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.
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
5
The Scots language is especially rich in words to do with the weather: ‘dreich’ and ‘smirr’ are only two of them.