Ian Rankin - Black and Blue

‘I hate this room,’ Jack said as Rebus closed the door.

‘So does everyone else by the look of things. Long tea-breaks and other business to attend to.’

‘Half the force weren’t alive when Bible John was on the go. He’s lost any sort of meaning.’

‘They’ll be telling their grandkids about Johnny Bible though.’

‘True enough.’ Jack paused. ‘Are you going to do it?’

Rebus saw mat his hand was lying on the receiver. He picked it up, punched in the numbers. ‘Did you doubt me?’ he asked.

‘Not for a minute.’

The voice that answered was gruff, unwelcoming. Not Uncle Joe, not Stanley. One of the body-builders. Rebus gave as good as he got.

‘Malky there?’

Hesitation: only his close friends called him Malky. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘Tell him it’s Johnny.’ Rebus paused. ‘From Aberdeen.’

‘Haud on.’ Clatter as the receiver was dropped on to a hard surface. Rebus listened closely, heard television voices, game-show applause. Watching: Uncle Joe maybe, or Eve. Stanley wouldn’t like game-shows; he’d never get a question right.

‘Phone!’ the body-builder called.

A long wait. Then a distant voice: ‘Who is it?’

‘Johnny.’

‘Johnny? Johnny who?’ The voice closer.

‘From Aberdeen.’

The receiver was picked up. ‘Hello?’

Rebus took a deep breath. ‘For your own sake you better sound natural. I know about you and Eve, know what you’ve been up to in Aberdeen. So if you want to keep it quiet, sound natural. Don’t want Muscle Man to get even the slightest suspicion.’

A rustling sound, Stanley turning away for privacy, tucking the phone into his chin.

‘So what’s the story?’

‘You’ve got a nice scam going, and I don’t want to fuck it up unless I have to, so don’t do anything that would make me do that. Understood?’

‘No bother.’ The voice was not used to attempting levity when its brain demanded bloody restitution.

‘You’re doing all right, Stanley. Eve’ll be proud of you. Now we need to talk, not just you and me, the three of us.’

‘My dad?’

‘Eve.’

‘Oh, right.’ Calming again. ‘Eh... no problem with that.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Eh... OK.’

‘Partick police station.’

‘Wait a minute...’

‘That’s the deal. Just to talk. You’re not walking into anything. If you’re worried, keep your gob shut until you hear the deal. If you don’t like it, you can walk. You won’t have said anything, so there’s nothing to fear. No charges, no tricks. It’s not you I’m interested in. Are we still on?’

‘I’m not sure. Can I call you back?’

‘I need a yes or no right now. If it’s no, you might as well pass me across to your dad.’

Condemned men laughed with more humour. ‘Look, for myself, there’s no problem. But there are other parties involved.’

‘Just tell Eve what I’ve told you. If she won’t come, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. I’ll get some visitors’ passes for you. False names.’ Rebus looked down at a book open in front of him, found two straight off. ‘William Pritchard and Madeleine Smith. Can you remember that?’

‘I think so.’

‘Repeat them.’

‘William... something.’

‘Pritchard.’

‘And Maggie Smith.’

‘Close enough. I know you can’t just sneak off, so we’ll leave the time open. Get here when you can. And if you start thinking of bottling it, just remember all those bank accounts and how lonely they’ll be without you.’

Rebus put down the phone. His hand was hardly trembling.

They notified the front desk and got visitors’ passes made up, and after that there was nothing to do but wait. Jack said the room felt cold and musty at the same time; he had to get out. He suggested the canteen or a corridor or anywhere, but Rebus shook his head.

‘You go. I think I’ll stay here, see if I can decide what to say to Bonnie and Clyde. Bring me back a coffee and maybe a filled roll.’ Jack nodded. ‘Oh, and a bottle of whisky.’ Jack looked at him. Rebus smiled.

He tried to remember his last drink. He recalled standing in the Ox with two glasses and a packet of cigs. But before that... Wine with Gill?

Jack had said the room was cold; it felt stifling to Rebus. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Then he wandered around the office, peering into desk drawers and grey cardboard boxes.

He saw: interview transcripts, their covers faded and curling at the edges; hand-written reports; typed reports; evidence summaries; maps, mostly hand-drawn; duty logs; ream after ream of witness statements — descriptions of the man seen in the Barrowland Ballroom. Then there were the photographs, matt black and whites, ten by eight and smaller. The Ballroom itself, interior and exterior. It looked more modern than the word ‘ballroom’ conjured up, reminded Rebus a bit of his old school — flat building panels with the occasional window. Three spots sat atop a concrete canopy, pointing up towards the windows and the sky. And on the canopy itself — a useful shelter from the rain while you were waiting either to be admitted or, afterwards, for your lift — the words ‘Barrowland Ballroom’ and ‘Dancing’. Most of the exterior pictures had been taken on a wet afternoon, women caught on the periphery with plastic rain-mates, men in bunnets and long coats. More photographs: police frogmen searching the river; the loci, CID in their trademark pork-pie hats and raincoats — a back lane, the back court of a tenement, another back court. Typical locations for a cuddle and a feel-up, maybe going a wee bit further. Too far for the victims. There was a photo of Superintendent Joe Beattie, holding out an artist’s impression of Bible John. Looking between the portrait and Beattie, the men’s expressions seemed similar. Several members of the public had commented on it. Mackeith Street and Earl Street — victims two and three were killed on the streets where they lived. He’d taken them so close to their homes: why? So they’d relax their defences? Or had he been vacillating, putting off the attacks? Nervous to ask for a kiss and a cuddle, or just plain scared and with his conscience battling his deep desire? The files were full of such aimless speculation, and more structured theories from professional psychologists and psychiatrists. In the end they’d been as helpful as Croiset the psychic detective.

Rebus thought of meeting Aldous Zane in this very room. Zane had been in the papers again — he’d inspected the latest locus, given the same rambling spiel, and been flown home. Rebus wondered what Jim Stevens was up to now. He remembered Zane’s handshake, the way it had tingled. And Zane’s impressions of Bible John — though Stevens had been present, the paper hadn’t bothered printing them. A trunk in the attic of a modern house. Well, Rebus could have come up with better than that himself, if some paper had put him up in a posh hotel.

Lumsden had put him up in a posh hotel, probably thinking CID would never know. Lumsden had tried to get pally with him, telling him they were alike, showing Rebus that he had stature in the city — free meals and drinks, free entrance to Burke’s Club. He’d been testing Rebus, seeing how open he’d be to a bung. But at whose behest? The club’s owners? Or Uncle Joe himself...?

More photos. There seemed no end to them. It was the onlookers who interested Rebus, the people who didn’t know they’d been snapped for posterity. A woman in high heels, good legs — all you could see of her were heels and legs, the rest hidden behind a WPC taking part in a reconstruction. Woolly suits searching the back courts off Mackeith Street, looking for the victim’s handbag. The courts looked like bomb-sites — drying-poles poking up out of stunted grass and rubble. Roadside motor cars: Zephyrs, Hillman Imps, Zodiacs. A world ago. A bundle of posters sat in one box, the rubber band long ago perished. Photofits of Bible John along with varying descriptions: ‘Speaks with a polite Glasgow accent and has an erect posture’. Very helpful. The phone number of the inquiry HQ. They’d received thousands of phone calls, boxes of them. Brief details of every one, with more detailed back-up notes if the call seemed worth checking.