‘Oh, yes,’ the receptionist said. ‘Definitely.’ She sounded a bit frazzled. Background noise: staff talking, a photocopier, another phone ringing.

‘Can you give me a thumbnail sketch?’

‘Well … we, erm, we design safety aspects into oil platforms, support vessels …’ She sounded like she was reading from a crib-sheet. ‘That sort of thing.’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I’m just writing that down,’ Bible John told her. ‘If you work in safety design, can I take it you have links to RGIT?’

‘Oh yes, close links. We cooperate on half a dozen projects. A couple of our staff are partly based there.’

Bible John underlined the name Martin Davidson. Twice.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’

Two M. Davidsons in the phone book. One might be a woman. He could telephone, but that would be to give the Upstart advance warning … What would he do with him? What did he want to do with him? He had begun his task in anger, but was now composed … and more than a little curious. He could call the police, an anonymous tip-off, that’s what they were waiting for. But he knew now that he wasn’t going to do that. At one point, he’d assumed he could simply dispatch the wretch and resume his life as before, but that just wasn’t possible. The Upstart had changed everything. His fingers went to his tie, checked the knot. He ripped the sheet from his notepad and tore it into tiny pieces, letting them flutter into the waste-bin.

He wondered if he should have stayed in the States. No, there would always have been the craving for home. He remembered one of the early theories about him – that he had been a member of the ‘Exclusive Brethren’. And in a sense, he had been and still was. And intended to remain a member.

Good understanding giveth favour, but the way of transgressors is hard.

Hard it was, hard would always be. He wondered if he had ‘good understanding’ of the Upstart? He doubted it, and wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

The truth was, now he was here, he didn’t know what he wanted.

But he knew what he needed.

32

They crash-landed in Arden Street at breakfast time, neither of them feeling much like breakfast. Rebus had taken over the driving at Dundee, so Jack could crawl into the back seat for an hour. It was like driving back after one of his all-nighters, the roads quiet, rabbits and pheasant in the fields. The cleanest time of day, before everyone got busy messing it up again.

There was mail behind the door of the flat, and so many messages on his machine the red indicator was almost solid.

‘Don’t you dare leave,’ Jack said, before shuffling into the guest room, leaving the door open. Rebus made a mug of coffee, then slumped into his chair by the window. The blisters on his wrists looked like nettle-rash. His nostrils were crusted with blood.

‘Well,’ he said to the waking world, ‘that went as well as could be expected.’ He closed his eyes for five minutes. The coffee was cold when he opened them again.