’d expect to find in bins. Nothing saying, “Dope deal, two-thirty Friday at the carpet auction”.’

‘Pity,’ Rebus said with a smile. He checked his watch. ‘Fancy another drink?’

Gill shook her head, stretched. ‘I’d better get home. It’s been a long day.’

Another long day.’

‘Another long day.’ She angled her head and looked at him. ‘What about you? Are you heading off for another drink?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you drink more than you used to.’

‘Meaning?’

Her look was intent. ‘Meaning I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘So how much should I drink, doctor?’

‘Don’t take it like that.’

‘How do you know how much I drink? Who’s been squealing?’

‘We went out last night, remember?’

‘I only had two or three whiskies.’

‘And after I left?’

Rebus swallowed. ‘Straight home to bed.’

She smiled sadly. ‘You liar. And you were back at it first thing: a patrol car saw you leaving that pub behind Waverley.’

‘I’m under surveillance!’

‘There are people out there who’re worried about you, that’s all.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ Rebus threw open the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I need a fucking drink. You can come if you like.’

10

As he drove into Arden Street, he saw a group of people outside the main door to his tenement. They were shuffling their feet and cracking jokes, trying to keep morale up. One or two were eating chips from newspaper — a nice irony, since they had the look of reporters.

‘Shit.’

Rebus drove past and kept going, watching in his rearview. There was nowhere to park anyway. He turned right at the junction, then next left, and ended up in a parking space outside Thirlestane Baths. He turned off the ignition and punched the steering-wheel a few times. He could always drive away, maybe head for the M90, race up to Dundee and back, but he didn’t feel like it. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the blood pound through him, a rushing noise in his ears.

‘Let’s do it,’ he said, getting out of the car. He walked down Marchmont Crescent to his chippie, then headed home, feeling the fried fat burning his palm through the layers of paper. He took his time walking up Arden Street itself. They weren’t expecting him to be on foot, and he was almost on them before someone recognised him.

There was a camera crew, too: Redgauntlet — cameraman, Kayleigh Burgess, and Eamonn Breen. Caught on the hop, Breen flicked a cigarette on to the road and grabbed his microphone. The videocam had a spot attached. Spotlights always made you squint, which in turn made you look guilty, so Rebus kept his eyes nice and wide.

A journalist got in the first question.

‘Inspector, any comment on the Spaven inquiry?’

‘Is it true the case is being reopened?’

‘How did you feel when you heard Lawson Geddes had killed himself?’

At that question, Rebus glanced towards Kayleigh Burgess, who had the grace to look down at the pavement. He was halfway up the path now, only feet from the tenement’s main door, but surrounded by reporters. It was like wading through broth. He stopped and turned to face them.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I have a short statement I’d like to make.’

They looked at each other, eyes registering surprise, then held out their tape recorders. A couple of older hacks near the back, who’d been here too often to raise any enthusiasm, were using pen and notepad.

The noise died down. Rebus held his wrapped package aloft.

‘On behalf of the chip-eaters of Scotland, I’d like to thank you for providing our nightly wrappings.’

He was inside the door before they could think of anything to say.

In the flat, he left the lights off and walked over to the living-room window, peering down on to the scene outside. A few of the reporters were shaking their heads, calling in on mobile phones to see if they’d be allowed home. One or two were already making for their cars. Eamonn Breen was talking to camera, looking full of himself as usual. One of the younger journalists raised two fingers above Breen’s head, turning them into rabbit’s ears.

Looking across the road, Rebus saw a man standing against a parked car, arms folded. He was gazing up at Rebus’s window, a smile on his face. He unfolded his arms long enough to give Rebus a silent round of applause, then got into his car and started the engine.

Jim Stevens.

Rebus turned back into the room, switched on an Anglepoise lamp, sat down in his chair to eat the chips. But he still didn’t have much of an appetite. He was wondering who had leaked the story to the vultures. The CC Rider had only told him this afternoon, and he’d told no one except Brian Holmes and Gill Templer. The answering machine was blinking furiously: four messages. He managed to work the machine without recourse to the manual, and was feeling pleased until he heard the Glaswegian accent.

‘Inspector Rebus, it’s CI Ancram here.’ Brisk and businesslike. ‘Just to let you know I’ll probably arrive in Edinburgh tomorrow to get the inquiry underway, sooner we start, sooner it’ll be over with. Best for all concerned, eh? I did leave a message at Craigmillar for you to phone me, but you don’t seem to have been around to act on it.’

‘Thank you and good night,’ Rebus growled.

Beep. Message two.

‘Inspector, it’s me again. It would be very useful to know your planned movements for the next week or so, just to maximise my time effectively. If you could type out as full a breakdown as possible, I’d appreciate it.’

‘I feel like I’m having a fucking breakdown.’

He went back to the window. They were clearing off. The Redgauntlet camera was being loaded into the estate car. Message three. At the sound of the voice, Rebus turned slack-jawed to watch the machine.

‘Inspector, the inquiry will be based at Fettes. I’ll probably bring one of my own men with me, but otherwise will utilise officers and civilian staff from Fettes. So as from tomorrow morning you can contact me there.’

Rebus walked over to the machine and stared down at it, daring it... daring it...

Beep. Message four.

‘Two tomorrow afternoon for our first meeting, Inspector. Let me know if this —’

Rebus snatched up the machine and flung it at the wall. The lid flew open, ejecting the tape.

His doorbell rang.

He checked through the spyhole. Could not believe it. Opened the door wide.

Kayleigh Burgess took a step back. ‘Christ, you look fierce.’

‘I feel fierce. What the hell do you want?’

She brought a hand from behind her back, showing a bottle of Macallan. ‘Peace offering,’ she said.

Rebus looked at the bottle, then at her. ‘Is this your idea of entrapment?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Any microphones or cameras about your person?’

She shook her head. Strands of curling brown hair came to rest against her cheeks and the sides of her eyes. Rebus stepped back into the hall.

‘Lucky for you I’ve a drouth on me,’ he said.

She walked ahead of him into the living room, giving him the chance to study her body. It was every bit as tidy as Feardie Fergie’s house.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about your tape machine. Send me the bill, I mean it.’

She shrugged, then saw the answering machine. ‘What is it with you and technology?’

‘Ten seconds, and already the questions have started. Wait here, I’ll get the glasses.’ He went into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, then gathered up the press cuttings and newspapers from the table, flinging them into a cupboard. He rinsed two glasses, and took his time drying them, staring at the wall above the sink. What was she after? Information, naturally. Gill’s face came into his mind. She’d asked him for a favour, and a man had died. As for Kayleigh Burgess... maybe she’d been responsible for Geddes’ suicide. He took the glasses through. She was crouched in front of the hi-fi, studying album spines.

‘I’ve never owned a record player,’ she said.

‘I hear they’re the next big thing.’ He opened the Macallan and poured. ‘I’ve no ice, though I could probably chip a block off the inside of the freezer.’

She stood up, took her glass from him. ‘Neat’s fine.’

She was wearing tight black denims, faded at bum and knees, and a denim jacket with fleece lining. Her eyes, he noticed, were slightly bulbous, her eyebrows arched — natural, he thought, not plucked. Sculpted cheekbones, too.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

She sat on the sofa, legs slightly apart, elbows on knees, holding the drink up to her face.

‘It’s not your first today, is it?’ she asked him.

He sipped, put the glass on the arm of his chair. ‘I can stop any time I want.’ He held his arms wide. ‘See?’

She smiled, drank, watching him above the rim of the glass. He tried to read the signals: coquette, minx, relaxed, sharp-eyed, calculating, amused...

‘Who tipped you off about the inquiry?’ he asked.

‘You mean who tipped the media in general, or me personally?’

‘Whichever.’

‘I don’t know who started the story, but one journalist told another and it spread from there. A friend of mine on Scotland on Sunday phoned me; she knew we were covering the Spaven case already.’

Rebus was thinking: Jim Stevens, standing on the sideline like the team manager. Stevens, Glasgow-based. Chick Ancram, Glasgow-based. Ancram knowing Rebus and Stevens went way back, spilling the story...

Bastard. No wonder he hadn’t invited Rebus to call him Chick.

‘I can almost hear the cogs turning.’

A thin smile. ‘Pieces falling into place.’ He reached for the bottle — had left it within grabbing distance. Kayleigh Burgess rested against the back of the sofa, sliding her legs under her, looking around.

‘Nice room. Big.’

‘It needs redecorating.’

She nodded. ‘Cornices for definite, maybe around the window. I’d turf that out though.’ She was referring to a painting above the fireplace: a fishing-boat in a harbour. ‘Where’s it supposed to be?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Somewhere that’s never existed.’ He didn’t like the painting either, but couldn’t conceive of throwing it out.

‘You could strip the door,’ she went on, ‘it’d come up well from the look of it.’ She saw his look. ‘I’ve just bought my own place in Glasgow.’

‘Nice for you.’

‘The ceilings are too high for my liking, but —’ His tone of voice caught her. She stopped.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m a bit rusty on chit-chat.’

‘But not on irony.’

‘I get plenty of practice. How’s the programme going?’

‘I thought you didn’t want to discuss it.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Got to be more interesting than DIY.’ He got up to refill her glass.

‘It’s going OK.’ She looked up at him; he kept his eyes on her glass. ‘Be better if you agreed to be interviewed.’

‘No.’ He went back to his chair.

‘No,’ she echoed. ‘Well, with you or without you, the programme will go out. It’s already scheduled. Have you read Mr Spaven’s book?’

‘I’m not a great one for fiction.’

She turned to stare at the piles of books near the hi-fi. They called him a liar.

‘I’ve seldom met a prisoner who didn’t profess his or her innocence,’ Rebus went on. ‘It’s a survival mechanism.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a miscarriage of justice either?’

‘I’ve seen plenty. But the thing is, usually the “miscarriage” was that the criminal was getting away with it. The whole legal system is a miscarriage of justice.’

‘Can I quote you on that?’

‘This conversation is strictly off the record.’

‘You’re supposed to make that clear before you say anything.’

He wagged a finger at her. ‘Off the record.’

She nodded, raised her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to off the record remarks.’

Rebus put his glass to his lips, but didn’t drink. The whisky was loosening him up, mixing with the exhaustion and a brain that seemed full to bursting. A dangerous cocktail. He knew he’d have to be more careful, starting straight away.

‘Want some music?’ he asked.

‘Is that a subtle change of subject?’

‘Questions, questions.’ He went over to the hi-fi, slotted in a tape of Meddle.

‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘Pink Floyd.’

‘Oh, I like them. Is it a new album?’

‘Not exactly.’

He got her talking about her job, how she got into it, her life all the way back to childhood. Now and again she asked a question about his past, but he’d shake his head and lead her back into her own story.

She needs a break, he thought, as in a rest. But she was obsessed with her job, maybe this was as close as she could allow herself to come to a respite: she was with him, so it counted as work. It came down to guilt again, guilt and the work ethic. He thought of a story: World War One, Christmastime, the opposing sides emerging from their trenches to shake hands, play a game of football, then back into the trenches, picking up their guns again...

After an hour and four whiskies, she was lying on the sofa with one hand behind her head, the other resting on her stomach. She’d taken her jacket off, and was wearing a white sweatshirt beneath. She’d rolled the sleeves up. The lamplight made golden filaments of the hairs on her arms.

‘Better get a taxi...’ she said quietly, Tubular Bells in the background. ‘Who’s this again?’

Rebus didn’t say anything. There was no need to: she was asleep. He could wake her, help her into a taxi. He could drive her home, Glasgow under an hour away at this time of night. But instead he covered her with his duvet, left the music on so low he could barely hear Viv Stanshall’s intros. He sat in his chair by the window, a coat covering him. The gas fire was on, warming the room. He’d wait till she woke up in her own time. Then he’d offer a taxi or his services as driver. Let her choose.

He had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of planning. He had an idea about tomorrow and Ancram and the inquiry. He was turning it, shaping it, adding layers. A lot of thinking to do...


He awoke to streetlamp sodium and the feeling that he hadn’t been asleep long, looked at the sofa and saw Kayleigh had gone. He was about to close his eyes again when he noticed her denim jacket still lying on the floor where she’d thrown it.

He got up from the chair, still groggy and suddenly not wanting to be. The hall light was on. The kitchen door was open. The light was on in there too...

She was standing by the table, paracetamol in one hand, a glass of water in the other. The newspaper clippings were spread in front of her. She started when she saw him, then looked at the table.

‘I was looking for coffee, thought it might sober me up. I found these instead.’

‘Casework,’ Rebus said simply.

‘I didn’t know you were attached to the Johnny Bible inquiry.’

‘I’m not.’ He gathered up the sheets and put them back in the cupboard. ‘There isn’t any coffee, I’ve run out.’

‘Water’s fine.’ She swallowed the tablets.

‘Hangover?’

She gulped water, shook her head. ‘I think maybe I can head it off.’ She looked at him. ‘I wasn’t snooping, it’s important to me that you believe that.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘If it finds its way into the programme, we’ll both know.’

‘Why the interest in Johnny Bible?’

‘No reason.’ He saw she couldn’t accept that. ‘It’s hard to explain.’

‘Try me.’

‘I don’t know... call it the end of innocence.’

He drank a couple of glasses of water, let her wander back into the living room by herself. She came out again with her jacket on, pulling her hair out from behind the collar.

‘I’d better go.’

‘Do you want me to run you somewhere?’ She shook her head. ‘What about the bottle?’

‘Maybe we can finish it another time.’

‘I can’t guarantee it’ll still be here.’

‘I can live with that.’ She walked to the front door, opened it, turned back towards him.

‘Did you hear about the drowning in Ratho?’

‘Yes,’ he said, face expressionless.

‘Fergus McLure, I interviewed him recently.’

‘Really?’

‘He was a friend of Spaven.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘No? Funny, he told me you pulled him in for questioning during the original case. Anything to say to that, Inspector?’ She smiled coldly. ‘Thought not.’

He locked the door and heard her walking downstairs, then went back into the living room and stood beside the window, looking down. She turned right, heading for The Meadows and a taxi. There was one light on across the road; no sign of Stevens’ car. Rebus fixed his eyes on his own reflection. She knew about the Spaven-McLure connection, knew Rebus had interviewed McLure. It was just the kind of ammo Chick Ancram needed. Rebus’s reflection stared back at him, mockingly calm. It took all his willpower to stop him punching out the glass.

11

Rebus was on the run — moving target and all that — morning hangover failing to slow him down. He’d packed first thing, a suitcase only half full, left his pager lying on the mantelpiece. The garage where he usually had his MOT done managed to give the Saab a once-over: tyre pressure, oil level. Fifteen minutes for fifteen quid. Only problem they found, the steering was slack.

‘So’s my driving,’ Rebus told them.

He had calls to make, but avoiding his flat, Fort Apache, or any other cop-shop. He thought of the early-opening pubs, but they were like offices — he was known to work out of them. Too big a chance that Ancram would find him. So he used his local launderette, shaking his head at the offer of a service wash — ten per cent discount this week. A ‘promotional offer’. Since when did launderettes need promotional offers?

He used the change machine to turn a five-pound note into coins, got coffee and a chocolate biscuit from another machine, and dragged a chair over to the wall-phone. First call: Brian Holmes at his house, a final red card on the ‘investigation’. No answer. He didn’t leave a message. Second call: Holmes at work. He disguised his voice and listened to a young DC tell him Brian was a no-show so far.

‘Is there any message?’

Rebus put down the receiver without saying anything. Maybe Brian was working from home on the ‘investigation’, not answering the phone. It was possible. Third call: Gill Templer at her office.

‘DCI Templer speaking.’

‘It’s John.’ Rebus looked around the launderette. Two customers with their faces in magazines. Soft motor sound of washers and tumble driers. The smell of fabric conditioner. The manageress was loading powder into a machine. Radio on in the background: ‘Double Barrel’, Dave & Ansel Collins. Idiot lyric.

‘You want an update?’

‘Why else would I be phoning?’

‘You’re a smooth operator, DI Rebus.’

‘Tell that to Sade. What have you done about Fergie?’

‘The notepad’s at Howdenhall, no result yet. A forensic team is going into the house today, checking for prints and anything else. They wondered why they were needed.’

‘You didn’t tell them?’

‘I pulled rank. After all, that’s what it’s for.’

Rebus smiled. ‘What about the computer?’

‘I’m going back there this afternoon, look through the disks myself. I’ll also question the neighbours about visitors, strange cars, all that.’

‘And Fergie’s business premises?’

‘I’m off to his salesroom in half an hour. How am I doing?’

‘So far, I can’t complain.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ll phone you later, see how it’s going.’

‘You sound funny.’

‘Funny how?’

‘Like you’re up to something.’

‘I’m not the type. Bye, Gill.’

Next call: Fort Apache, direct line to the Shed. Maclay picked up.

‘Hello, Heavy,’ Rebus said. ‘Any messages for me?’

‘Are you kidding? I need asbestos mitts for this phone.’

‘DCI Ancram?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘ESP. I’ve been trying to reach him.’

‘Where are you anyway?’

‘Laid low, flu or something.’

‘You don’t sound too bad.’

‘I’m putting on a brave face.’

‘Are you at home?’

‘At a friend’s. She’s nursing me.’

‘Oh aye? Tell me more.’

‘Not just now, Heavy. Look, if Ancram phones again...’

‘Which he will.’

‘Tell him I’m trying to reach him.’

‘Does your Florence Nightingale have a number?’

But Rebus had hung up. He called his own flat, checking the answerphone was still working after the abuse he’d given it. There were two messages, both from Ancram.

‘Give me a break,’ Rebus said under his breath. Then he finished his coffee and ate the chocolate biscuit, and sat there staring at the windows of the tumble driers. His head felt like he was inside one, looking out.


He made two more calls — T-Bird Oil and Grampian CID — then decided to take a quick run out to Brian Holmes’s, chancing that Nell wouldn’t be there. It was a narrow terraced house, a nice size for two people. There was a tiny patch of garden out front, in desperate need of work. Hanging baskets were sited either side of the door, gasping for water. He’d thought Nell a keen gardener.

No one answered the door. He went to the window and looked in. They didn’t have net curtains; some younger couples didn’t bother these days. The living room was a bomb-site, the floor littered with newspapers and magazines, food wrappings, plates and mugs and empty pint glasses. The wastepaper-bin was spilling beer cans. The TV played to an empty room: daytime soap, a tanned couple face to face. They looked more convincing when you couldn’t hear them.

Rebus decided to ask next door. A toddler opened the door to him.

‘Hiya, cowboy, is your mum in?’

A young woman was coming from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ Rebus said. ‘I was looking for Mr Holmes, he lives next door.’

She looked out of the door. ‘His car’s gone, he always has the same spot.’ She pointed to where Rebus’s Saab was parked.

‘You haven’t seen his wife this morning, have you?’

‘Not for ages,’ the woman said. ‘She used to drop by with sweets for Damon.’ She rubbed the kid’s hair. He shrugged her off and galloped back into the house.

‘Well, thanks anyway,’ Rebus said.

‘He should be back this evening, he doesn’t go out much.’

Rebus nodded. He was still nodding when he got to his car. He sat in the driver’s seat, hands rubbing the wheel. She’d walked out on him. How long ago? Why hadn’t the stubborn sod said anything? Oh sure, cops were famous for releasing their emotions, talking out their personal crises, Rebus himself a case in point.

He drove to the warehouse: no sign of Holmes, but the clerical clerk said he’d been working right up until closing time last night.

‘Did he look like he was finished?’

The clerk shook his head. ‘Said he’d see me today.’

Rebus thought about leaving a message, decided he couldn’t risk it. He got back into the car and drove.

He drove through Pilton and Muirhouse, didn’t want to cut too early on to the busy Queensferry Road. Traffic wasn’t bad heading out of town — at least it was moving. He got change ready for the toll at the Forth Bridge.

He was going north. Not just to Dundee this trip. He was going to Aberdeen. He didn’t know if he was running away, or heading for a confrontation.

No reason it couldn’t be both. Cowards made good heroes sometimes. He stuck a tape into the cassette player. Robert Wyatt, Rock Bottom.

‘Been there, Bob,’ he said. And later: ‘Cheer up, it might never happen.’

Saying which he switched tapes. Deep Purple playing ‘Into the Fire’. The car accelerated just enough.

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