And a second fact, more problematical still: Rebus now had his business card. It wouldn’t mean anything to him, couldn’t, not yet. But there might come a time … the closer he came to the Upstart, the more risks he would face. The card might mean something to the policeman sometime down the road. Could Bible John risk that? He seemed to have two options: quicken his hunt for the Upstart.

Or take the policeman out of the game.

He would think it over. Meantime, he had to concentrate on the Upstart.

His contact at the National Library had informed him that a reader’s ticket required proof of identity: driver’s licence, something like that. Maybe the Upstart had forged himself a whole new identity as ‘Peter Manuel’, but Bible John doubted it. More likely he had managed to talk himself past proving his identity. He would be good at talking. He’d be ingratiating, wheedling. He wouldn’t look like a monster. His would be a face women – and men – could trust. He was able to walk out of night clubs with women he’d met only an hour or two before. Getting round a security check would have posed him few problems.

He stood up and examined his face in the mirror. The police had issued a series of photofits, computer generated, ageing the original photofit of Bible John. One of them wasn’t a bad likeness, but it was one amongst many. Nobody had so much as looked at him twice; none of his colleagues had remarked on any resemblance. Not even the policeman had seen anything. He rubbed his chin. The bristles showed through red where he hadn’t shaved. The house was silent. His wife was elsewhere. He’d married her because it had seemed expedient, one more lie to the profile. He unlocked the study door, walked to the front door and made sure it was locked. Then he climbed the stairs to the upstairs hall, and pulled down the sliding ladder which led up into the attic. He liked it up here, a place only he visited. He looked at a trunk, on top of which sat a couple of old boxes – camouflage. They hadn’t been moved. He lifted them off now and took a key from his pocket, unlocked the trunk and snapped open the two heavy brass clasps. He listened again, hearing only silence past the dull beat of his own heart, then lifted the lid of the trunk.

Inside, it was filled with treasure: handbags, shoes, scarves, trinkets, watches and purses – nothing with any means of identifying the previous owner. The bags and purses had been emptied, checked thoroughly for telltale initials or even blemishes and distinguishing marks. Any letters, anything with a name or address, had been incinerated. He settled on the floor in front of the open trunk, not touching anything. He didn’t need to touch. He was remembering a girl who’d lived on his street when he’d been eight or nine – she’d been a year younger. They’d played a game. They would take it in turns to lie very still on the ground, eyes closed, while the other one tried to remove as much of their clothing as they could without the one being stripped feeling anything.