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beneath the sink. When you opened the door, the lid of the bin opened automatically. Inside, Rebus saw two crushed beer cans and the red-stained wrappings from what smelled like a kebab. The flat’s solitary bedroom was bare, no clothes in the built-in wardrobe, not even a coat-hanger. But Bain was dragging something out of the tiny bathroom. It was a blue rucksack, a Karrimor.
    ‘Looks like he came in, had a wash, changed clothes and buggered off out again pronto.’
    They started emptying the rucksack. Apart from clothing, they found a personal stereo and some tapes – Soundgarden, Crash Test Dummies, Dancing Pigs – and a copy of Iain Banks’s Whit .
    ‘I meant to buy that,’ Rebus said.
    ‘Take it now. Who’s watching?’
    Rebus looked at Bain. The eyes seemed innocent, but heshook his head anyway. He couldn’t go handing anyone any more ammunition. He pulled a carrier bag out of one of the side pockets: new tapes – Neil Young, Pearl Jam, Dancing Pigs again. The receipt was from HMV in Aberdeen.
    ‘My guess,’ Rebus said: ‘he worked in Furry Boot town.’
    From the other side pocket, Bain produced a pamphlet, folded in four. He unfolded it, opened it, and let Rebus see what it was. There was a colour photograph of an oil platform on the front, beneath a headline: ‘T-BIRD OIL – STRIKING THE BALANCE’, and a sub-head: ‘Decommissioning Offshore Installations – A Modest Proposal’. Inside, besides a few paragraphs of writing, there were colour charts, diagrams and statistics. Rebus read the opening sentence:
    ‘“In the beginning there were microscopic organisms, living and dying in the rivers and seas many millions of years ago.”’ He looked up at Bain. ‘And they gave their lives so that millions of years on we can tank around in cars.’
    ‘I get the feeling Spike maybe worked for an oil company.’
    ‘His name was Allan Mitchison,’ Rebus said quietly.
    It was getting light when Rebus finally arrived home. He turned the hi-fi on so that it was just audible, then rinsed a glass in the kitchen and poured an inch of Laphroaig, adding a dribble of water from the tap. Some malts demanded water. He sat down at the kitchen table and looked at the newspapers laid out there, cuttings from the Johnny Bible case, photocopies of old Bible John stuff. He’d spent a day in the National Library, fast-tracking the years 1968–70, winding a blur of microfilm through the machine. Stories had leapt out at him. Rosyth was to lose its Royal Navy Commander; plans were announced for a £50 million petrochemical complex at Invergordon; Camelot was showing at the ABC.
    A booklet was advertised for sale – ‘How Scotland Should be Governed’ – and there were letters to the editor concerning Home Rule. A Sales and Marketing Manager was wanted, salary of £2,500 p.a. A new house in Strathalmond cost£7,995. Frogmen were searching for clues in Glasgow, while Jim Clark was winning the Australian Grand Prix. Meantime, members of the Steve Miller Band were being arrested in London on drug charges, and car parking in Edinburgh had reached saturation point …
    1968.
    Rebus had copies of the actual newspapers – purchased from a dealer for considerably more than their sixpenny cover price. They continued into ’69. August. The weekend that Bible John claimed his second victim, the shit was hitting the fan in Ulster and 300,000 pop fans were turning up (and on) at Woodstock. A nice irony. The second victim was found by her own sister in an abandoned tenement … Rebus tried not to think of Allan Mitchison, concentrated on old news instead, smiled over an August 20 headline: ‘Downing Street Declaration’. Trawler strikes in Aberdeen … an American film company seeking sixteen sets of bagpipes … dealings in Robert Maxwell’s Pergamon suspended. Another headline: ‘Big drop in Glasgow crimes of violence’. Tell that to the victims. By November, it was reported that the murder rate in Scotland was twice that