He knew the second address: Mackeith Street, where the second victim had lived and died. Here was one thing about Bible John: he’d taken the victims so close to their homes, a sign either of confidence or indecision. By August 1969 police had all but given up the initial investigation, and the Barrowland was thriving again. It was a Saturday night, and the victim left her three children with her sister, who lived across the landing. In those days, Mackeith Street was tenements, but as the taxi reached its destination Rebus saw terraced housing, satellite dishes. The tenements had long gone; in 1969 they’d been awaiting demolition, many of them empty. She’d been found in one of the derelict buildings, strangled with her tights. Some of her things were missing, including her handbag. Rebus didn’t get out of the taxi, didn’t see the point. His driver turned to him.

‘Bible John, is it?’

Surprised, Rebus nodded. The driver lit a cigarette. He’d be about fifty, thick curling grey hair, his face ruddy, a boyish gleam to the blue eyes.

‘See,’ he said, ‘I was a cabbie back then as well. Never really seem to have got out the rut.’

Rebus remembered the box-file with ‘Taxi Firms’ on its spine. ‘Did the police question you?’

‘Oh aye, but it was more that they wanted us to be on the lookout, you know, in case we ever got him in the back. But he looked like any other punter, there were dozens fit the description. We almost had a few lynchings. They had to give out cards to some of them: “This man is not Bible John”, signed by the Chief Constable.’

‘What do you think happened to him?’

‘Ach, who knows? At least he stopped, that’s the main thing, eh?’

‘If he stopped,’ Rebus said quietly. The third address was Earl Street in Scotstoun, the victim’s body found on Hallowe’en. The sister, who had accompanied the victim all evening, had painted a very full picture of that night: the bus to Glasgow Cross, the walk up the Gallowgate … shops they stopped at … drinks in the Traders’ Tavern … then the Barrowland. They both met men called John. The two men didn’t seem to hit it off. One went to catch a bus, the other stayed, sharing their taxi. Talking. It gnawed at Rebus, as it had at so many before him: why would Bible John leave such a good witness behind? Why had he gone on to kill his third victim, knowing her sister would be able to draw such a vivid portrait of him: his clothes, what he’d talked about, his overlapping front teeth? Why had he been so reckless? Had he been taunting the police, or was there some other reason? Maybe he was heading away from Glasgow, so could afford this casual exit. But heading where? Somewhere his description would mean nothing – Australia, Canada, the USA?

Halfway to Earl Street, Rebus said he’d changed his mind and directed his driver to the ‘Marine’ instead. The old Partick station – which had been the heart of the Bible John inquiry – was empty and near-derelict. It was still possible to gain access to the building if you unlocked the padlocks, and no doubt kids had found they could get in without undoing any locks at all. But all Rebus did was sit outside and stare. A lot of men were taken to the Marine, questioned, and put in a line-up. There were five hundred formal identity parades, and many more informal ones. Joe Beattie and the third victim’s sister would stand there and concentrate on faces, physiques, speech. Then there’d be a shake of the head, and Joe would be back to square one.