by Ian Rankin
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 i
nto 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 m
an 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.