Rebus put on his most sincere face. ‘I’m positive, Mrs Slocum.’
‘I suffer from nerves, you know. I’ve tried everything – pills, potions, hypnosis … But if something’s in you, there’s not much they can do, is there? I mean, if it’s there from the time you’re born, a little ticking time bomb …’ She looked around. ‘Maybe it’s this house, so new and all, nothing for me to do.’
Aldous Zane had predicted a house like this, a modern house …
‘Mrs Slocum,’ Rebus said, eyes on the window, ‘this might sound like a daft request, and I’ve no way to explain it, but do you think I could take a look at your attic?’
A chain on the first-floor landing. You tugged at it and the trapdoor opened, the wooden steps sliding down to meet you.
‘Clever,’ Rebus said. He began to climb, Una Slocum staying on the landing.
‘The light switch is just to your right when you get up,’ she called.
Rebus poked his head into space, half-expecting a shovel to come crashing down on it, and fumbled for the switch. A single bare bulb illuminated the floored attic.
‘We talked about converting it,’ Una Slocum called. ‘But why bother? The house is too big for us as it is.’
The attic was a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house, testament to modern insulation. Rebus looked around, not sure what he might find. What had Zane said? Flags: the Stars and Stripes and a swastika. Slocum had lived in the US, and seemed fascinated by the Third Reich. But Zane had also seen a trunk in the attic of a large, modern house. Well, Rebus couldn’t see anything like that. Packing cases, boxes of Christmas decorations, a couple of broken chairs, a spare door, a couple of hollow-sounding suitcases …
‘I haven’t been up here since last Christmas,’ Una Slocum said. Rebus helped her up the last couple of steps.
‘It’s big,’ Rebus said. ‘I can see why you thought of converting it.’
‘Planning permission would have been the problem. All the houses here are supposed to stay the same. You spend a fortune on a place, then you aren’t allowed to do anything with it.’ She lifted a folded piece of red cloth from one of the suitcases, brushed dust from it. It looked like a tablecloth, maybe a curtain. But when she shook it, it unfurled into a large flag, black on a white circle with red border. A swastika. She saw the shock on Rebus’s face.
‘He used to collect this sort of stuff.’ She looked around, her face creasing into a frown. ‘That’s odd.’
Rebus swallowed. ‘What?’
‘The trunk’s gone.’ She pointed to a space on the floor. ‘Ryan must have moved it.’ She looked around, but it obviously wasn’t anywhere in the attic.
‘Trunk?’
‘A big old thing, he’s had it for ever. Why would he move it? Come to that, how would he move it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was heavy. He kept it locked, said it was full of old stuff, mementoes of his life before we met. He promised he’d show me some day … Do you think he took it with him?’
Rebus swallowed again. ‘A possibility,’ he said, making for the stairs. Johnny Bible had a holdall, but Bible John needed a whole trunk. Rebus began to feel queasy.
‘There’s more tea in the pot,’ Mrs Slocum said as they went back down to the living room.
‘Thanks, but I really must be going.’ He saw her try to hide a look of disappointment. It was a cruel life when the only company you had was a policeman chasing your husband.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘about Ryan.’ Then he glanced out of the window one last time.
And there was a blue BMW parked by the kerb.
Rebus’s heart kicked at his chest. He couldn’t see anyone in the car, no one moving towards the house …
Then the doorbell rang.
‘Ryan?’ Mrs Slocum was making for the door. Rebus caught her and pulled her back. She squealed.
He put a finger to his lips, motioned for her to stay where she was. His gorge was rising, as if he might bring up the curry from earlier. His whole body felt electric. The bell went again. Rebus took a deep breath, ran to the door and hauled it open.
A young man stood there, denim jacket and jeans, spiky gelled hair, acne. He was holding out a set of car keys.
‘Where did you get it?’ Rebus roared. The youth took a step back, stumbled off the step. ‘Where did you get the car?’ Rebus was out of the door now and looming over him.
‘Work,’ the youth said. ‘P-part of the s-service.’
‘What is?’
‘Returning your c-car. From the airport.’ Rebus stared at him, demanding more. ‘We do valet cleaning, all that. And if you drop your car off and want it taking back to your house, we do that, too. Sinclair Car Rentals … you can check!’
Rebus held out a hand, pulled the youth to his feet.
‘I was only going to ask if you wanted it put away,’ the youth said, ashen-faced.
‘Leave it where it is.’ Rebus tried to control his trembling. Another car had drawn up, a horn sounded.
‘My lift,’ the youth explained, the terror still not completely gone from his face.
‘Where was Mr Slocum headed?’
‘Who?’
‘The car’s owner.’
The youth shrugged. ‘How should I know?’ He put the keys in Rebus’s hand, headed back down the drive. ‘We’re not the gestapo,’ his parting shot.
Rebus handed the keys to Mrs Slocum, who was staring at him like she had questions, like she wanted to start again from the beginning. Rebus shook his head, marched off. She looked at the keys in her hand.
‘What am I going to do with two cars?’
But Rebus was gone.
He told his story to Grogan.
The Chief Inspector was almost sober – and very ready to go home. He’d already been talked to by the Crime Squad. They’d said they’d have more questions for him tomorrow, all to do with Ludovic Lumsden. Grogan listened with growing impatience, then asked what evidence there was. Rebus shrugged. They could place Slocum’s car near the scene of the murder, and at a curious hour of the morning. But they couldn’t do more than that. Maybe forensics would throw up some connection, but they both guessed Bible John was too smart to allow that to happen. Then there was the story outlined in Lawson Geddes’ letter – a dead man’s tale – and the photo from Borneo. But that meant nothing without a confession from Ryan Slocum that he’d once been Ray Sloane, had lived in Glasgow in the late sixties and had been – and still was – Bible John.
But Ryan Slocum had disappeared.
They contacted Dyce Airport, but there was no record of his having taken a plane out of there, and no taxi or car rental company would admit seeing him. Had he already left the country? What had he done with the trunk? Was he lying low in some hotel nearby, waiting for the fuss to die?
Grogan said they’d make enquiries, put out an alert to ports and airports. He didn’t see what else they could do. They’d send someone out to talk with Mrs Slocum, maybe go through the house with a fine-toothed comb … Tomorrow maybe, or the day after. Grogan didn’t sound too enthusiastic. He’d found his serial killer for today, and had little inclination to go chasing ghosts.
Rebus found Jack in the canteen, drinking tea and eating chips and beans.
‘Where did you get to?’
Rebus sat down beside him. ‘Thought maybe I was cramping your style.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Tell you what though, I nearly asked her back to that hotel.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
Jack shrugged. ‘She told me she could never trust a man who didn’t drink. Do you feel like heading back?’
‘Why not?’
‘John, where did you get to?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way back. It might help keep you awake …’
36
Next morning, after a few hours’ sleep on the chair, Rebus telephoned Brian Holmes. He wanted to know how he was doing, and whether Ancram’s threats had evaporated in the ligh
t of Lawson Geddes’ letter. The call was answered quickly.
‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice: Nell’s. Softly, Rebus put the receiver down. So she was back. Did that mean she’d come to terms with Brian’s work? Or had he promised to give it up? Rebus was sure to find out later.
Jack wandered through. He reckoned his job of ‘minder’ was finished, but had stayed the night anyway – too tired to contemplate the miles home to Falkirk.
‘Thank God it’s the weekend,’ he said, rubbing both hands through his hair. ‘Any plans?’
‘I thought I might nip down to Fettes, see what the score is with Ancram.’
‘Good idea, I’ll come with you.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘But I want to.’
They took Rebus’s car for a change. But when they got to Fettes, Ancram’s office was bare, no sign of it ever having been occupied. Rebus telephoned Govan, and was put through.
‘Is that it finished?’ he asked.
‘I’ll write up my report,’ Ancram said. ‘No doubt your boss will want to discuss it with you.’
‘What about Brian Holmes?’
‘It’ll all be in the report.’
Rebus waited. ‘All of it?’
‘Tell me something, Rebus, are you clever or just spawny?’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘You’ve really mucked things up. If we’d gone ahead against Uncle Joe, we could have had the mole.’
‘You’ll have Uncle Joe instead.’ Ancram grunted a response. ‘You know who the mole is?’
‘I have a hunch. Lennox, you met him that day in The Lobby.’ DS Andy Lennox: freckles and ginger curls. ‘Thing is, I’ve no hard evidence.’
Same old problem. In law, knowing was not enough. Scots law was stricter still: there must needs be corroboration.
‘Maybe next time, eh?’ Rebus offered, putting down the phone.
They drove back to the flat so Jack could pick up his car, but then he had to climb the stairs with Rebus, having forgotten some of his kit.
‘Are you ever going to leave me alone?’ Rebus asked.
Jack laughed. ‘Starting any minute.’
‘Well, while you’re here you can help me shift the stuff back into the living room.’
It didn’t take long. The last thing Rebus did was hook the fishing-boat back on the wall.
‘So what now?’ Jack asked.
‘I suppose I could see about getting this tooth fixed. And I said I’d meet up with Gill.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Strictly off-duty.’
‘A fiver says you end up talking shop.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Five says you’re on. What about you?’
‘Ach, I thought while I’m in town I might check out the local AA, see if there’s a meeting. It’s been too long.’ Rebus nodded. ‘Want to tag along?’
Rebus looked up, nodded. ‘Why not?’ he said.
‘The other thing we could do is keep on with the decorating.’
Rebus wrinkled his nose. ‘The mood’s passed.’
‘You’re not going to sell?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘No cottage by the sea?’
‘I think I’ll settle for where I am, Jack. It seems to suit me.’
‘And where’s that exactly?’
Rebus considered his answer. ‘Somewhere north of hell.’
He got back from his Sunday walk with Gill Templer and stuck a fiver in an envelope, addressed it to Jack Morton. Gill and he had talked about the Toals and the Americans, about how they’d go down on the strength of the tape. Rebus’s word might not be enough to convict Hayden Fletcher of conspiracy to murder, but he’d have a damned good go. Fletcher was being brought south for questioning. Rebus had a busy week ahead. His telephone rang as he was tidying the living room.
‘John?’ the voice said. ‘It’s Brian.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine.’ But Brian’s voice was hollow. ‘I just thought I’d … the thing is … I’m putting in my papers.’ A pause. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’
‘Jesus, Brian …’
‘Thing is, I’ve tried to learn from you, but I’m not sure you were the right choice. A bit too intense maybe, eh? See, whatever it is you’ve got, John, I just don’t have it.’ A longer pause. ‘And I’m not sure I even want it, to be honest.’
‘You don’t have to be like me to be a good copper, Brian. Some would say you should strive to be what I’m not.’
‘Well … I’ve tried both sides of the fence, hell, I’ve even tried sitting on the fence. No good, any of it.’
‘I’m sorry, Brian.’
‘Catch you later, eh?’
‘Sure thing, son. Take care.’
He sat down in his chair, stared out of the window. A bright summer’s afternoon, a good time to go for a walk through the Meadows. Only Rebus had just come back from a walk. Did he really want another? His phone rang again and he let the machine take it. He waited for a message, but all he could hear was static crackle, background hiss. There was someone there; they hadn’t broken the connection. But they weren’t about to leave a message. Rebus placed a hand on the receiver, paused, then lifted it.
‘Hello?’
He heard the other receiver being dropped into its cradle, then the hum of the open line. He stood for a moment, then replaced the receiver and walked into the kitchen, pulled open the cupboard and lifted out the newspapers and cuttings. Dumped the whole lot of them into the bin. Grabbed his jacket and took that walk.
Afterword
The genesis of this book was a story I heard very early in 1995, and I worked on the book all through that year, finishing a satisfactory draft just before Christmas. Then on Sunday January 29 1996, just as my editor was settling down to read the manuscript, the Sunday Times ran a story headlined ‘Bible John “living quietly in Glasgow’”, based on information contained in a book to be published by Main-stream in April. The book was Power in the Blood by Donald Simpson. Simpson claimed that he had met a man and befriended him, and that eventually this man had confessed to being Bible John. Simpson also claimed that the man had tried to kill him at one point, and that there was evidence the killer had struck outside Glasgow. Indeed, there remain many unsolved west-coast murders, plus two unsolveds from Dundee in 1979 and 1980 – both victims were found stripped and strangled.
It may be coincidence, of course, but the same day’s Scotland on Sunday broke the story that Strathclyde Police had new evidence in the ongoing Bible John investigation. Recent developments in DNA analysis had given them a genetic fingerprint from a trace of semen left on the third victim’s tights, and police had been asking as many of the original suspects as they could find to come forward to have a blood sample taken and analysed. One such suspect, John Irvine McInnes, had committed suicide in 1980, so a member of his family had given a blood sample instead. This seems to have proved a close enough match to warrant exhuming McInnes’ body so as to carry out further tests. In early February, the body was exhumed (along with that of McInnes’ mother, whose coffin had been placed atop her son’s). For those interested in the case, the long wait began.
As I write (June 1996), the wait is still going on. But the feeling now is that police and their scientists will fail – indeed, already have failed – to find incontrovertible proof. For some, the seed has been sown anyway – John Irvine McInnes will remain the chief suspect in their minds – and it is true that his personal history, compared alongside the psychological profile of Bible John compiled at the time, makes for fascinating reading.
But there is real doubt, too – some of it also based on offender profiling. Would a serial killer simply cease to kill, then wait eleven years to commit suicide? One newspaper posits that Bible John ‘got a fright’ because of the investigation, and this stopped him killing again, but according to at least one expert in the field, this simply fails to fit the recognised pattern. Then there’s the eye-witness, in whom chief investigator Joe Beattie h
ad so much faith. Irvine McInnes took part in an identity parade a matter of days after the third murder. Helen Puttock’s sister failed to pick him out. She had shared a taxi with the killer, had watched her sister dance with him, had spent hours in and out of his company. In 1996, faced with photos of John Irvine McInnes, she says the same thing – the man who killed her sister did not have McInnes’ prominent ears.
There are other questions – would the killer have given his real first name? Would the stories he told the two sisters during the taxi ride be true or false? Would he have gone ahead and killed his third victim, knowing he was leaving a witness behind? There are many out there, including police officers and numbering people like myself, who would refuse to be convinced even by a DNA match. For us, he’s still out there, and – as the Robert Black and Frederick West cases have shown – by no means alone.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to: Chris Thomson, for permission to quote from one of his songs; Dr Jonathan Wills for his views on Shetland life and the oil industry; Don and Susan Nichol, for serendipitous help with the research; the Energy Division of the Scottish Office Industry Department; Keith Webster, Senior Public Affairs Officer, Conoco UK; Richard Grant, Senior Public Affairs Officer, BP Exploration; Andy Mitchell, Public Affairs Advisor, Amerada Hess; Mobil North Sea; Bill Kirton, for his offshore safety expertise; Andrew O’Hagan, author of The Missing; Jerry Sykes, who found the book for me; Mike Ripley, for the video material; the inebriated oil-worker Lindsey Davis and I met on a train south of Aberdeen; Colin Baxter, Trading Standards Officer extraordinaire; my researchers Linda and Iain; staff of the Caledonian Thistle Hotel, Aberdeen; Grampian Regional Council; Ronnie Mackintosh; Ian Docherty; Patrick Stoddart; and Eva Schegulla for the e-mail. Grateful thanks as ever to the staffs of the National Library of Scotland (especially the South Reading Room) and Edinburgh Central Library. I’d also like to thank the many friends and authors who got in touch when the Bible John case hit the headlines again early in 1996, either to commiserate or to offer suggestions for tweaks to the plot. My editor, Caroline Oakley, had faith throughout, and referred me to the James Ellroy quote at the start of my own book … Finally, a special thank you to Lorna Hepburn, who told me a story in the first place …