They had a description of a man in his late twenties, but witness evidence was notoriously uneven. As a result, the original photofits and artists’ impressions of Bible John had been dusted off and put back into circulation with the media’s help. The usual psychological ploys were being used too – pleas in the press for the killer to come forward: ‘You obviously need help, and we’d like you to contact us.’ Bluff, with silence the retort.

Ancram pointed to photos on one wall: a photofit from 1970, aged by computer, beard and glasses added, the hair receding at crown and temples. They’d been made public too.

‘Could be anybody, couldn’t it?’ Ancram stated.

‘Getting to you, sir?’ Rebus was waiting for an invitation to call Ancram by his first name.

‘Of course it’s getting to me.’ Ancram’s face relaxed. ‘Why the interest?’

‘No real reason.’

‘I mean, we’re not here for Johnny Bible, are we? We’re here to talk about Uncle Joe.’

‘Ready when you are, sir.’

‘Come on then, let’s see if we can find two empty chairs in this fucking building.’

They ended up standing in the corridor, with coffee bought from a machine further along.

‘Do we know what he strangles them with?’ Rebus asked.

Ancram’s eyes widened. ‘More Johnny Bible?’ He sighed. ‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t leave much of an impression. The latest theory is a length of washing-line; you know, the nylon stuff, plastic-coated. The forensic labs have tested about two hundred possibles, everything from rope to guitar strings.’

‘What do you think about the souvenirs?’

‘I think we should go public with them. I know keeping them hush-hush helps us rule out the nutters who walk in to confess, but I honestly think we’d be better off asking the public for help. That necklace, I mean, you couldn’t get more distinctive. If someone out there has found it, or seen it … housey-housey.’

‘You’ve got a psychic working the case, haven’t you?’

Ancram looked nettled. ‘Not me personally, some arsehole further up the ranks. It’s a newspaper stunt, but the brass went for it.’

‘He hasn’t helped?’

‘We told him we needed a demonstration, asked him to predict the winner of the two-fifteen at Ayr.’

Rebus laughed. ‘And?’

‘He said he could see the letters S and P, and a jockey dressed in pink with yellow spots.’

‘That’s impressive.’

‘Thing is though, there was no two-fifteen at Ayr, or anywhere else for that matter. All this voodoo and profiling, a waste of time if you ask me.’

‘So you’ve nothing to go on?’

‘Not much. No saliva at the locus, not so much as a hair. Bastard uses a johnny, then takes it with him – wrapper included. My bet is, he wears gloves too. We’ve a few threads from a jacket or the like, forensics are still busy with them.’ Ancram raised his cup to his lips, blew on it. ‘So, Inspector, do you want to hear about Uncle Joe or not?’