‘No wonder Scotland’s down the pan. And we want independence.’

He’d handed over his business card, then Rebus had announced that he was a policeman.

‘Did I say anything incriminating …? Is it Johnny Bible?’

The face, the eyes, the height … close to the man in the photograph. Close. Ray Sloane … Ryan Slocum. Someone had broken into Rebus’s flat, looking for something, taking nothing. Looking for something that might incriminate them? He looked again at the business card, then reached for a phone, eventually tracked Siobhan down at home.

‘Siobhan, the guy you talked to at the National Library …?’

‘Yes?’

‘He gave you a description of the so-called journalist?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give it to me again.’

‘Hang on.’ She went to fetch her notebook. ‘What’s this about anyway?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Read it out.’

‘“Tall, fair-haired, early fifties, longish face, no distinguishing features.”’

‘Anything about the accent?’

‘Nothing down here.’ She paused. ‘Oh, yes, he did say something. He said it was twangy.’

‘Like American?’

‘But Scottish.’

‘It’s him.’

‘Who?’

‘Bible John, just like you said.’

‘What?’

‘Stalking his offspring …’ Rebus rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose. He had his eyes screwed shut. Was it or wasn’t it? Was he obsessed? How different was Johnny Bible’s shrine from the scene in his own kitchen, the table covered in cuttings?

‘I don’t know,’ he said. But he did know. He did. ‘Talk to you later,’ he told Siobhan.

‘Wait!’

But that was the one thing he couldn’t do. He needed to know. He needed to know right now. He looked round the room, saw dissolution and reverie, nobody who could drive, no back-up.

Except Jack.

Who had one arm around the secretary now, and was whispering in her ear. She was smiling, holding her cup with a steady hand. Maybe she was drinking the same thing Jack was: cola. Would Jack give him the keys? Not without an explanation, and Rebus wanted to do this alone, needed to. His motive: confrontation, and maybe exorcism. Besides, Bible John had cheated him out of Johnny Bible.

Rebus called downstairs. ‘Any cars going begging?’

‘Not if you’ve been drinking.’

‘Try me with a breath test.’

‘There’s an Escort parked outside.’

Rebus searched desk drawers, found a phone book. Peterhead … Slocum R. No listing. He could try BT, but an unlisted check would take time. Another option: get on the road. It was what he wanted anyway.

The city streets were wild: another Friday night, young souls at play. Rebus was singing ‘All Right Now’. Segue into: ‘Been Down So Long’. Thirty miles north to Peterhead, deep-water port. Tankers and platforms went there for servicing. Rebus wound the motor up, not much traffic heading out of the city. Sky glowing dull pink. Simmer dim, as the Shetlanders called it. Rebus tried not to think about what he was doing. Breaking rules he’d advised others not to break. No back-up. No real authority up here, a long way from home.