He gave Rebus a long look, full of grudge and threat, then loped towards his father. He was wearing the trousers from a pinstripe suit with T-shirt, white socks, trainers – Rebus had yet to meet a gangster with dress sense: they spent money, but with no style – and his face sported half a dozen good-sized warts.

‘Hey, Da, I’ve lost my keys to the beamer, where’s the spare set?’

Rebus let himself out, relieved to see that the patrol car was still there. Boys were circling it on bikes, a cherokee party with scalps on their minds. Leaving the cul-de-sac, Rebus checked the cars: a nice new Rover; BMW 3 Series; an older Merc, one of the big ones, and a couple of less serious contenders. Had it been a used car lot, he’d have kept his money and looked elsewhere.

He squeezed between two bikes, opened the back door, got in. The driver started the engine. Rebus looked back to where Stanley was making for the BMW, bouncing on his heels.

‘Now,’ the passenger said, ‘before we leave, have you counted that you still have all your fingers and toes?’

‘West end,’ Rebus said, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. He needed another drink.

The Horseshoe Bar first, a jolt of malt, and then outside for a taxi. He told the driver he wanted Langside Place in Battlefield. From the moment he’d walked into the Bible John room, he’d known he would make this trip. He could have had the patrol car take him, but didn’t want to have to explain his interest.

Langside Place was where Bible John’s first victim had lived. She’d worked as a nurse, lived with her parents. Her father looked after her small son while she went out dancing. Rebus knew her original destination had been the Majestic Ballroom in Hope Street, but somewhere along the way she’d decided on the Barrowland instead. If only she’d stuck to her first choice. What force had nudged her towards the Barrowland? Could you just call it fate and be done with it?

He told the driver to wait, got out of the cab and walked up and down the street. Her body had been found nearby, outside a garage in Carmichael Lane, clothing and handbag missing. Police had spent a lot of time and effort searching for them. They’d also done their best to interview people who’d been at the Barrowland that night, only there was a problem: Thursday night there was notorious. It was Over Twenty-fives night, and a lot of married men and women went, leaving spouses and wedding rings behind. A lot of people shouldn’t have been there, and made unwilling material as witnesses.

The taxi’s engine was still running – and so was its meter. Rebus didn’t know what he’d expected to find here, but he was still glad he’d come. It was hard to look at the street and see the year 1968, hard to get any feel for that era. Everything and everyone had changed.