‘What’s it all about anyway?’

Bible John shrugged. ‘Johnny Bible. We’re checking a possible connection with some old cases.’

The young man nodded. ‘So what books are you interested in?’

Bible John handed him a printed list. ‘Plus newspapers. Scotsmans and Glasgow Heralds, February ’68 to December ’69.’

‘And what do you want to know?’

‘People who’ve been looking at them. I’ll need names and addresses. Can you do it?’

‘Actual newspapers are held at Causewayside, we only stock microfilm.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I may need to ask a colleague at Causewayside to help.’

Bible John smiled. ‘My paper’s not short of a bob or two, as long as we get results. How much would your friend want …?’

The Whispering Rain

Mind me when mischief befalls me from the cruel and the vain

The Bathers,

‘Ave the Leopards’

5

The Scots language is especially rich in words to do with the weather: ‘dreich’ and ‘smirr’ are only two of them.

It had taken Rebus an hour to drive to Raintown, but another forty minutes to find Dumbarton Road. He hadn’t been to the station before: Partick cop-shop had relocated in ’93. The old station, the ‘Marine’, he’d been there, but not the new place. Driving in Glasgow could be a nightmare for the uninitiated, a maze of one-way streets and ill-signposted intersections. Rebus twice had to leave his car and call in for instructions, both times queuing outside phone boxes in the rain. Only it wasn’t real rain, it was smirr, a fine spray-mist which drenched you before you knew it. It was blowing in from the west, moisture straight from the Atlantic Ocean. It was all Rebus needed first thing on a dreich Monday morning.

When he got to the station, he noticed a car in the car park, two figures inside, smoke billowing from an open window, radio playing. Reporters, had to be. They were the graveyard shift. At this point in a story, reporters divvied the hours into shifts, so they could go off and be somewhere else. Whoever was left on recce was on a promise to buzz any breaks in the story to the other journalists pronto.

When he finally pushed open the station door, there was scattered applause. He walked up to the desk.

‘Finally made it, then?’ the Duty Sergeant asked. ‘Thought we were going to have to send out search parties.’

‘Where’s CI Ancram?’

‘In a meeting. He said for you to go up and wait.’

So Rebus went upstairs, and found that the CID offices had become a sprawling Murder Room. There were photographs on the walls: Judith Cairns, Ju-Ju, in life and in death. More photos of the locus – Kelvingrove Park, a sheltered spot surrounded by bushes. A work rota had been posted – interview grind mostly, shoe-leather stuff, no big breaks expected but you had to make the effort. Officers clattered at keyboards, maybe using the SCRO computer, or even HOLMES – the major enquiry database. All murder cases – excluding those solved straight off – were put on the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. There were dedicated teams – detectives and uniforms – who operated the system, typing in data, checking and cross-referencing. Even Rebus – no great fan of new technology – could see the advantages over the old card-index system. He stopped by a computer terminal and watched someone entering a statement. Then, looking up, he saw a face he recognised, walked up to its owner.