‘Chief Inspector Ancram, returning your call.’ Rebus rested against the desk.

‘Hello?’

‘Inspector Rebus? Ancram here, I believe you want a word.’

‘Thanks for getting back to me, sir. Two words really: Joseph Toal.’

Ancram snorted. He had a west coast drawl, nasal, always managing to sound a little condescending. ‘Uncle Joe Corleone? Our own dear Godfather? Has he done something I don’t know about?’

‘Do you know one of his men, a guy called Anthony Kane?’

‘Tony El,’ Ancram confirmed. ‘Worked for Uncle Joe for years.’

‘Past tense?’

‘He hasn’t been heard of in a while. Story is he crossed Uncle Joe, and Uncle Joe got Stanley to see to things. Tony El was all cut up about it.’

‘Who’s Stanley?’

‘Uncle Joe’s son. It’s not his real name, but everyone calls him Stanley, on account of his hobby.’

‘Which is?’

‘Stanley knives, he collects them.’

‘You think Stanley topped Tony El?’

‘Well, the body hasn’t turned up, which is usually proof enough in a perverse way.’

‘Tony El’s very much alive. He was through here a few days ago.’

‘I see.’ Ancram was quiet for a moment. In the background Rebus could hear busy voices, radio transmissions, police station sounds. ‘Bag over the head?’

‘How did you know?’

‘Tony El’s trademark. So he’s back in circulation, eh? Inspector, I think you and me better have a talk. Monday morning, can you find Govan station? No, wait, make it Partick, 613 Dumbarton Road. I’ve a meeting there at nine. Can we say ten?’

‘Ten’s fine.’

‘See you then.’

Rebus put down the telephone. ‘Monday morning at ten,’ he told Bain. ‘I’m off to Partick.’

‘You poor bastard,’ Bain replied, sounding like he meant it.

‘Want us to put out Tony El’s description?’ Maclay asked.

‘Pronto. Let’s see if we can lassoo him before Monday.’

Bible John flew back into Scotland on a fine Friday morning. The first thing he did at the airport was pick up some newspapers. In the kiosk, he saw that a new book had been published on World War Two, so bought that too. Sitting in the concourse, he flicked through the newspapers, finding no new stories concerning the Upstart. He left the papers on his seat and went to the carousel, where his luggage was waiting.

A taxi took him into Glasgow. He had already decided not to stay in the city. It wasn’t that he had anything to fear from his old hunting-ground, but that a stay there would bring little profit. Of necessity, Glasgow brought back bittersweet memories. In the late sixties, it had been reinventing itself: knocking down old slums, building their concrete equivalents on the outskirts. New roads, bridges, motorways – the place had been an enormous building site. He got the feeling the process was still ongoing, as if the city still hadn’t acquired an identity it could be comfortable with.

A problem Bible John knew something about.

From Queen Street station, he took a train to Edinburgh, and used his cellphone to reserve a room at his usual hotel, placing it on his corporate account. He called his wife to tell her where he’d be. He had his laptop with him, and did some work on the train. Work soothed him; a busy brain was best. Go therefore now, and work; for there shall no straw be given you, yet shall ye deliver the tale of bricks. The Book of Exodus. The media back then had done him a favour, and so had the police. They’d issued a description saying his first name was John and he was ‘fond of quoting from the Bible’. Neither was particularly true: his middle name was John, and he had only occasionally quoted aloud from the good book. In recent years, he’d started attending church again, but now regretted it, regretted thinking he was safe.