Rebus looked up, saw he was being watched from the doorway. He got up as the two men walked into the room.

Aldous Zane, Jim Stevens.

‘Any luck?’ Rebus asked.

Stevens shrugged. ‘Early days. Aldous came up with a couple of things.’ He put out his hand. Rebus took it. Stevens smiled. ‘You remember me, don’t you?’ Rebus nodded. ‘I wasn’t sure, back there in the hallway.’

‘I thought you were in London.’

‘I moved back three years ago. I’m mainly freelance now.’

‘And doing guard duty, I see.’

Rebus glanced towards Aldous Zane, but the American wasn’t listening. He was moving his palms over the paperwork on the nearest desk. He was short, slender, middle-aged. He wore steel-framed glasses with blue-tint lenses, and his lips were slightly parted, showing small, narrow teeth. He reminded Rebus a little of Peter Sellers playing Dr Strange-love. He wore a cagoule over his jacket, and made swishing sounds when he moved.

‘What is this?’ he said.

‘Bible John. Johnny Bible’s ancestor. They brought in a psychic on his case, too, Gerard Croiset.’

‘The paragnost,’ Zane said quietly. ‘Was there any success?’

‘He described a location, two shopkeepers, an old man who could help the inquiry.’

‘And?’

‘And,’ Jim Stevens interrupted, ‘a reporter found what looked like the location.’

‘But no shopkeepers,’ Rebus added, ‘and no old man.’

Zane looked up. ‘Cynicism is not helpful.’

‘Call me par-agnostic’

Zane smiled, held out his hand. Rebus took it, felt tremendous heat in the man’s palm. A tingle ran up his arm.

‘Creepy, isn’t it?’ Jim Stevens said, as though he could read Rebus’s mind.

Rebus waved a hand over the material on all four desks. ‘So, Mr Zane, do you feel anything?’

‘Only sadness and suffering, an incredible amount of both.’ He picked up one of the later photofits of Bible John. ‘And I thought I could see flags.’

‘Flags?’

‘The Stars and Stripes, a swastika. And a trunk filled with objects …’ He had his eyes shut, the lids fluttering. ‘In the attic of a modern house.’ The eyes opened. ‘That’s all. There’s a lot of distance, a lot of distance.’

Stevens had his notebook out. He wrote quickly in shorthand. There was someone else in the doorway, looking surprised at the assembly.

‘Inspector,’ Chick Ancram said, ‘time for lunch.’

*

They took one of the duty cars into the west end, Ancram driving. There was something different about him; he seemed at the same time more interested in Rebus and warier of him. Their conversation collapsed into point-scoring.

Eventually, Ancram pointed to a striped traffic-cone kerbside, protecting the only space left on the street.

‘Get out and move that, will you?’

Rebus obliged, placing the cone on the pavement. Ancram reversed the car inch-perfect into the space.

‘Looks like you’ve had practice.’

Ancram straightened his tie. ‘Patrons’ parking.’

They walked into The Lobby. It was a trendy-looking bar with too many high uncomfortable-looking bar-stools, black and white tiled walls, electric and acoustic guitars suspended from the ceiling.