‘I just want to know if you think he’s on the level. I don’t want to go to all the trouble and effort of opening an investigation, maybe setting up surveillance, taps, even a sting operation, only to have the carpet pulled out from under me.’
‘Understood, but you know the Squaddies will be peeved if you keep them in the dark. They’ve got the manpower and experience for this sort of thing.’
She just stared at him. ‘Since when did you start going by the book?’
‘We’re not talking about me. I’m the L&B bad apple — doubtless they think one’s more than enough.’
Their food arrived, the table filling with platters and dishes, a nan bread big enough to be plotting world domination. They looked at one another, realising they didn’t feel that hungry any more.
‘A couple more of the same,’ Rebus said, handing the waiter his empty glass. To Gilclass="underline" ‘So tell me Fergie’s story.’
‘It’s sketchy. Some drugs are coming north in a consignment of antiques. They’re going to be handed over to the dealers.’
‘The dealers being...?’
She shrugged. ‘McLure thinks they’re Americans.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Who? The sellers?’
‘No, the buyers. The sellers are German.’
Rebus went through the major Edinburgh dealers, couldn’t think of a single American.
‘I know,’ Gill said, reading his thoughts.
‘New boys trying to break in?’
‘McLure thinks the stuff’s headed further north.’
‘Dundee?’
She nodded. ‘And Aberdeen.’
Aberdeen again. Jesus. A town called malice. ‘So how’s Fergie involved?’
‘One of his sales would be the perfect cover.’
‘He’s fronting?’
Another nod. She chewed on a piece of chicken, dipped nan bread into the sauce. Rebus watched her eat, remembering little things about her: the way her ears moved when she chewed, the way her eyes flicked over the different dishes, the way she rubbed her fingers together afterwards... There were rings around her neck that hadn’t been there five years ago, and maybe when she visited her hairdresser they added some colour to her roots. But she looked good. She looked great.
‘So?’ she asked.
‘Is that all he told you?’
‘He’s scared of these dealers, too scared to tell them to get lost. But the last thing he wants is us catching on and putting him in jail as an accessory. That’s why he’s grassing.’
‘Even though he’s scared?’
‘Mm-hm.’
‘When’s all this supposed to happen?’
‘When they phone him.’
‘I don’t know, Gill. If it were a peg, you couldn’t hang a fucking hankie on it, never mind your coat.’
‘Colourfully put.’
She was staring at his tie as she said it. It was a loud tie, purposely so: it was supposed to distract attention from his unironed shirt with the missing button.
‘OK, I’ll go talkies tomorrow, see if I can wring any more out of him.’
‘But gently.’
‘He’ll be putty in my hands.’
They ate only half the food, still felt bloated. Coffee and mints came: Gill put both mints into her bag for later. Rebus had a third whisky. He was looking ahead, seeing them standing outside the restaurant. He could offer to walk her home. He could ask her back to his flat. Only she couldn’t stay the night: there might be reporters outside in the morning.
John Rebus: presumptuous bastard.
‘Why are you smiling?’ she asked.
‘Use it or lose it, they say.’
They split the bill, the drinks coming to as much as the food. And then they were outside. The night had grown cool.
‘What are my chances of finding a taxi?’ Gill was looking up and down the street.
‘Pubs aren’t out yet, you should be OK. My car’s back at the flat...’
‘Thanks, John, I’ll be all right. Look, here’s one.’ She waved to it. The driver signalled and pulled over with a squeak of brakes. ‘Tell me how you get on,’ she said.
‘I’ll phone you straight after.’
‘Thanks.’ She pecked his cheek, a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Then she got into the taxi and closed the door, giving her address to the driver. Rebus watched the cab execute a slow U-turn into the traffic heading for Tollcross.
Rebus stood there for a moment, looking at his shoes. She’d wanted a favour, that was all. Good to know he was still useful for some things. ‘Feardie Fergie’, Fergus McLure. A name from the past; one-time friend of a certain Lenny Spaven. Worth a morning trip to Ratho for definite.
He heard another taxi coming — unmistakable engine sound. Its yellow light was on. He waved it down, got in.
‘The Oxford Bar,’ he said.
The more Bible John thought about the Upstart... the more he learned about him... the surer he felt that Aberdeen was the key.
He sat in his study, door locked against the outside world, and stared at the UPSTART file on his laptop. The gap between victims one and two was six weeks, between victims two and three only four. Johnny Bible was a hungry little devil, but so far he hadn’t killed again. Or if he had, he was still playing with the body. But that wasn’t the Upstart’s way. He killed them quick, then presented the bodies to the world. Bible John had worked back, and had found two newspaper stories — both in the Aberdeen Press and Journal. A woman attacked on her way home from a nightclub, a man attempting to drag her into an alley. She’d screamed, he’d panicked and fled. Bible John had driven out to the scene one night. He stood in the alley and thought of the Upstart standing there, biding his time till the nightclub emptied. There was a housing scheme nearby, and the route home passed the mouth of the alley. Superficially, it was the perfect spot, but the Upstart had been nervous, ill-prepared. He’d probably been waiting there for an hour or two, standing back in the shadows, afraid someone would stumble upon him. His nerve had come and gone. When he’d finally picked a victim, he hadn’t disabled it quickly enough. A scream was all it had taken to send him running.
Yes, it could well be the Upstart. He’d studied his failure, come up with a better plan: go into the nightclub, get talking to the victim... put the victim at its ease, then strike.
Second newspaper item: a woman complaining of a peeper in her back garden. When police were called, they found marks on her kitchen door, clumsy attempts at entering. Maybe connected to the first story, maybe not. Story one: eight weeks before the first murder. Story two: a further four weeks back. A pattern of months establishing itself. And another pattern on top of the first: peeper becoming attacker. Of course, there could be other stories he’d missed, ones from other cities, making for different theories, but Bible John was happy to go with Aberdeen. First victim: often the first victim was local. Once the killer’s confidence was up, he would range further afield. But that first success was so very important.
A timid knock at the study door. ‘I’ve made coffee.’
‘I’ll be out soon.’
Back to his computer. He knew the police would be busy compiling their own composites, their psychological profiles, remembered the one a psychiatrist had compiled of him. You knew he was ‘an authority’ because of all the letters after his name: BSc, BL, MA, MB, ChB, LLB, DPA, FRCPath. Meaningless in the wider scheme, as was his report. Bible John had read it in a book years back. The few things about him it got right, he attempted to remedy. The serial murderer was supposedly withdrawn, with few close friends, so he had forced himself to become gregarious. The type was known for a lack of drive and fear of adult contacts, so he took a job where drive and contacts were crucial. As for the rest of the thesis... rubbish, mostly.