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.