‘There’s too much to go on, yet not nearly enough.’ Ancram folded his arms. ‘How well does Johnny know the three cities? Did he pick the clubs at random, or did he know them to start with? Was each locus chosen beforehand? Could he be a brewery delivery-man? A DJ? Music journalist? Maybe he writes fucking travel guides for all I know.’ Ancram started a joyless laugh, and rubbed at his forehead.
‘Could always be Bible John himself,’ Rebus said.
‘Bible John’s dead and buried, Inspector.’
‘You really think so?’
Ancram nodded. He wasn’t alone. There were plenty of coppers who thought they knew who Bible John was, and knew him to be dead. But there were others more sceptical, and Rebus was among them. A DNA match probably wouldn’t have been enough to change his mind. There was always the chance that Bible John was out there.
They had a description of a man in his late twenties, but witness evidence was notoriously uneven. As a result, the original photofits and artists’ impressions of Bible John had been dusted off and put back into circulation with the media’s help. The usual psychological ploys were being used too — pleas in the press for the killer to come forward: ‘You obviously need help, and we’d like you to contact us.’ Bluff, with silence the retort.
Ancram pointed to photos on one walclass="underline" a photofit from 1970, aged by computer, beard and glasses added, the hair receding at crown and temples. They’d been made public too.
‘Could be anybody, couldn’t it?’ Ancram stated.
‘Getting to you, sir?’ Rebus was waiting for an invitation to call Ancram by his first name.
‘Of course it’s getting to me.’ Ancram’s face relaxed. ‘Why the interest?’
‘No real reason.’
‘I mean, we’re not here for Johnny Bible, are we? We’re here to talk about Uncle Joe.’
‘Ready when you are, sir.’
‘Come on then, let’s see if we can find two empty chairs in this fucking building.’
They ended up standing in the corridor, with coffee bought from a machine further along.
‘Do we know what he strangles them with?’ Rebus asked.
Ancram’s eyes widened. ‘More Johnny Bible?’ He sighed. ‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t leave much of an impression. The latest theory is a length of washing-line; you know, the nylon stuff, plastic-coated. The forensic labs have tested about two hundred possibles, everything from rope to guitar strings.’
‘What do you think about the souvenirs?’
‘I think we should go public with them. I know keeping them hush-hush helps us rule out the nutters who walk in to confess, but I honestly think we’d be better off asking the public for help. That necklace, I mean, you couldn’t get more distinctive. If someone out there has found it, or seen it... housey-housey.’
‘You’ve got a psychic working the case, haven’t you?’
Ancram looked nettled. ‘Not me personally, some arsehole further up the ranks. It’s a newspaper stunt, but the brass went for it.’
‘He hasn’t helped?’
‘We told him we needed a demonstration, asked him to predict the winner of the two-fifteen at Ayr.’
Rebus laughed. ‘And?’
‘He said he could see the letters S and P, and a jockey dressed in pink with yellow spots.’
‘That’s impressive.’
‘Thing is though, there was no two-fifteen at Ayr, or anywhere else for that matter. All this voodoo and profiling, a waste of time if you ask me.’
‘So you’ve nothing to go on?’
‘Not much. No saliva at the locus, not so much as a hair. Bastard uses a johnny, then takes it with him — wrapper included. My bet is, he wears gloves too. We’ve a few threads from a jacket or the like, forensics are still busy with them.’ Ancram raised his cup to his lips, blew on it. ‘So, Inspector, do you want to hear about Uncle Joe or not?’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘I’m beginning to wonder.’ Rebus just shrugged, so Ancram took a deep breath. ‘OK, then listen. He controls a lot of the muscle-work — and I mean that literally; he has a share in a couple of bodybuilder gyms. In fact, he has a share in just about everything that’s the least bit dodgy: money-lending, protection, prozzy pitches, betting.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Maybe. There are a lot of maybes with Uncle Joe. You’ll see that when you read the files. He’s as slippery as a Thai bath — he owns massage parlours too. Then he’s got a lot of the taxi cabs, the ones that don’t switch their meters on when you get in; or if they do, the rate-per-mile’s been hiked. The cabbies are all on the broo, claiming benefit. We’ve approached several of them, but they won’t say a word against Uncle Joe. Thing is, if the DSS start sniffing around for scroungers, the investigators receive a letter. It details where they live, spouse’s name and daily movements, kids’ names, the school they go to...’
‘I get the picture.’
‘So they start requesting a transfer to another department, and meantime go to their doctor because they’re having trouble sleeping at night.’
‘OK, Uncle Joe isn’t Glasgow’s Man of the Year. Where does he live?’
Ancram drained his cup. ‘This is a beauty. He lives in a council house. But just remember: Robert Maxwell lived in a council house, too. You have to see this place.’
‘I intend to.’
Ancram shook his head. ‘He won’t talk to you, you won’t get past the door.’
‘Want a bet?’
Ancram narrowed his eyes. ‘You sound confident.’
Jack Morton walked past them, rolling his eyes: a general comment on life. He was searching his pockets for coins. As he waited for the machine to pour his drink, he turned to them.
‘Chick, The Lobby?’
Ancram nodded. ‘One o’clock?’
‘Braw.’
‘What about associates?’ Rebus asked. He noticed Ancram hadn’t yet said he could call him by his nickname.
‘Oh, he has plenty of those. His guards are bodybuilders, hand-picked. Then he has some nutters, real headbangers. The bodybuilders might look the business, but these others are the business. There was Tony El, poly-bag merchant with a penchant for power tools. Uncle Joe still has one or two like him. Then there’s Joe’s son, Malky.’
‘Mr Stanley knife?’
‘Emergency rooms all over Glasgow can testify to that particular hobby.’
‘But Tony El hasn’t been around?’
Ancram shook his head. ‘But I’ve had my grasses out sniffing on your behalf; I should hear back today.’
Three men pushed open the doors at the end of the hall.
‘Aye, aye,’ Ancram said in an undertone, ‘it’s the man with the crystal balls.’
Rebus recognised one of the men from a magazine photograph: Aldous Zane, the American psychic. He’d helped a US police force in their hunt for Merry Mac, so called because someone passing the scene of one of his murders — without realising what was happening on the other side of the wall — had heard deep gurgling laughter. Zane had given his impressions of where the killer lived. When police finally arrested Merry Mac, the media pointed out that the location bore a striking resemblance to the picture Zane had drawn.
For a few weeks, Aldous Zane was newsworthy all around the world. It was enough to tempt a Scottish tabloid to pay for him to offer his impressions in the Johnny Bible hunt. And the police brass were just desperate enough to offer their cooperation.
‘Morning, Chick,’ one of the other men said.
‘Morning, Terry.’
‘Terry’ was looking at Rebus, awaiting an introduction.
‘DI John Rebus,’ Ancram said. ‘DCS Thompson.’
The man stuck out his hand, which Rebus shook. He was a mason, like every second cop on the force. Rebus wasn’t of the brotherhood, but had learned to mimic the handshake.