Ancram sat forward. ‘Which one?’
‘Angie Riddell.’
‘In Edinburgh?’ Ancram and Grogan exchanged a look. Rebus knew what they were thinking: another connection.
‘I was part of the team that picked her up once. I saw her again after that.’
‘Saw her?’
‘Drove down to Leith, passed the time of day.’
Grogan snorted. ‘There’s a euphemism I’ve not heard before.’
‘We talked, that’s all. I bought her a cup of tea and a bridie.’
‘And you didn’t tell anyone? Do you know how that looks?’
‘Another black mark against me. I’ve got so many, I could play Al Jolson on stage.’
Ancram got up. He wanted to pace the room, but it wasn’t big enough. ‘This is bad,’ he said.
‘How can the truth be bad?’ But Rebus knew Ancram was right. He didn’t want to agree with Ancram about anything — that would be to fall into the interrogator’s trap: empathy — but he couldn’t make himself disagree on this one point. This was bad. His life was turning into a Kinks song: ‘Dead End Street’.
‘You’re up to your oxters, pal,’ Ancram said.
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
Grogan lit a cigarette for himself, offered one to Rebus, who refused the ploy with a smile. He had his own if he wanted one.
He wanted one — but not enough yet. Instead, he scratched at his palms, clawing his nails across them, a wake-up call to his nerve-endings. There was silence in the room for a minute or so. Ancram rested his backside against the table.
‘Christ, is he waiting for the coffee beans to grow or what?’
Grogan shrugged. ‘Shift changeover, the canteen’ll be busy.’
‘You just can’t get the staff these days,’ Rebus said. Head down, Ancram smiled into his chest. Then he gave a sideways look at the seated figure.
Here we go, thought Rebus: the sympathy routine. Maybe Ancram read his mind, changed his own accordingly.
‘Let’s talk a bit more about Bible John,’ he said.
‘Fine with me.’
‘I’ve started on the Spaven casenotes.’
‘Oh aye?’ Had he got to Brian Holmes?
‘Fascinating reading.’
‘We had a few publishers interested at the time.’
No smile for that one. ‘I didn’t know,’ the inquisitor said quietly, ‘that Lawson Geddes worked on Bible John.’
‘No?’
‘Or that he was kicked off the inquiry. Any idea why that was?’
Rebus didn’t say anything. Ancram spotted the flaw in the armour, stood up and leaned over him.
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I knew he’d worked the case.’
‘But you didn’t know he’d been ordered off it. No, because he didn’t tell you. I found that particular nugget in the Bible John files. But no mention of why.’
‘Is this going anywhere other than up the garden path?’
‘Did he talk to you about Bible John?’
‘Maybe once or twice. He talked a lot about his old cases.’
‘I’m sure he did, the two of you were close. And from what I hear, Geddes liked to shoot his mouth off.’
Rebus glared at him. ‘He was a good copper.’
‘Was he?’
‘Believe it.’
‘But even good coppers make mistakes, John. Even good coppers can cross the line once in their lives. Little birdies tell me you’ve crossed that line more than a few times yourself.’
‘Little birdies shouldn’t shit in their own nests.’
Ancram shook his head. ‘Your past conduct isn’t an issue here.’ He straightened up and turned away, letting that remark sink in. He still had his back to Rebus when he spoke. ‘You know something? This media interest in the Spaven case, it coincided with the first Johnny Bible killing. Know what that might make people think?’ Now he turned round, held up a finger. ‘A copper obsessed with Bible John, remembering stories his old sparring partner told him about the case.’ Second finger. ‘The dirt on the Spaven case is about to be uncovered, years after said copper thought it was buried.’ Third finger. ‘Copper snaps. There’s been this time-bomb in his brain, and now it’s activated...’
Rebus got to his feet. ‘You know it’s not true,’ he said quietly.
‘Convince me.’
‘I’m not sure I need to.’
Ancram looked disappointed in him. ‘We’ll want to take samples — saliva, blood, prints.’
‘What for? Johnny Bible hasn’t left any clues.’
‘I also want a forensic lab to look at your clothes, and a team to give your flat the once-over. If you haven’t done anything, there should be nothing to object to.’ He waited for a reply, got none. The door opened. ‘About fucking time,’ he said.
Lumsden bearing a tray swimming with spilled coffee.
Break-time. Ancram and Grogan went into the corridor for a chat. Lumsden stood by the door, arms folded, thinking he was on guard duty, thinking Rebus wasn’t pumped-up enough to rip his head off.
But Rebus just sat there drinking what was left of his coffee. It tasted disgusting, so probably was unleaded. He took out his cigarettes, lit one, inhaled like it might be his last. He held the cigarette vertical, wondered how something so small and brittle could have taken such a hold over him. Not so very different from this case... The cigarette wavered: his hands were shaking.
‘This is you,’ he told Lumsden. ‘You’ve sold your boss a story. I can live with that, but don’t think I’ll forget.’
Lumsden stared at him. ‘Do I look scared?’
Rebus stared back, smoked his cigarette, said nothing. Ancram and Grogan came back into the room, all business-like.
‘John,’ Ancram said, ‘CI Grogan and I have decided this would be best dealt with in Edinburgh.’
Meaning they couldn’t prove a thing against him. If there was the slightest possibility, then Grogan would want a home collar.
‘There are disciplinary matters here,’ Ancram went on. ‘But they can be dealt with as part of my inquiry into the Spaven case.’ He paused. ‘Shame about DS Holmes.’
Rebus went for it, had to. ‘What about him?’
‘When we went to pick up the Spaven casenotes, some clerk told us there’d been a lot of interest in them recently. Holmes had consulted them three days in a row, apparently for hours at a time — when he should have been on regular duties.’ Another pause. ‘Your name was down, too. Apparently you visited him. Going to tell me what he was up to?’
Silence.
‘Removing evidence?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘That’s the way it looks. Stupid move, whatever it was. He’s refusing to talk, facing disciplinary action. He could be out on his ear.’
Rebus kept his face a blank; not so easy to blank his heart.
‘Come on,’ Ancram said, ‘let’s get you out of here. My driver can take your car, we’ll take mine, maybe have a wee chat on the road.’
Rebus stood up, walked over to Grogan, who straightened his shoulders as if expecting physical assault. Lumsden clenched his fists, ready. Rebus stopped with his face inches from Grogan’s.
‘Are you on the take, sir?’ It was fun to watch the balloon fill with blood, highlighting burst veins and ageing lines.
‘John...’ Ancram warned.
‘It’s an honest question,’ Rebus went on. ‘See, if you’re not, you could do a lot worse than put a surveillance on two Glasgow hoods who seem to be holidaying up here — Eve and Stanley Toal, only his real name’s Malky. His dad’s called Joseph Toal, Uncle Joe, and he runs Glasgow, where CI Ancram works, lives, splashes out money and buys his suits. Eve and Stanley drink at Burke’s Club, where coke isn’t something in a long glass with ice. DS Lumsden took me there, looked like he’d been before. DS Lumsden reminded me that Johnny Bible had picked out his first victim there. DS Lumsden drove me down to the harbour that night, I didn’t ask to be taken there.’ Rebus looked over at Lumsden. ‘He’s a canny operator, DS Lumsden. The games he plays, no wonder he’s called Ludo.’