And now there was Johnny Bible. The media had been quick with the name. Three women: beaten, raped, strangled. That was all they’d needed to make the comparison. Two of the women had been picked up at nightclubs, discos. There were vague descriptions of a man who’d been seen dancing with the victims. Well-dressed, shy. It clicked with the original Bible John. Only Bible John, supposing he were still alive, would be in his fifties, while this new killer was described as mid-to-late twenties. Therefore: Johnny Bible, spiritual son of Bible John.

There were differences, of course, but the media didn’t dwell on those. For one thing, Bible John’s victims had all been dancing at the same dancehall; Johnny Bible ranged far and wide through Scotland in his hunt for victims. This had led to the usual theories: he was a long-distance lorry driver; a company rep. Police were ruling nothing out. It might even be Bible John himself, back after a quarter century away, the mid-to-late twenties description flawed – it had happened before with apparently watertight eyewitness testimony. They were also keeping a few things quiet about Johnny Bible – just as they had with Bible John. It helped rule out the dozens of fake confessions.

Rebus had barely started his report when Maclay swayed into the room. That was the way he walked, from side to side, not because he was drunk or drugged but because he was seriously overweight, a metabolism thing. There was something wrong with his sinuses too; his breathing often came in laboured wheezes, his voice a blunt plane against the grain of the wood. His station nickname was ‘Heavy’.

‘Escorted Craw from the premises?’ Bain asked.

Maclay nodded towards Rebus’s desk. ‘Wants him charged for wasting our time.’

‘Now that’s what I call a waste of time.’

Maclay swayed in Rebus’s direction. His hair was jet black, ringed with slick kiss-curls. He’d probably won Bonniest Bairn prizes, but not for a while.

‘Come on,’ he said.

Rebus shook his head and kept typing.

‘Fuck’s sake.’

‘Fuck him,’ Bain said, getting to his feet. He unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair. To Maclay: ‘Drinkie?’

Maclay wheezed out a long sigh. ‘Just the job.’

Rebus held his breath until they’d gone. Not that he’d been expecting to be asked along. That was their whole point. He stopped typing and reached into his bottom drawer for the Lucozade bottle, unscrewed the cap, sniffed forty-three percent malt and poured in a mouthful. With the bottle back in its drawer, he popped a mint into his mouth.

Better. ‘I can see clearly now’: Marvin Gaye.

He yanked the report from the typewriter and crumpled it into a ball, then called the desk, told them to hold Craw Shand an hour, then release him. He’d just put down the phone when it started ringing.

‘DI Rebus.’

‘It’s Brian.’

Brian Holmes, Detective Sergeant, still based at St Leonard’s. They kept in touch. His voice tonight was toneless.