‘I’ll tell you something about Johnny Bible,’ Ancram said. ‘His profile can fit several professions, and one of those is serving or retired police officer, someone who knows our methods and is careful not to leave trace evidence.’

‘We’ve a physical description of him. I’m too old.’

Ancram screwed up his face. ‘IDs, John, we all know their failings.’

‘I’m not Johnny Bible.’

‘Doesn’t mean you’re not a copycat. Mind, we’re not saying you are. All we’re saying is, there are questions that have to be asked.’

‘So ask them.’

‘You came to Partick.’

‘Correct.’

‘Ostensibly to talk to me about Uncle Joe Toal.’

‘Uncannily astute.’

‘Yet if memory serves, you ended up asking me a lot of questions about Johnny Bible. And you seemed to know a lot about the Bible John case.’ Ancram waited to see if Rebus had a smart comeback. None came. ‘While in Partick, you spent a lot of time in the room where the original Bible John files were being checked.’ Ancram paused again. ‘And now a TV reporter tells me you have cuttings and notes about Bible John and Johnny Bible stashed in your kitchen cupboards.’

Bitch!

‘Now wait a minute,’ Rebus said.

Ancram sat back. ‘I’m waiting.’

‘Everything you’ve said is true. I am interested in the two cases. Bible John … that takes a bit of explaining. And Johnny Bible … well, for one thing, I knew one of the victims.’

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?’