‘That’s right. And this huge house he had ...’

‘You went in? You didn’t just wait in the car?’

‘Told him it was company policy.’

A smile. ‘Really, all I wanted was to snoop.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Later, yes.’

‘You became friends?’

‘Not really ... maybe. He knew things, had a real brain on him.’

‘You were impressed.’

Pretty-Boy nodded. Yes, Rebus could imagine. His previous role model had always been Tommy Telford, but Pretty Boy had aspirations. He wanted class. He wanted people to acknowledge him for his mind. Rebus knew how seductive Lintz’s storytelling could be. How much more seductive would Pretty-Boy have found it? ‘Then what happened?’

Pretty-Boy shifted. ‘His tastes changed.’

‘Or his real tastes started to emerge?’

‘That’s what I wondered.’

‘So what did he want?’

‘He wanted the girls ... he had this length of rope ... he’d made it into a noose.’

Pretty-Boy swallowed. His lawyer had stopped writing, was listening intently. ‘He wanted the girls to slip it over their heads, then lie down like they were dead.’

‘Dressed or naked?’

‘Naked.’

‘And?’

‘And he’d ... he’d sit on his chair and get off. Some of the girls wouldn’t go along. He wanted the works: bulging eyes, tongue sticking out, neck twisted ...’

Pretty-Boy rubbed his hands through his hair.

‘Did you ever talk about it?’

‘With him? No, never.’

‘So what did you talk about?’

‘All sorts of things.’

Pretty-Boy looked up at the ceiling, laughed. ‘He told me once, he believed in God. Said the problem was, he wasn’t sure God believed in him. That seemed clever at the time ... he always managed to get me thinking. And this was the same guy who tossed himself off over bodies with ropes round their necks.’

‘All this personal attention you were giving him,’ Rebus said, ‘you were sizing him up, weren’t you?’

Pretty-Boy looked into his lap, nodded.

‘For the tape, please.’

‘Tommy always wanted to know if a punter was worth squeezing.’

‘And ... ?’

Pretty-Boy shrugged. ‘We found out about the Nazi stuff, realised we couldn’t hurt him any more than he was already being hurt. Turned into a bit of a joke. There we were, thinking of threatening him with exposure as a perv, and at the same time the papers were saying he was a mass murderer.’

He laughed again.

‘So you dropped that idea?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he paid you five grand?’

Rebus fishing.

Pretty-Boy licked his lips. ‘He’d tried topping himself. He told me that. Tying the rope to the top of his banister and jumping off. Only it didn’t work. Banister snapped and he fell half a flight.’

Rebus remembering: the broken stair-rail.

Rebus remembering: Lintz with a scarf around his neck, his voice hoarse. Telling Rebus he had a throat bug.

‘He told you this?’

‘He phoned the office, said we had to meet. That was unusual. In the past, he’d always used phone boxes and got me on my mobile. Safe old bugger, I’d always thought. Then he calls from home, right to the office.’