‘It was heavy. He kept it locked, said it was full of old stuff, mementoes of his life before we met. He promised he’d show me some day … Do you think he took it with him?’

Rebus swallowed again. ‘A possibility,’ he said, making for the stairs. Johnny Bible had a holdall, but Bible John needed a whole trunk. Rebus began to feel queasy.

‘There’s more tea in the pot,’ Mrs Slocum said as they went back down to the living room.

‘Thanks, but I really must be going.’ He saw her try to hide a look of disappointment. It was a cruel life when the only company you had was a policeman chasing your husband.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘about Ryan.’ Then he glanced out of the window one last time.

And there was a blue BMW parked by the kerb.

Rebus’s heart kicked at his chest. He couldn’t see anyone in the car, no one moving towards the house …

Then the doorbell rang.

‘Ryan?’ Mrs Slocum was making for the door. Rebus caught her and pulled her back. She squealed.

He put a finger to his lips, motioned for her to stay where she was. His gorge was rising, as if he might bring up the curry from earlier. His whole body felt electric. The bell went again. Rebus took a deep breath, ran to the door and hauled it open.

A young man stood there, denim jacket and jeans, spiky gelled hair, acne. He was holding out a set of car keys.

‘Where did you get it?’ Rebus roared. The youth took a step back, stumbled off the step. ‘Where did you get the car?’ Rebus was out of the door now and looming over him.

‘Work,’ the youth said. ‘P-part of the s-service.’

‘What is?’

‘Returning your c-car. From the airport.’ Rebus stared at him, demanding more. ‘We do valet cleaning, all that. And if you drop your car off and want it taking back to your house, we do that, too. Sinclair Car Rentals … you can check!’

Rebus held out a hand, pulled the youth to his feet.

‘I was only going to ask if you wanted it put away,’ the youth said, ashen-faced.

‘Leave it where it is.’ Rebus tried to control his trembling. Another car had drawn up, a horn sounded.

‘My lift,’ the youth explained, the terror still not completely gone from his face.

‘Where was Mr Slocum headed?’

‘Who?’

‘The car’s owner.’

The youth shrugged. ‘How should I know?’ He put the keys in Rebus’s hand, headed back down the drive. ‘We’re not the gestapo,’ his parting shot.

Rebus handed the keys to Mrs Slocum, who was staring at him like she had questions, like she wanted to start again from the beginning. Rebus shook his head, marched off. She looked at the keys in her hand.

‘What am I going to do with two cars?’

But Rebus was gone.

He told his story to Grogan.

The Chief Inspector was almost sober – and very ready to go home. He’d already been talked to by the Crime Squad. They’d said they’d have more questions for him tomorrow, all to do with Ludovic Lumsden. Grogan listened with growing impatience, then asked what evidence there was. Rebus shrugged. They could place Slocum’s car near the scene of the murder, and at a curious hour of the morning. But they couldn’t do more than that. Maybe forensics would throw up some connection, but they both guessed Bible John was too smart to allow that to happen. Then there was the story outlined in Lawson Geddes’ letter – a dead man’s tale – and the photo from Borneo. But that meant nothing without a confession from Ryan Slocum that he’d once been Ray Sloane, had lived in Glasgow in the late sixties and had been – and still was – Bible John.