by Ian Rankin
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 anti-macassars, 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 a
nd 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.
