by Ian Rankin
‘How did you know?’
‘Tony El’s trademark. So he’s back in circulation, eh? Inspector, I think you and me better have a talk. Monday morning, can you find Govan station? No, wait, make it Partick, 613 Dumbarton Road. I’ve a meeting there at nine. Can we say ten?’
‘Ten’s fine.’
‘See you then.’
Rebus put down the telephone. ‘Monday morning at ten,’ he told Bain. ‘I’m off to Partick.’
‘You poor bastard,’ Bain replied, sounding like he meant it.
‘Want us to put out Tony El’s description?’ Maclay asked.
‘Pronto. Let’s see if we can lassoo him before Monday.’
Bible John flew back into Scotland on a fine Friday morning. The first thing he did at the airport was pick up some newspapers. In the kiosk, he saw that a new book had been published on World War Two, so bought that too. Sitting in the concourse, he flicked through the newspapers, finding no new stories concerning the Upstart. He left the papers on his seat and went to the carousel, where his luggage was waiting.
A taxi took him into Glasgow. He had already decided not to stay in the city. It wasn’t that he had anything to fear from his old hunting-ground, but that a stay there would bring little profit. Of necessity, Glasgow brought back bittersweet memories. In the late sixties, it had been reinventing itself: knocking down old slums, building their concrete equivalents on the outskirts. New roads, bridges, motorways – the place had been an enormous building site. He got the feeling the process was still ongoing, as if the city still hadn’t acquired an identity it could be comfortable with.
A problem Bible John knew something about.
From Queen Street station, he took a train to Edinburgh, and used his cellphone to reserve a room at his usual hotel, placing it on his corporate account. He called his wife to tell her where he’d be. He had his laptop with him, and did some work on the train. Work soothed him; a busy brain was best. Go therefore now, and work; for there shall no straw be given you, yet shall ye deliver the tale of bricks. The Book of Exodus. The media back then had done him a favour, and so had the police. They’d issued a description saying his first name was John and he was ‘fond of quoting from the Bible’. Neither was particularly true: his middle name was John, and he had only occasionally quoted aloud from the good book. In recent years, he’d started attending church again, but now regretted it, regretted thinking he was safe.
There was no safety in this world, just as there would be none in the next.
He left the train at Haymarket – in summer it was easier to catch a taxi there – but when he stepped out into sunshine, he decided to walk to the hotel: it was only five or ten minutes away. His case had wheels, and his shoulder-bag was not particularly heavy. He breathed deeply: traffic fumes and a hint of brewery hops. Tired of squinting, he paused to put on sunglasses, and immediately liked the world better. Catching his reflection in a shop window he saw just another businessman tired of travelling. There was nothing memorable about either face or figure, and the clothes were always conservative: a suit from Austin Reed, shirt by Double 2. A well-dressed and successful businessman. He checked the knot of his tie, and ran his tongue over the only two false teeth in his head – necessary surgery from a quarter-century before. Like everyone else, he crossed the road at the lights.
Check-in at his hotel took a matter of moments. He sat at the room’s small circular table and opened his laptop, plugging it into the mains, changing the adaptor from 110v to 240. He used his password, then double-clicked on the file marked UPSTART. Inside were his notes on Johnny Bible so-called, his own psychological profile of the killer. It was building nicely.
Bible John reflected that he had something the authorities didn’t have: inside knowledge of how a serial killer worked, thought and lived, the lies he had to tell, the guile and disguises, the secret life behind the everyday face. It put him ahead in the game. With any luck, he’d get to Johnny Bible before the police did.
He had avenues to follow. One: from his working habits, it was clear the Upstart had prior knowledge of the Bible John case. How did he gain this knowledge? The Upstart was in his twenties, too young to remember Bible John. Therefore he’d heard about it somewhere, or read about it, and then had gone on to research it in some detail. There were books – some of them recent, some not – about the Bible John killings or with chapters on them. If Johnny Bible were being meticulous, he would have consulted all the available literature, but with some of the material long out of print he must have been searching secondhand bookshops, or else must have used libraries. The search was narrowing nicely.
Another connected avenue: newspapers. Again, it was unlikely the Upstart had open access to papers from a quarter century ago. That meant libraries again, and very few libraries held newspapers for that length of time. Search narrowing nicely.
Then there was the Upstart himself. Many predators made errors early on, mistakes executed due to a lack either of proper planning or of simple nerve. Bible John himself was unusual: his real mistake had come with victim three, with sharing a taxi with her sister. Were there victims around who had escaped the Upstart? That meant looking through recent newspapers, seeking out attacks on women in Aberdeen, Glasgow, Edinburgh, tracking down the killer’s false starts and early failures. It would be time-consuming work. But therapeutic, too.
He stripped and had a shower, then put on a more casual outfit: navy blazer and khaki trousers. He decided not to risk using the telephone in his room – the numbers would be logged by reception – so headed out into the sunshine. No phone boxes these days held directories, so he walked into a pub and ordered tonic water, then asked for the phone book. The barmaid – late teens, nose-stud, pink hair – handed it over with a smile. At his table, he took out notebook and pen and jotted down some numbers, then went to the back of the bar where the telephone was kept. It was next to the toilets – private enough for the purpose, especially just now with the pub all but empty. His calls were to a couple of antiquarian booksellers and three libraries. The results were, to his mind, satisfactory if by no means revelatory, but then he’d decided weeks back that this might be a drawn-out process. After all, he had self-knowledge on his side, but the police had hundreds of men and computers and a publicity machine. And they could investigate openly. He knew his own investigation into the Upstart had to be undertaken with more discretion. But he also knew he needed help, and that was risky. Involving others was always a risk. He’d considered the dilemma over long days and nights – on one side of the scales, his wish to track down the Upstart; on the other, the risk that in so doing, he would be putting himself – his identity – in danger.
So he’d asked himself a question: how badly did he want the Upstart?
And had answered it: very badly. Very badly indeed. He spent the afternoon on and around George IV Bridge – the National Library of Scotland and the Central Lending Library. He had a reader’s card for the National Library, had done research there in the past – business; plus some reading on the Second World War, his main hobby these days. He browsed in local secondhand bookshops too, asking if they had any true-life crime. He told staff the Johnny Bible murders had kindled his interest.
‘We only have half a shelf of true crime,’ the assistant in the first shop said, showing him where it was. Bible John feigned interest in the books, then returned to the assistant’s desk.
‘No, nothing there. Do you also search for books?’
‘Not as such,’ the assistant said. ‘But we keep requests …’ She pulled out a heavy old-style ledger and opened it. ‘If you put down what you’re looking for, your name and address, if we happen across the book we’ll get in touch.’
‘That’s fine.’
Bible John took out his pen, wrote slowly, checking recent requests. He flicked back a page, eyes running down the list of titles and subjects.
‘Don’t people have such varied interests?’ he said, smiling at the assistant.
&n
bsp; He tried the same ploy at three further shops, but found no evidence of the Upstart. He then walked to the National Library’s annexe on Causewayside, where recent newspapers were kept, and browsed through a month’s worth of Scotsmans, Heralds and Press and Journals, taking notes from certain stories: assaults, rapes. Of course, even if there was an early, failed victim, it didn’t mean the attempt had gone reported. The Americans had a word for what he was doing. They called it shitwork.
Back in the National Library proper, he studied the librarians, looking for someone special. When he thought he’d found what he was looking for, he checked the library’s opening hours, and decided to wait.
At closing time, he was standing outside the National Library, sunglasses on in the mid-evening light, crawling lines of traffic separating him from the Central Library. He saw some of the staff leave, singly and in groups. Then he spotted the young man he was looking for. When the man headed down Victoria Street, Bible John crossed the road and followed. There were a lot of pedestrians about, tourists, drinkers, a few people making their way home. He became just another of them, walking briskly, his eyes on his quarry. In the Grassmarket, the young man turned into the first available pub. Bible John stopped and considered: a quick drink before heading home? Or was the librarian going to meet friends, maybe make an evening of it? He decided to go inside.
The bar was dark, noisy with office workers: men with their suit jackets draped over their shoulders, women sipping from long glasses of tonic. The librarian was at the bar, alone. Bible John squeezed in beside him and ordered an orange juice. He nodded to the librarian’s beer glass.
‘Another?’
When the young man turned to look at him, Bible John leaned close, spoke quietly.
‘Three things I want to tell you. One: I’m a journalist. Two: I want to give you £500. Three: there’s absolutely nothing illegal involved.’ He paused. ‘Now, do you want that drink?’
The young man was still staring at him. Finally he nodded.
‘Is that yes to the drink or yes to the cash?’ Bible John was smiling too.
‘The drink. You better tell me a little more about the other.’
‘It’s a boring job or I’d do it myself. Does the library keep a record of books consulted and borrowed?’
The librarian thought about it, then nodded. ‘Some computerised, some still on cards.’
‘Well, the computer will be quick, but the cards may take you a while. It’ll still be easy money, believe me. What about if someone came in to consult old newspapers?’
‘Should be on record. How long ago are we talking about?’
‘It would be in the past three to six months. The papers they’d be looking at would be from 1968 to ’70.’
He paid for two drinks with a twenty, opened his wallet so the librarian could see plenty more.
‘It might take a while,’ the young man said. ‘I’ll have to cross-reference between Causewayside and George IV Bridge.’
‘There’s another hundred if you can hurry things along.’
‘I’ll need details.’ Bible John nodded, handed over a business card. It stated name and a phony address, but no phone number.
‘Don’t try to get in touch. I’ll phone you. What’s your name?’
‘Mark Jenkins.’
‘OK, Mark.’ Bible John lifted out two fifties, tucked them into the young man’s breast pocket. ‘Here’s something on account.’
‘What’s it all about anyway?’
Bible John shrugged. ‘Johnny Bible. We’re checking a possible connection with some old cases.’
The young man nodded. ‘So what books are you interested in?’
Bible John handed him a printed list. ‘Plus newspapers. Scotsmans and Glasgow Heralds, February ’68 to December ’69.’
‘And what do you want to know?’
‘People who’ve been looking at them. I’ll need names and addresses. Can you do it?’
‘Actual newspapers are held at Causewayside, we only stock microfilm.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I may need to ask a colleague at Causewayside to help.’
Bible John smiled. ‘My paper’s not short of a bob or two, as long as we get results. How much would your friend want …?’
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?’
