Black And Blue (13 page)

He gave Rebus a long look, full of grudge and threat, then loped towards his father. He was wearing the trousers from a
pinstripe suit with T-shirt, white socks, trainers – Rebus had yet to meet a gangster with dress sense: they spent money, but with no style – and his face sported half a dozen good-sized warts.

‘Hey, Da, I’ve lost my keys to the beamer, where’s the spare set?’

Rebus let himself out, relieved to see that the patrol car was still there. Boys were circling it on bikes, a cherokee party with scalps on their minds. Leaving the cul-de-sac, Rebus checked the cars: a nice new Rover; BMW 3 Series; an older Merc, one of the big ones, and a couple of less serious contenders. Had it been a used car lot, he’d have kept his money and looked elsewhere.

He squeezed between two bikes, opened the back door, got in. The driver started the engine. Rebus looked back to where Stanley was making for the BMW, bouncing on his heels.

‘Now,’ the passenger said, ‘before we leave, have you counted that you still have all your fingers and toes?’

‘West end,’ Rebus said, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. He needed another drink.

The Horseshoe Bar first, a jolt of malt, and then outside for a taxi. He told the driver he wanted Langside Place in Battlefield. From the moment he’d walked into the Bible John room, he’d known he would make this trip. He could have had the patrol car take him, but didn’t want to have to explain his interest.

Langside Place was where Bible John’s first victim had lived. She’d worked as a nurse, lived with her parents. Her father looked after her small son while she went out dancing. Rebus knew her original destination had been the Majestic Ballroom in Hope Street, but somewhere along the way she’d decided on the Barrowland instead. If only she’d stuck to her first choice. What force had nudged her towards the Barrowland? Could you just call it fate and be done with it?

He told the driver to wait, got out of the cab and walked up
and down the street. Her body had been found nearby, outside a garage in Carmichael Lane, clothing and handbag missing. Police had spent a lot of time and effort searching for them. They’d also done their best to interview people who’d been at the Barrowland that night, only there was a problem: Thursday night there was notorious. It was Over Twenty-fives night, and a lot of married men and women went, leaving spouses and wedding rings behind. A lot of people shouldn’t have been there, and made unwilling material as witnesses.

The taxi’s engine was still running – and so was its meter. Rebus didn’t know what he’d expected to find here, but he was still glad he’d come. It was hard to look at the street and see the year 1968, hard to get any feel for that era. Everything and everyone had changed.

He knew the second address: Mackeith Street, where the second victim had lived and died. Here was one thing about Bible John: he’d taken the victims so close to their homes, a sign either of confidence or indecision. By August 1969 police had all but given up the initial investigation, and the Barrowland was thriving again. It was a Saturday night, and the victim left her three children with her sister, who lived across the landing. In those days, Mackeith Street was tenements, but as the taxi reached its destination Rebus saw terraced housing, satellite dishes. The tenements had long gone; in 1969 they’d been awaiting demolition, many of them empty. She’d been found in one of the derelict buildings, strangled with her tights. Some of her things were missing, including her handbag. Rebus didn’t get out of the taxi, didn’t see the point. His driver turned to him.

‘Bible John, is it?’

Surprised, Rebus nodded. The driver lit a cigarette. He’d be about fifty, thick curling grey hair, his face ruddy, a boyish gleam to the blue eyes.

‘See,’ he said, ‘I was a cabbie back then as well. Never really seem to have got out the rut.’

Rebus remembered the box-file with ‘Taxi Firms’ on its spine. ‘Did the police question you?’

‘Oh aye, but it was more that they wanted us to be on the lookout, you know, in case we ever got him in the back. But he looked like any other punter, there were dozens fit the description. We almost had a few lynchings. They had to give out cards to some of them: “This man is not Bible John”, signed by the Chief Constable.’

‘What do you think happened to him?’

‘Ach, who knows? At least he stopped, that’s the main thing, eh?’

‘If he stopped,’ Rebus said quietly. The third address was Earl Street in Scotstoun, the victim’s body found on Hallowe’en. The sister, who had accompanied the victim all evening, had painted a very full picture of that night: the bus to Glasgow Cross, the walk up the Gallowgate … shops they stopped at … drinks in the Traders’ Tavern … then the Barrowland. They both met men called John. The two men didn’t seem to hit it off. One went to catch a bus, the other stayed, sharing their taxi. Talking. It gnawed at Rebus, as it had at so many before him: why would Bible John leave such a good witness behind? Why had he gone on to kill his third victim, knowing her sister would be able to draw such a vivid portrait of him: his clothes, what he’d talked about, his overlapping front teeth? Why had he been so reckless? Had he been taunting the police, or was there some other reason? Maybe he was heading away from Glasgow, so could afford this casual exit. But heading where? Somewhere his description would mean nothing – Australia, Canada, the USA?

Halfway to Earl Street, Rebus said he’d changed his mind and directed his driver to the ‘Marine’ instead. The old Partick station – which had been the heart of the Bible John inquiry – was empty and near-derelict. It was still possible to gain access to the building if you unlocked the padlocks, and no doubt kids had found they could get in without undoing any locks at all. But all Rebus did was sit outside and stare. A
lot of men were taken to the Marine, questioned, and put in a line-up. There were five hundred formal identity parades, and many more informal ones. Joe Beattie and the third victim’s sister would stand there and concentrate on faces, physiques, speech. Then there’d be a shake of the head, and Joe would be back to square one.

‘You’ll want to see the Barrowland next, eh?’ his driver said. Rebus shook his head. He’d had enough. The Barrowland wouldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.

‘Do you know a bar called The Lobby?’ he said instead. The driver nodded. ‘Let’s go there then.’

He paid off the cabbie, adding a fiver as a tip, and asked for a receipt.

‘No receipts, sorry, pal.’

‘You don’t happen to work for Joe Toal, do you?’

The man glared at him. ‘Never heard of him.’ Then he shifted into first and sped off.

Inside The Lobby, Ancram was standing at the bar, looking relaxed, the focus of a lot of attention: two men and two women in a huddle around him. The bar was full of after-work suits, careerists plotting furtively, women on the scent.

‘Inspector, what’ll it be?’

‘My shout.’ He pointed to Ancram’s glass, then to the others, but Ancram laughed.

‘You don’t buy them drinks, they’re journos.’

‘It’s my round anyway,’ one of the women said. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘My mother told me never to accept drinks from strangers.’

She smiled: lip gloss, eye-shadow, tired face trying for enthusiasm. ‘Jennifer Drysdale.’ Rebus knew why she was tired: it was hard work acting like ‘one of the boys’. Mairie Henderson had told him about it – the pattern was changing only slowly; a lot of surface gloss about equality sloshed over the same old wallpaper.

Jeff Beck on the sound system: ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’. Stupid lyric, and a hook that had lasted two decades and
more. It comforted him that a place with The Lobby’s pretensions should still cling to old hooks.

‘Actually,’ Ancram was saying, ‘we should be making tracks. Right, John?’

‘Right.’ The use of his first name a hint: Ancram wanted out.

The reporters didn’t look so happy any more. They flung questions at Ancram: Johnny Bible. They wanted a story, any story.

‘I would if I could, but there’s nothing to give.’ Ancram had his hands up, trying to placate the foursome. Rebus saw that someone had placed a recording Walkman on top of the bar.

‘Anything,’ one of the men said. He even glanced towards Rebus, but Rebus was staying out of it.

‘If you want a story,’ Ancram said, pushing through the bodies, ‘get yourselves a psychic detective. Thanks for the drinks.’

Outside, the smile fell from Ancram’s face. An act, it had been no more than that. ‘Bastards are worse than leeches.’

‘And like leeches, they have their uses.’

‘True, but who would you rather have a drink with? I’ve no car, do you mind walking?’

‘Where to?’

‘The next bar we find.’

But in fact they had to walk past three pubs – not places a policeman could drink in safely – until they hit one Ancram liked the look of. It was still raining, but mild. Rebus could feel sweat glueing his shirt to his back. Despite the rain,
Big Issue
sellers were out in force, not that anyone was buying: good-cause fatigue.

They shook themselves dry and settled on stools at the bar. Rebus ordered – malt, gin and tonic – and lit a cigarette, offering one to Ancram, who shook his head.

‘So where have you been?’

‘Uncle Joe’s.’ Among other places.

‘How did you get on?’

‘I spoke to the man.’ And paid my respects …

‘Face to face?’ Rebus nodded; Ancram appraised him. ‘Where?’

‘At his house.’

‘The Ponderosa? He let you in without a search warrant?’

‘The place was immaculate.’

‘He’d probably spent half an hour before you got there sticking all the booty upstairs.’

‘His son was upstairs when I got there.’

‘Standing guard on the bedroom door, no doubt. Did you see Eve?’

‘Who’s she?’

‘Uncle Joe’s clippie. Don’t be fooled by the wheezing old pensioner routine. Eve’s around fifty, still in good nick.’

‘I didn’t see her.’

‘You’d’ve remembered. So, did anything rattle loose from the shaky old bugger?’

‘Not much. He swore Tony El’s been off the payroll for a year, and he hasn’t seen him.’

A man came into the bar, saw Ancram, and was about to do a U-turn. But Ancram had already spotted him in the bar mirror, so the man walked up to him, brushing rain off his hair.

‘Hiya, Chick.’

‘Dusty, how’s things?’

‘No’ bad.’

‘You’re doing away then?’

‘You know me, Chick.’ The man kept his head low, spoke in an undertone, shuffled off to the far end of the bar.

‘Just someone I know,’ Ancram explained: meaning, a snitch. The man was ordering a half and a ‘hauf’: whisky with a half-pint of beer to chase it down. He opened a packet of Embassy, made too much of a point of not looking along the bar.

‘So was that all Uncle Joe gave you?’ Ancram asked. ‘I’m intrigued, how did you get to him?’

‘A patrol car dropped me, I walked the rest of the way.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Uncle Joe and I have a mutual friend.’ Rebus finished his malt.

‘Same again?’ Ancram asked. Rebus nodded. ‘Well, I know you visited the Bar-L.’ Jack Morton talking? ‘And I can’t think of
too
many people there who have Uncle Joe’s ear … Big Ger Cafferty?’ Rebus gave silent applause. Ancram laughed for real this time, not a show for reporters. ‘And the old sod didn’t tell you anything?’

‘Just that he thought Tony El had moved south, maybe to London.’

Ancram picked the lemon out of his drink, discarded it. ‘Really? That’s interesting.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve had my friends reporting in.’ Ancram made the slightest movement with his head, and the snitch from the far end of the bar slid off his stool and came towards them. ‘Tell Inspector Rebus what you told me, Dusty.’

Dusty licked non-existent lips. He looked the kind who snitched to feel important, not just for money or revenge.

‘Word is,’ he said, face still bowed so Rebus was looking at the top of his head, ‘Tony El’s been working up north.’

‘North?’

‘Dundee … north-east.’

‘Aberdeen?’

‘Up that way, aye.’

‘Doing what?’

A fast shrug of the shoulders. ‘Independent operator, who knows. He’s just been seen around.’

‘Thanks, Dusty,’ Ancram said. Dusty sloped back to his end of the bar. Ancram signalled for the barmaid. ‘Two more,’ he said, ‘and whatever Dusty’s drinking.’ He turned to Rebus. ‘So who do you believe, Uncle Joe or Dusty?’

‘You think he lied just to wind me up?’

‘Or wind you down.’

Yes, down as far as London, a false trail that could have eaten into the investigation: wasted time, manpower, effort.

‘The victim worked out of Aberdeen,’ Rebus said.

‘All roads leading to.’ The drinks had arrived. Ancram handed over a twenty. ‘Don’t bother with change, keep it to pay for whatever else Dusty drinks, and give him what’s left at the end. Plus one for yourself.’

She nodded, knew the routine. Rebus was thinking hard, routes leading north. Did he want to go to Aberdeen? It would keep him away from
The Justice Programme
, maybe keep him from thinking about Lawson Geddes. Today had been like a holiday in that respect. Edinburgh was too full of ghosts; but then so was Glasgow – Jim Stevens, Jack Morton, Bible John and his victims …

‘Did Jack tell you I’d been to the Bar-L?’

‘I pulled rank on him, don’t blame Jack.’

‘He’s changed a lot.’

‘Has he been nagging you? I wondered why he chased after you at lunchtime. The zeal of the converted.’

‘I don’t get it.’ Rebus lifted the glass to his lips, poured it in smoothly.

‘Didn’t he say? He’s joined AA, and I don’t mean breakdown insurance.’ Ancram paused. ‘Come to think of it though, maybe I do.’ He winked, smiled. There was something annoying about his smile; it was like he was party to secrets and motives – a patronising smile.

A very Glaswegian sort of smile.

‘He was an alcoholic,’ Ancram went on. ‘I mean, he still is. Once an alky, always an alky, that’s what they say. Something happened to him in Falkirk, he ended up in hospital, nearly in a coma. Sweats, spewing, slime dripping off the ceiling. Gave him a hell of a fright. First thing he did when he got out was look up the phone number for Samaritans, and they put him on to the Juice Church.’ He looked at Rebus’s glass. ‘Christ,
that was quick. Here, have another.’ The barmaid already had a glass in her hand.