No matter what the outcome.
Twenty companies to check. So far he had dismissed four possible suspects as being too old. A further seven companies were not involved in the oil industry in any way that he could see — they went to the bottom of the list. Leaving nine names. It was a slow business. He’d used guile during telephone calls to the companies’ offices, but guile would only go so far. He’d also had recourse to the telephone book, finding addresses for the names, watching their homes, waiting for a glimpse of a face. Would he know the Upstart when he saw him? He felt he would; at least, he’d recognise the type. But then Joe Beattie had said the same about Bible John — that he’d recognise him in a crowded room. As if a man’s heart showed in the creases and contours of his face, a sort of phrenology of sin.
He parked the car outside another house, called his office to check for messages. In his line of work, they expected him to be out of the office for long periods of the day, if not for days and weeks at a time. It was the perfect career, really. No messages, nothing for him to think about but the Upstart... and himself.
In the early days, he had lacked patience. This was no longer the case. This slow stalking of the Upstart would only make the final confrontation sweeter. But this thought was tempered with another: that the police could be closing in, too. After all, the information was there for them to find: it was just a matter of making the connections. So far only the Edinburgh prostitute failed to fit the pattern, but if he could connect three out of four, he’d be satisfied. He could bet, too, that once he knew the Upstart’s identity he could place him in Edinburgh at the time she was killed: hotel records maybe; or a receipt for petrol from an Edinburgh filling station... Four victims. One more already than the Bible John of the sixties. It was galling, he had to say it. It rankled.
And someone would pay for it. Very soon.
North of Hell
‘Scotland will be reborn the day the last minister
is strangled with the last copy of the Sunday Post.’
28
It was after midnight when they reached the hotel. It was situated near the airport, one of the shiny new constructions Rebus had passed on his way to T-Bird Oil. There was too much glare in the lobby, too many mirrors reflecting full-length portraits of three weary figures with meagre luggage. Maybe they would have provoked suspicion, but Eve was a regular and had a business account, so that was that.
‘It all goes through the taxi firm,’ she explained, ‘so this is my treat. Just sign out of the rooms when you’re finished, they’ll send the bill to Joe’s Cabs.’
‘Your usual rooms, Ms Cudden,’ the clerk said, handing over the keys, ‘plus one a few doors further along.’
Jack had been looking through the hotel directory. ‘Sauna, health club, weight gym. We should fit right in, John.’
‘It’s all oil execs,’ Eve said, leading them to the lifts. ‘They like that kind of thing. Keeps them fit enough to handle the hokey-cokey. And I don’t mean the dance.’
‘Do you sell everything direct to Fuller and Stemmons?’ Rebus asked.
Eve stifled a yawn. ‘You mean, do I deal myself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would I be that stupid?’
‘What about the punters — any names?’
She shook her head, smiled tiredly. ‘You never stop, do you?’
‘It takes my mind off things.’ Specifically: Bible John, Johnny Bible... out there somewhere, and maybe not so very far away...
She handed their room keys to Rebus and Jack. ‘Sleep well, boys. I’ll probably be long gone when you wake up... and I won’t be coming back.’
Rebus nodded. ‘How much will you be taking with you?’
‘About thirty-eight thou.’
‘A decent skim.’
‘Decent profits all round.’
‘How soon till Uncle Joe finds out about Stanley?’
‘Well, Malcolm won’t be in a hurry to tell him, and Joe’s used to him disappearing for a day or two on the trot... With any luck, I won’t even be in the country when the bomb goes off.’
‘You look the lucky type to me.’
They left the lift at the third floor and checked the numbers on their keys. Rebus ended up next door to Eve: Stanley’s old room. Jack was two doors further down.
Stanley’s old room was a good size and boasted what Rebus guessed were the usual corporate embellishments: mini-bar, trouser press, a little saucer of chocolates on the pillow, a bathrobe laid out on the turned-down bed. There was a notice clipped to the robe. It asked him not to take it home with him. If he wanted to, he could purchase one from the health club. ‘Thank you for being a considerate guest.’
The considerate guest made himself a cup of Café Hag. There was a price list on top of the mini-bar, detailing the delights within. He stuck it in a drawer. The wardrobe boasted a mini-safe, so he took the mini-bar key and locked it inside. Another barrier for him to get past, another chance to change his mind if he really wanted that drink.
Meantime, the coffee tasted fine. He had a shower, wrapped himself in the bathrobe, then sat on his bed and stared at the connecting door. Of course, there would have to be a connecting door: couldn’t have Stanley hopping around the corridor at all hours. There was a simple lock his side, as there would be on the other. He wondered what he would find if he unlocked the door: would Eve’s be standing open? If he knocked, would she let him in? What about if she knocked? He turned his eyes from the door, and they settled on the mini-bar. He felt peckish — there would be nuts and crisps inside. Maybe he could...? No, no, no. He turned his attention back to the connecting door, listened hard, couldn’t hear any movement from Eve’s room. Maybe she was already asleep — early start and all that. He found he wasn’t feeling tired any more. Now he was here, he wanted to get to work. He pulled open his curtains. It had started to rain, the tarmac glistening and black like the back of a huge fat beetle. Rebus pulled a chair over to the window. Wind was driving the rain, making shifting patterns in the sodium light. As he stared, the rain began to resemble smoke, billowing out of the darkness. The car park below was half full, the cars huddled like cattle while their owners stayed snug and dry.
Johnny Bible was out there, probably in Aberdeen, probably connected to the oil industry. He thought about the people he’d met these past days, everyone from Major Weir to Walt the tour guide. It was ironic that the person whose case had brought him here — Allan Mitchison — was not only connected to oil but was also the only candidate he could rule out, being long dead by the time Vanessa Holden met her killer. Rebus felt guilty about Mitchison. His case was becoming swamped by the serial killings. It was a job, something Rebus had to do. But it wasn’t wedged in his throat the way the Johnny Bible case was, something he had either to cough up or choke on.
But he wasn’t the only one with an interest in Johnny. Someone had broken into his flat. Someone had been checking library records. Someone using a false identity. Someone with something to hide. Not a reporter, not another policeman. Could Bible John really be out there still? Dormant somewhere until brought to life by Johnny Bible? Enraged by the act of imitation, by its temerity and the cold fact that it brought the original case back up into the light? Not only enraged, but feeling endangered, too — externally and internally: fear of being recognised and caught; fear of not being the bogeyman any longer.