Back in the National Library proper, he studied the librarians, looking for someone special. When he thought he’d found what he was looking for, he checked the library’s opening hours, and decided to wait.

At closing time, he was standing outside the National Library, sunglasses on in the mid-evening light, crawling lines of traffic separating him from the Central Library. He saw some of the staff leave, singly and in groups. Then he spotted the young man he was looking for. When the man headed down Victoria Street, Bible John crossed the road and followed. There were a lot of pedestrians about, tourists, drinkers, a few people making their way home. He became just another of them, walking briskly, his eyes on his quarry. In the Grassmarket, the young man turned into the first available pub. Bible John stopped and considered: a quick drink before heading home? Or was the librarian going to meet friends, maybe make an evening of it? He decided to go inside.

The bar was dark, noisy with office workers: men with their suit jackets draped over their shoulders, women sipping from long glasses of tonic. The librarian was at the bar, alone. Bible John squeezed in beside him and ordered an orange juice. He nodded to the librarian’s beer glass.

‘Another?’

When the young man turned to look at him, Bible John leaned close, spoke quietly.

‘Three things I want to tell you. One: I’m a journalist. Two: I want to give you £500. Three: there’s absolutely nothing illegal involved.’ He paused. ‘Now, do you want that drink?’

The young man was still staring at him. Finally he nodded.

‘Is that yes to the drink or yes to the cash?’ Bible John was smiling too.

‘The drink. You better tell me a little more about the other.’

‘It’s a boring job or I’d do it myself. Does the library keep a record of books consulted and borrowed?’

The librarian thought about it, then nodded. ‘Some computerised, some still on cards.’

‘Well, the computer will be quick, but the cards may take you a while. It’ll still be easy money, believe me. What about if someone came in to consult old newspapers?’

‘Should be on record. How long ago are we talking about?’

‘It would be in the past three to six months. The papers they’d be looking at would be from 1968 to ’70.’

He paid for two drinks with a twenty, opened his wallet so the librarian could see plenty more.

‘It might take a while,’ the young man said. ‘I’ll have to cross-reference between Causewayside and George IV Bridge.’

‘There’s another hundred if you can hurry things along.’

‘I’ll need details.’ Bible John nodded, handed over a business card. It stated name and a phony address, but no phone number.

‘Don’t try to get in touch. I’ll phone you. What’s your name?’

‘Mark Jenkins.’

‘OK, Mark.’ Bible John lifted out two fifties, tucked them into the young man’s breast pocket. ‘Here’s something on account.’