For a few weeks, Aldous Zane was newsworthy all around the world. It was enough to tempt a Scottish tabloid to pay for him to offer his impressions in the Johnny Bible hunt. And the police brass were just desperate enough to offer their cooperation.

‘Morning, Chick,’ one of the other men said.

‘Morning, Terry.’

‘Terry’ was looking at Rebus, awaiting an introduction.

‘DI John Rebus,’ Ancram said. ‘DCS Thompson.’

The man stuck out his hand, which Rebus shook. He was a mason, like every second cop on the force. Rebus wasn’t of the brotherhood, but had learned to mimic the handshake.

Thompson turned to Ancram. ‘We’re taking Mr Zane along to have another look at some of the physical evidence.’

‘Not just a look,’ Zane corrected. ‘I need to touch it.’

Thompson’s left eye twitched. Obviously he was as sceptical as Ancram. ‘Right, well, this way, Mr Zane.’

The three men walked off.

‘Who was the silent one?’ Rebus asked.

Ancram shrugged. ‘Zane’s minder, he’s from the newspaper. They want to be in on everything Zane does.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I know him,’ he said. ‘Or I used to, years back.’

‘I think his name’s Stevens.’

‘Jim Stevens,’ Rebus said, still nodding. ‘By the way, there’s another difference between the two killers.’

‘What?’

‘Bible John’s victims were all menstruating.’

Rebus was left alone at a desk with the available files on Joseph Toal. He didn’t learn much more from them except that Uncle Joe seldom saw the inside of a court. Rebus wondered about that. Toal always seemed to know when police had him or his operations under surveillance, when the shit was heading fanwards. That way, they never found any evidence, or not enough to put him away. A couple of fines, that was about the sum total. Several big pushes had been made, but they’d always been abandoned for lack of hard evidence or because a surveillance was blown. As if Uncle Joe had a psychic of his own. But Rebus knew there was a more likely explanation: someone in CID was feeding gen back to the gangster. Rebus thought of the fancy suits everyone seemed to be wearing, the good watches and shoes, the general air of prosperity and superiority.

It was west coast dirt, let them sweep it up or push it into the corner. There was a hand-written notation towards the end of the file; he guessed it was Ancram’s writing:

‘Uncle Joe doesn’t need to kill people any more. His rep is weapon enough, and the bastard’s getting stronger all the time.’

He found a spare telephone, made a call to Barlinnie Prison, then, no sign of Chick Ancram, went walkabout.

As he’d known he would, he ended up back in the musty-smelling room dominated by the old monster, Bible John. People in Glasgow still talked about him, had done even before Johnny Bible had come along. Bible John was the bedtime bogeyman made flesh, a generation’s scare story. He was your creepy next-door neighbour; the quiet man who lived two flights up; he was the parcel courier with the windowless van. He was whoever you wanted him to be. Back in the early seventies, parents had warned their children, ‘Behave, or Bible John will get you!’