Ian Rankin: Black and Blue

He wandered back to the CID room — the ‘Shed’. On the way, he passed Maclay and Shand, the latter still protesting his guilt as he was dragged to the cells.

‘I’m Johnny Bible! I fucking am and all!’

Not even close.

It was nine p.m. on a Tuesday in June and the only other person in the Shed was Detective Sergeant ‘Dod’ Bain. He glanced up from his magazine — Offbeat , the L&B newsletter — and Rebus shook his head.

‘Thought not,’ Bain said, turning a page. ‘Craw’s notorious for grassing himself up, that’s why I left him to you.’

‘You’ve as much heart as a carpet tack.’

‘But I’m as sharp as one, too. Don’t forget that.’

Rebus sat at his desk and considered writing his report of the interview. Another comedian, another waste of time. And still Johnny Bible was out there.

First there had been Bible John, terrorising Glasgow in the late 1960s. A well-dressed young man with reddish hair, who knew his Bible and frequented the Barrowland Ballroom. He picked up three women there, beat them, raped them, strangled them. Then he disappeared, right in the middle of Glasgow’s biggest manhunt, and never resurfaced, the case open to this day. Police had a cast-iron description of Bible John from the sister of his last victim. She’d spent close on two hours in his company, shared a taxi with him even. They’d dropped her off; her sister had waved goodbye through the back window... Her description hadn’t helped.

And now there was Johnny Bible. The media had been quick with the name. Three women: beaten, raped, strangled. That was all they’d needed to make the comparison. Two of the women had been picked up at nightclubs, discos. There were vague descriptions of a man who’d been seen dancing with the victims. Well-dressed, shy. It clicked with the original Bible John. Only Bible John, supposing he were still alive, would be in his fifties, while this new killer was described as mid-to-late twenties. Therefore: Johnny Bible, spiritual son of Bible John.

There were differences, of course, but the media didn’t dwell on those. For one thing, Bible John’s victims had all been dancing at the same dancehall; Johnny Bible ranged far and wide through Scotland in his hunt for victims. This had led to the usual theories: he was a long-distance lorry driver; a company rep. Police were ruling nothing out. It might even be Bible John himself, back after a quarter century away, the mid-to-late twenties description flawed — it had happened before with apparently watertight eyewitness testimony. They were also keeping a few things quiet about Johnny Bible — just as they had with Bible John. It helped rule out the dozens of fake confessions.

Rebus had barely started his report when Maclay swayed into the room. That was the way he walked, from side to side, not because he was drunk or drugged but because he was seriously overweight, a metabolism thing. There was something wrong with his sinuses too; his breathing often came in laboured wheezes, his voice a blunt plane against the grain of the wood. His station nickname was ‘Heavy’.

‘Escorted Craw from the premises?’ Bain asked.

Maclay nodded towards Rebus’s desk. ‘Wants him charged for wasting our time.’

‘Now that’s what I call a waste of time.’

Maclay swayed in Rebus’s direction. His hair was jet black, ringed with slick kiss-curls. He’d probably won Bonniest Bairn prizes, but not for a while.

‘Come on,’ he said.

Rebus shook his head and kept typing.

‘Fuck’s sake.’

‘Fuck him,’ Bain said, getting to his feet. He unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair. To Maclay: ‘Drinkie?’

Maclay wheezed out a long sigh. ‘Just the job.’

Rebus held his breath until they’d gone. Not that he’d been expecting to be asked along. That was their whole point. He stopped typing and reached into his bottom drawer for the Lucozade bottle, unscrewed the cap, sniffed forty-three percent malt and poured in a mouthful. With the bottle back in its drawer, he popped a mint into his mouth.

Better. ‘I can see clearly now’: Marvin Gaye.

He yanked the report from the typewriter and crumpled it into a ball, then called the desk, told them to hold Craw Shand an hour, then release him. He’d just put down the phone when it started ringing.

‘DI Rebus.’

‘It’s Brian.’

Brian Holmes, Detective Sergeant, still based at St Leonard’s. They kept in touch. His voice tonight was toneless.

‘Problem?’

Holmes laughed, no humour. ‘I’ve got the world’s supply.’

‘So tell me the latest.’ Rebus opened the packet one-handed, in mouth and lit.

‘I don’t know that I can, with you being in shit.’

‘Craigmillar’s not so bad.’ Rebus looked around the stale office.

‘I meant the other thing.’

‘Oh.’

‘See, I’m... I might have gotten myself into something...’

‘What’s happened?’

‘A suspect, we had him in custody. He was giving me a shit load of grief.’

‘You smacked him.’

‘That’s what he’s saying.’

‘Filed a complaint?’

‘In the process. His solicitor wants to take it all the way.’

‘Your word against his?’

‘Right.’

‘The rubber-heels will kick it out.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Or get Siobhan to cover your arse.’

‘She’s on holiday. My partner for the interview was Glamis.’

‘No good then, he’s as yellow as a New York cab.’

A pause. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it?’

‘I don’t ever want to know, understood? Who was the suspect?’

‘Mental Minto.’

‘Christ, that brewhead knows more law than the procurator-fiscal. OK, let’s go talkies.’

It was good to be out of the station. He had the car windows rolled down. The breeze was almost warm. The station-issue Escort hadn’t been cleaned in a while. There were chocolate wrappers, empty crisp bags, crushed bricks of orange juice and Ribena. The heart of the Scottish diet: sugar and salt. Add alcohol and you had heart and soul.

Minto lived in one of the tenement flats on South Clerk Street, first floor. Rebus had been there on occasions past, none of them savoury to the memory. Kerbside was solid with cars, so he double-parked. In the sky, fading roseate was fighting a losing battle with encroaching dark. And below it all, halogen orange. The street was noisy. The cinema up the road was probably emptying, and the first casualties were tearing themselves away from still-serving pubs. Night-cooking in the air: hot batter, pizza topping, Indian spice. Brian Holmes was standing outside a charity shop, hands in pockets. No car: he’d probably walked from St Leonard’s. The two men nodded a greeting.

Holmes looked tired. Just a few years ago he’d been young, fresh, keen. Rebus knew home life had taken its toll: he’d been there in his own marriage, annulled years back. Holmes’s partner wanted him out of the force. She wanted someone who spent more time with her. Rebus knew all too well what she wanted. She wanted someone whose mind was on her when he was at home, who wasn’t immersed in casework and speculation, mind games and promotion strategies. Often as a police officer you were closer to your working partner than your partner for life. When you joined CID they gave you a handshake and a piece of paper.

The piece of paper was your decree nisi .

‘Do you know if he’s up there?’ Rebus asked.

‘I phoned him. He picked up. Sounded halfway to sober.’

‘Did you say anything?’

‘Think I’m stupid?’

Rebus was looking up at the tenement windows. Ground level was shops; Minto lived above a locksmith’s. There was irony there for those who wanted it.