Black and Blue

12

It was a couple of years since Rebus had been in Aberdeen, and then only for an afternoon. He’d been visiting an aunt. She was dead now; he’d found out only after the funeral. She’d lived near Pittodrie Stadium, her old house surrounded by new developments. The house was probably gone now, flattened. For all the associations with granite, Aberdeen had a feeling of impermanence. These days it owed almost everything it had to oil, and the oil wouldn’t be there for ever. Growing up in Fife, Rebus had seen the same thing with coal: no one planned for the day it would run out. When it did, hope ran out with it.

Linwood, Bathgate, the Clyde: nobody ever seemed to learn.

Rebus recalled the early oil years, the sound of Lowlanders scurrying north looking for hard work at high wages: unemployed shipbuilders and steelworkers, school-leavers and students. It was Scotland’s Eldorado. You sat in Saturday afternoon pubs in Edinburgh and Glasgow, the racing pages folded open, dream horses circled, and spoke of the great escape you could make. There were jobs going spare, a mini-Dallas was being constructed from the husk of a fishing port. It was unbelievable, incredible. It was magic.

People watching J.R. scheme his way through another episode found it easy to fantasise that the same scenario was being played out on the north-east coast. There was an American invasion, and the Americans — roughnecks, bears, roustabouts — didn’t want a quiet, self-contained coastal town; they wanted to raise hell, and started building from the ground up. So the initial stories of Eldorado turned into tales from the darkside: brothels, blood-baths, drunken brawls. Corruption was everywhere, the players spoke millions of dollars, and the locals resented the invasion at the same time as they took the cash and available work. For working-class males based south of Aberdeen, it seemed like the word made flesh, not just a man’s world but a hardman’s world, where respect was demanded and bought with money. It took only weeks for the switch: fit men came back shaking their heads, muttering about slavery, twelve-hour shifts, and the nightmare North Sea.

And somewhere in the middle, between Hell and Eldorado, sat something approximating the truth, nothing like as interesting as the myths. Economically the north-east had profited from oil, and relatively painlessly at that. Like Edinburgh, commercial development had not been allowed to scar the city centre too deeply. But on the outskirts you saw the usual industrial estates, the low-rise factory units, a lot of them with names connecting them to the offshore industry: On-Off; Grampian Oil; PlatTech...

However, before this there was the glory of the drive itself. Rebus stuck as far as possible to the coastal route, and wondered at the mind-set of a nation who would design a golf course along a clifftop. When he stopped at a petrol station for a break, he bought a map of Aberdeen and checked the location of Grampian Police HQ. It was on Queen Street, in the city centre. He hoped the one-way system wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d been to Aberdeen maybe half a dozen times in his life, three of those for childhood holidays. Even though it was a modern city, he still joked about it the way a lot of Lowlanders did: it was full of teuchters, fish-gutters with funny accents. When they asked you where you were from, it sounded like they were saying ‘Furry boot ye frae?’ Thus, Furry Boot Town, while Aberdonians stuck to ‘Granite City’. Rebus knew he was going to have to keep the jokes and jibes in check, at least until he had a feel for the place.

Traffic was bottle-necked heading into the centre, which was fine — it meant he had time to study both map and street names. He found Queen Street and parked, walked into Police HQ and told them who he was.

‘I spoke to someone on the phone earlier, a DC Shanks.’

‘I’ll try CID for you,’ the uniform on reception said. She told him to take a seat. He sat down and watched the movement of bodies in and out of the station. He could tell the plainclothes officers from ordinary punters — when you made eye contact, you knew. A couple of the men sported CID moustaches, bushy but neatly trimmed. They were young, trying to look older. Some kids were sitting across from him, looking subdued but with a gleam in their eyes. They were fresh-faced and freckly, with bloodless lips. Two of them were fair-haired, one red-headed.

‘Inspector Rebus?’

The man was standing over to his right, could have been there a couple of minutes or more. Rebus stood up and they shook hands.

‘I’m DS Lumsden, DC Shanks passed your message on. Something about an oil company?’

‘Based up here. One of their employees took a flight out of an Edinburgh tenement.’

‘Jumped?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘There were others on the scene, one of them’s a known villain called Anthony Ellis Kane. I’ve had word he’s working up here.’

Lumsden nodded. ‘Yes, I heard Edinburgh CID were asking about that name. Doesn’t mean a thing to me, sorry. Normally, we’d assign the Oil Liaison Officer to look after you, but he’s on holiday and I’m filling in, which makes me your guide for the duration.’ Lumsden smiled. ‘Welcome to Silver City.’

Silver for the River Dee which ran through it. Silver for the colour of the buildings in sunlight — grey granite transformed into shimmering light. Silver for the money the oil boom had brought. Lumsden explained as Rebus drove them back down on to Union Street.

‘Another myth about Aberdeen,’ he said, ‘is that the folk are mean. Wait till you see Union Street on a Saturday afternoon. It must be the busiest shopping street in Britain.’

Lumsden wore a blue blazer with shiny brass buttons, grey trousers, black slip-on shoes. His shirt was an elegant blue and white stripe, his tie salmon-pink. The clothes made him look like the secretary of some exclusive golf club, but the face and body told another story. He was six feet two, wiry, with cropped fair hair emphasising a widow’s peak. His eyes weren’t so much red-rimmed as chlorinated, the irises a piercing blue. No wedding ring. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty years old. Rebus couldn’t quite place the accent.

‘English?’ he asked.

‘From Gillingham originally,’ Lumsden acknowledged. ‘The family moved around a bit. My dad was in the forces. You did well to spot the accent, most people think I’m a Borderer.’

They were driving to a hotel, Rebus having declared that he’d probably be staying at least the one night, maybe more.

‘No problem,’ Lumsden had said. ‘I know just the place.’

The hotel was on Union Terrace, overlooking the gardens, and Lumsden told him to park outside the entrance. He took a piece of card from his pocket and pressed it to the inside of the windscreen. It stated OFFICIAL GRAMPIAN POLICE BUSINESS. Rebus got his case out of the boot, but Lumsden insisted on carrying it. And Lumsden took care of the details at reception. A porter took the case upstairs, Rebus following.

‘Just make sure you like the room,’ Lumsden told him. ‘And I’ll see you in the bar.’

The room was on the first floor. It had the tallest windows Rebus had ever seen, and gave him a view down on to the gardens. The room was baking hot. The porter closed the curtains.

‘It’s always like this when we get the sun,’ he explained. Rebus gave the rest of the room a once-over. It was probably the fanciest hotel room he’d ever been in. The porter was watching him.

‘What, no champagne?’

The porter didn’t get the joke, so Rebus shook his head and handed him a pound note. The porter explained how the in-house movies worked, told him about room service, the restaurant, and other facilities, then handed Rebus his key. Rebus followed the man back downstairs.

The bar was quiet, the lunchtime crowd having disappeared back to work, leaving their plates, bowls and glasses behind. Lumsden was perched on a stool at the bar, munching peanuts and watching MTV. There was a pint of beer in front of him.

‘Forgot to ask your tipple,’ he said as Rebus sat down next to him.

‘A pint of the same,’ Rebus told the barman.

‘How’s the room?’

‘A bit rich for my taste, to be honest.’

‘Don’t worry, Grampian CID will pick up the tab.’ He winked. ‘It’s a courtesy thing.’

‘I must visit more often.’

Lumsden smiled. ‘So tell me what you want to do while you’re here.’

Rebus glanced at the TV screen, saw the Stones hamming it up in their latest production. Jesus, they looked old. Stonehenge with a blues riff.

‘Talk to the oil company, maybe see if I can track down a couple of the deceased’s friends. Find out if there’s any sign of Tony El.’

‘Tony El?’

‘Anthony Ellis Kane.’ Rebus reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’

Lumsden shook his head twice: once to say he didn’t mind, and again to refuse Rebus’s offer of one.

‘Cheers,’ Rebus said, taking a mouthful of beer. He smacked his lips, it was OK. Beer was fine. But the row of optics kept trying to attract his attention. ‘So how’s the Johnny Bible case going?’

Lumsden scooped more peanuts into his mouth. ‘It isn’t. Dead slow to stop. Are you attached to the Edinburgh side?’

‘Only by association. I’ve interviewed a few nutters.’

Lumsden nodded. ‘Me, too. I’d like to throttle some of them. I had to interview some of our RPOs, too.’ He made a face. RPOs: Registered Potential Offenders. These were the ‘usual suspects’, a list of known perverts, sex attackers, flashers and peepers. In a case like Johnny Bible, they all had to be interviewed, alibis provided and checked.

‘I hope you took a bath afterwards.’

‘Half a dozen at least.’

‘No new leads then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You think he’s local?’

Lumsden shrugged. ‘I don’t think anything: you need to keep an open mind. Why the interest?’

‘What?’

‘The interest in Johnny Bible.’

It was Rebus’s turn to shrug. They sat in silence for a moment, until Rebus thought of a question. ‘What does an Oil Liaison Officer do?’

‘Blunt answer: liaises with the oil industry. It’s a major player up here. The thing is, Grampian Police isn’t just a dry-land force — our beat includes the offshore installations. If there’s a theft on a platform, or a fight, or whatever, anything they bother to report, it’s down to us to investigate. You can end up flying three hours out to the middle of hell on a paraffin budgie.’

‘Paraffin budgie?’

‘Helicopter. Three hours out, chucking your guts up along the way, so you can investigate some minor complaint. Thank Christ we don’t usually get involved. It’s a real frontier out there, with frontier policing.’

One of the Glasgow uniforms had said the same about Uncle Joe’s estate.

‘You mean they police themselves?’

‘It’s a bit naughty, but effective. And if it saves me a six-hour round trip I won’t say I’m sorry.’

‘What about Aberdeen itself?’

‘Reasonably quiet, except at weekends. Union Street on a Saturday night can be like downtown Saigon. There are a lot of frustrated kids around. They’ve grown up with money and stories of money. Now they want their share, only it’s not there any more. Christ, that was quick.’ Rebus saw that he’d finished his pint; only the top inch was missing from Lumsden’s. ‘I like a man who’s not afraid to bevvy.’

‘I’ll get this one,’ Rebus said. The barman was standing ready. Lumsden didn’t want another, so Rebus ordered an abstemious half. First impressions and all that.

‘The room’s yours for as long as you need it,’ Lumsden said. ‘Don’t pay cash for that drink, charge it to the room. Meals aren’t included, but I can let you have a few addresses. Tell them you’re a cop, you’ll find the bill pretty reasonable.’

‘Tut tut,’ Rebus said.

Lumsden smiled again. ‘Some fellow officers I wouldn’t tell that to, but somehow I think we’re on the same wavelength. Am I right?’

‘You could be.’

‘I’m not often wrong. Who knows, my next posting could be Edinburgh. A friendly face is always an asset.’

‘Speaking of which, I don’t want my presence here broadcast.’

‘Oh?’

‘The media are after me. They’re making a programme about a case, ancient history, and they want to talk to me.’

‘I get the idea.’

‘They may try tracking me down, phoning up pretending to be colleagues...’

‘Well, no one knows you’re here except me and DC Shanks. I’ll try to keep it that way.’

‘I’d appreciate it. They may try using the name Ancram. That’s the reporter.’

Lumsden winked, finished the bowl of peanuts. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

They finished their drinks and Lumsden said he had to get back to the station. He gave Rebus his telephone numbers — office and home — and took note of Rebus’s room number.

‘Anything I can do, give me a call,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘You know how to get to T-Bird Oil?’

‘I’ve got a map.’

Lumsden nodded. ‘What about tonight? Fancy going for a meal?’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll drop by about seven-thirty.’

They shook hands again. Rebus watched him leave, then headed back to the bar for a whisky. As advised, he charged it to the room, and took it upstairs. With the curtains closed, the room was cooler but still airless. He looked to see if he could open the windows, but couldn’t. They had to be twelve feet high. With the curtains closed, he lay on the bed and slipped off his shoes, then replayed his conversation with Lumsden. It was something he did, usually finding things he could have said, better ways of saying them. Suddenly he sat up. Lumsden had mentioned T-Bird Oil, but Rebus couldn’t recall telling him the name of the company. Maybe he had... or maybe he’d mentioned it to DC Shanks over the phone, and Shanks had told Lumsden.

He didn’t feel relaxed any more, so prowled the room. In one of the drawers he found material about Aberdeen, tourist stuff, PR stuff. He sat down at the dressing table and started to go through it. The facts came with a zealot’s force.

Fifty thousand people in the Grampian region worked in the oil and gas industry, twenty per cent of total employment. Since the early seventies, the area’s population had increased by sixty thousand, housing stock had increased by a third, creating major new suburbs around Aberdeen. A thousand acres of industrial land had been developed around the city. Aberdeen Airport had seen a tenfold increase in passenger numbers, and was now the world’s busiest heliport. There wasn’t a negative comment anywhere in the literature, except for the minor mention of a fishing village called Old Torry, which had been granted its charter three years after Columbus landed in America. When oil came to the north-east, Old Torry was flattened to make way for a Shell supply base. Rebus raised his glass and toasted the memory of the village.

He showered, changed his clothes, and headed back to the bar. A flustered-looking woman in long tartan skirt and white blouse came bustling up to him.

‘Are you with the convention?’

He shook his head, and remembered reading about it: pollution in the North Sea or something. Eventually the woman shepherded three corpulent businessmen out of the hotel. Rebus went into the lobby and watched a limo take them away. He checked his watch. Time to go.

Finding Dyce was easy, he just followed signs to the airport. Sure enough, he saw helicopters in the sky. The area around the airport was a mix of farming land, new hotels, and industrial complexes. T-Bird Oil had its headquarters in a modest three-storey hexagon, most of it smoked glass. There was a car park at the front, and landscaped gardens with a path meandering through them to the building itself. In the distance, light aircraft were taking off and landing.

The reception area was spacious and light. Under glass there were models of the North Sea oilfields and of some of T-Bird’s production platforms. Bannock was the biggest as well as the oldest. A scale-sized double-decker bus had been placed beside it, dwarfed by the rig. There were huge colour photos and diagrams on the walls, along with a slew of framed awards. The receptionist told him he was expected, and should take the lift to the first floor. The lift was mirrored, and Rebus examined himself. He remembered taking the lift up to Allan Mitchison’s flat, Bain shadow-boxing his reflection. Rebus knew if he tried that just now, his reflection would probably win. He crunched down on another mint.

A pretty girl was waiting for him. She asked him to follow her, not exactly an onerous task. They moved through an open plan office, only half the desks in current use. There were TVs switched on to Teletext news, share indices, CNN. They came out of the office into another corridor, much quieter, deep carpeting underfoot. At the second door, which was open, the girl gestured for Rebus to enter.

Stuart Minchell’s name was on the door, so Rebus assumed the man rising to his feet to shake hands was Minchell.

‘Inspector Rebus? Nice to meet you at last.’

It was true what they said about voices, you could seldom pin the right face and body to them. Minchell spoke with authority, but looked too young — mid-twenties tops, with a sheen to his face, red cheeks, short slicked-back hair. He wore round metal-framed glasses and had thick dark eyebrows, making the face seem mischievous. He still affected wide red braces with his trousers. When he half-turned, Rebus saw his hair at the back had been coaxed into the beginnings of a ponytail.

‘Coffee or tea?’ the girl was asking.

‘No time, Sabrina,’ Minchell said. He opened his arms wide to Rebus in apology. ‘Change of plan, Inspector. I have to be at the North Sea Conference. I did try reaching you to warn you.’

‘That’s all right.’ Rebus was thinking: shit. If he called Fort Apache, that means they’ll know I’m up here.

‘I thought we could take my car, talk on the way out there. I should only be half an hour or so. If you’ve any questions, we can talk afterwards.’

‘That’ll be fine.’

Minchell was shrugging into his jacket.

‘Files,’ Sabrina reminded him.

‘Check.’ He picked up half a dozen, stuffed them into a briefcase.

‘Business cards.’

He opened his Filofax, saw he had a supply. ‘Check.’

‘Cellphone.’

He patted his pocket, nodded. ‘Is the car ready?’

Sabrina said she’d check, and went to find her phone.

‘We may as well wait downstairs,’ Minchell said.

‘Check,’ said Rebus.

They waited for the lift. When it came, there were already two men inside, which still left room. Minchell hesitated. He looked like he was about to say they’d wait, but Rebus had already stepped into the lift, so he followed, with a slight bow to one of the men, the elder of the two.

Rebus watched in the mirror, saw the elder man staring back at him. He had long yellow-silver hair swept back from his forehead and behind both ears. He rested his hands on a silver-topped cane and wore a baggy linen suit. He looked like a character out of Tennessee Williams, his face chiselled and frowning, gait only slightly stooped despite his years. Rebus looked down and noticed the man was wearing a pair of well-worn trainers. The man brought a notepad out of his pocket, scribbled something on it while still holding his cane, tore the sheet off and handed it to the second man, who read it and nodded.

The lift opened at the ground floor. Minchell physically held Rebus back until the other two had got out. Rebus watched them march to the front door of the building, the man with the note veering off to make a call at reception. There was a red Jaguar parked directly outside. A liveried chauffeur held the back door open for Big Daddy.

Minchell was rubbing his brow with the fingers of one hand.

‘Who was that?’ Rebus asked.

‘That was Major Weir.’

‘Wish I’d known, I’d’ve asked him why I can’t get Green Shield stamps with my petrol any more.’

Minchell wasn’t in the mood for a joke.

‘What was the note all about?’ Rebus asked.

‘The Major doesn’t say much. He communicates better on paper.’ Rebus laughed: communication breakdown. ‘I’m serious,’ Minchell said. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard him say more than a couple of dozen words all the time I’ve worked for him.’

‘Something wrong with his voice?’

‘No, he sounds fine, a little croaky, but that’s to be expected. Thing is, his accent is American.’

‘So?’

‘So he wishes it was Scottish.’

With the Jag gone, they walked out to the car park. ‘He’s got this obsession with Scotland,’ Minchell went on. ‘His parents were Scots migrants, used to tell him stories about the “old country”. He got hooked. He only spends maybe a third of the year here — T-Bird Oil stretches around the globe — but you can tell he hates to leave.’

‘Anything else I should know?’

‘He’s a strict teetotaller, one whiff of alcohol from an employee and they’re out.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Widower. His wife’s buried on Islay or somewhere like that. This is my car.’

It was a midnight-blue Mazda racing model, low-slung with just enough room for two bucket seats. Minchell’s briefcase all but filled the back. He hooked his phone up before turning the ignition.

‘He had a son,’ Minchell went on, ‘but I think he died, too, or was disinherited. The Major won’t talk about him. Do you want the good news or the bad?’

‘Let’s try the bad.’

‘Still no sign of Jake Harley, he hasn’t returned from his walking holiday. He’s due back in a couple of days.’

‘I’d like to head up to Sullom Voe anyway,’ Rebus said. Especially if Ancram were going to be able to track him to Aberdeen.

‘No problem with that. We’ll get you up there on a chopper.’

‘What’s the good news?’

‘Good news is, I’ve arranged for you to take another chopper out to Bannock to talk to Willie Ford. And as it’s a day-trip, you won’t need any survival training. Believe me, that’s good news. Part of the training, they belt you into a simulator and tip you into a swimming pool.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Oh, yes. Anyone making more than ten day-trips a year has to. Scared the hell out of me.’

‘But the helicopters are safe enough?’

‘Don’t worry about that. And you’re lucky just now: a nice window.’ He saw Rebus’s blank look. ‘A window in the weather, no major storms brewing. See, oil is an all-year industry, but it’s also seasonal. We can’t always get to and from the platforms, it depends on the weather. If we want to tow a rig out to sea, we need to plot a window, then hope for the best. The weather out there...’ Minchell shook his head. ‘Sometimes it can make you believe in the Almighty.’

‘Old Testament variety?’ Rebus guessed. Minchell smiled and nodded, then made a call on his phone.

They came out of Dyce and into Bridge of Don, following signs to the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre. Rebus waited until Minchell had finished his call before asking a question.

‘Where was Major Weir headed?’

‘Same place we are. He’s got to make a speech.’

‘I thought you said he doesn’t speak.’

‘He doesn’t. That man with him was his PR guru, Hayden Fletcher. He’ll read the speech. The Major will sit beside him and listen.’

‘Does that count as eccentric?’

‘Not when you’re worth a hundred million dollars.’

13

The Conference Centre car park was full of upper-tier management models: Mercs, Beamers, Jags, the occasional Bentley or Roller. A huddle of chauffeurs smoked cigarettes and swapped anecdotes.

‘Might have been better PR if you’d all come on bikes,’ Rebus said, getting his first view of a demo outside the prism-shaped dome which marked the entrance to the Centre. Someone had unfurled a huge banner from the roof, painted green on white: DON’T KILL OUR OCEANS! Security personnel were up there, trying to haul it in while still retaining their balance and dignity. Someone with a megaphone was leading the chant. There were demonstrators in full combat kit and radiation hoods, and others dressed up as mermaids and mermen, plus an inflatable whale which, gusted by the wind, was in danger of snapping its moorings. Uniformed police patrolled the demo, speaking into their shoulder radios. Rebus guessed there’d be a wagon nearby with the heavier artillery: riot shields, visors, US-style defence batons... It didn’t look like that kind of demo, not yet.

‘We’re going to have to go through them,’ Minchell said. ‘I hate this. We’re spending millions on environmental protection. I’m even a member of Greenpeace, Oxfam, you name it. But every bloody year it’s the same.’ He grabbed his briefcase and cellphone, remote-locked the car and set its alarm, then headed for the doors.

‘You’re supposed to have a delegate badge to get in,’ he explained. ‘But just show a warrant card or something. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

They were close to the main demo now. There was background music through a portable PA, a song about whales, or maybe it was Wales. Rebus recognised the vocal style: The Dancing Pigs. People were shoving flyers at him. He took one of each and thanked them. A young woman was pacing in front of him like a caged leopard. She controlled the megaphone. Her voice was nasal and North American.

‘Decisions made now will affect your children’s grandchildren! You can’t put a price on the future! Put the future first, for everybody’s sake!’

She looked at Rebus as he passed her. Her face was blank, no hate, no recrimination, just working. Her bleached hair was rat-tailed, threaded with bright braids, one of which fell down the middle of her forehead.

‘Kill the oceans and you kill the planet! Put Mother Earth before profits!’

Rebus was convinced even before he reached the door.

There was a bin inside, where the flyers were being dumped. But Rebus folded his and put them in his pocket. Two guards wanted to see ID, but his warrant card, as predicted, was effective. There were more guards patrolling the concourse — private security, uniformed, wearing shiny caps which meant nothing. They’d probably had a one-day crash course in menacing pleasantry. The concourse itself was full of suits. Messages were being relayed over a PA system. There were static displays, tables piled high with literature, sales pitches for God knows what. Some of the booths looked to be doing good business. Minchell excused himself and said he’d meet Rebus at the main doors in about half an hour. He said he had to do some ‘schmoozing’. This seemed to mean shaking hands with people, smiling, giving them a few words and in some cases his business card, then moving on. Rebus quickly lost him.

Rebus didn’t see too many pictures of rigs, and those he did see were tension legs and semi-submersibles. The real excitement seemed to be FPSOs — Floating Production, Storage and Offloading Systems — which were like tankers, but did away with the need for a platform altogether. Flowlines connected straight to the FPSO, and it could store 300,000 barrels of oil.

‘Impressive, isn’t she?’ a Scandinavian in a salesman’s suit asked Rebus. Rebus nodded.

‘No need for a platform.’

‘And easier to scrap when the time comes. Cheap and environmental.’ The man paused. ‘Interested in leasing one?’

‘Where would I park it?’ He walked off before the salesman could translate.

Maybe it was his tracker’s nose, but he found the bar with no difficulty and settled at the far end with a whisky and a bowl of nibbles. Lunch had been a petrol station sandwich, so he tucked in. A man came and stood next to him, wiped his face with a huge white handkerchief and asked for a soda water with lots of ice.

‘Why do I still come to these things?’ the man growled. His accent was pitched somewhere in mid-Atlantic. He was tall and thin, his reddish hair thinning. The flesh around his neck was slack, putting him in his early fifties, though he could have passed for five years younger. Rebus didn’t have an answer for him, so said nothing. The drink arrived, and he downed it in one, then ordered another. ‘Want one?’ he asked.

‘No, thanks.’

The man noticed that Rebus’s photocard was missing. ‘Are you a delegate?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Observer.’

‘The newspaper?’

Rebus shook his head again.

‘Thought not. Oil’s only news when something goes wrong. It’s bigger than the nuclear industry, but gets half the coverage.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it, if the news they’re printing is all bad?’

The man thought about this, then laughed, showing perfect teeth. ‘You’ve got me there.’ He wiped his face again. ‘So what exactly are you observing?’

‘I’m off duty right now.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘So what do you do?’

‘I work my guts out. But I have to tell you, my company’s just about given up trying to sell to the oil industry. They’d rather buy Yank or Scandinavian. Well, fuck them. No wonder Scotland’s down the pan... and we want independence.’ The man shook his head, then leaned forwards over the bar. Rebus did likewise: co-conspirator. ‘Mostly what I do is, I attend boring conventions like this. And I go home at night and wonder what it’s all about. You sure about that drink?’

‘Go on then.’

So Rebus let the man buy him a drink. The way he had said ‘fuck them’ made Rebus think he didn’t swear that often. It was just something he did to break the ice, to show he was speaking man to man; off the record, as it were. Rebus offered a cigarette, but his friend shook his head.

‘Gave them up years ago. Don’t think I’m not still tempted.’ He paused, looked around the bar. ‘Know who I’d like to be?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Go on, guess.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Sean Connery.’ The man nodded. ‘Think about it, with what he earns per film, he could give a pound to every man, woman and child in this country, and still have a couple of mill left over. Isn’t that incredible?’

‘So if you were Sean Connery, you’d give everyone a pound?’

‘I’d be the world’s sexiest man, what would I need money for?’

It was a good point, so they drank to it. Only thing was, talking about Sean reminded Rebus of Ancram, Sean’s lookalike. He checked his watch, saw that he had to leave.

‘Can I buy you one before I go?’

The man shook his head, then produced his business card, doing so in a slick movement, like a magician. ‘In case you ever need it. My name’s Ryan, by the way.’ Rebus read the card: Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division, and a company masthead: Eugene Construction.

‘John Rebus,’ he said, shaking Slocum’s hand.

‘John Rebus,’ Slocum said, nodding. ‘No business card, John?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

Slocum’s eyes widened. ‘Did I say anything incriminating?’

‘Wouldn’t bother me if you did. I’m based in Edinburgh.’

‘A long way from home. Is it Johnny Bible?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He’s killed in both cities, hasn’t he?’

Rebus nodded. ‘No, it’s not Johnny Bible. Take care, Ryan.’

‘You too. It’s a mad bad world out there.’

‘Isn’t it just?’

Stuart Minchell was waiting for him at the doors. ‘Anything else you’d like to see, or shall we head back?’

‘Let’s go.’

Lumsden called up to his room, and Rebus came downstairs to meet him. Lumsden was well-dressed, but casual — the blazer swapped for a cream jacket, yellow shirt open at the neck.

‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘do I call you Lumsden all night?’

‘First name’s Ludovic.’

‘Ludovic Lumsden?’

‘My parents had a sense of humour. Friends call me Ludo.’

The evening was warm and still light. Birds were noisy in the gardens, and fat seagulls were picking their way along the pavements.

‘It’ll stay light till ten, maybe eleven,’ Lumsden explained.

‘Those are the fattest seagulls I’ve ever seen.’

‘I hate them. Look at the state of the pavements.’

It was true, the slabs underfoot were speckled with birdshit. ‘Where are we going?’ Rebus asked.

‘Call it a mystery tour. It’s all within walking distance. You like mystery tours?’

‘I like having a guide.’

Their first stop was an Italian restaurant, where Lumsden was well known. Everyone seemed to want to shake his hand, and the proprietor took him aside for a quiet word, apologising to Rebus beforehand.

‘The Italians up here are docile,’ Lumsden explained later. ‘They never quite managed to run the town.’

‘So who does?’

Lumsden considered the question. ‘A mixture.’

‘Any Americans?’

Lumsden looked at him, nodded. ‘They run a lot of the clubs and some of the newer hotels. Service industry stuff. They arrived in the seventies, never moved away. Do you want to go to a club later?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It sounds almost respectable.’

Lumsden laughed. ‘Oh, you want sleaze? That’s supposed to be what Aberdeen’s about, right? You’ve got the wrong idea. The city is strictly corporate. Later on, if you really want, I’ll take you down by the docks: strippers and hard drinkers, but a tiny minority.’

‘Living down south, you hear stories.’

‘Of course you do: high-class brothels, dope and porn, gambling and alcohol. We hear the stories, too. But as for seeing the stuff...’ Lumsden shook his head. ‘The oil industry’s pretty tame really. The roughnecks have all but disappeared. Oil’s gone legit.’

Rebus was almost convinced, but Lumsden was trying too hard. He kept talking, and the more he talked the less Rebus believed. The owner came over for another word, drew Lumsden away to a corner of the restaurant. Lumsden kept a hand on the man’s back, patting it. He flattened his tie as he sat down again.

‘His son’s running wild,’ Lumsden explained. He shrugged, as if there were nothing more to say, and told Rebus to try the meatballs.

Afterwards, there was a nightclub, where businessmen vied with young turks for the attentions of the daytime shop-workers turned Lycra vixens. The music was loud and so were the clothes. Lumsden nodded his head to the pulse, but didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. He looked like a tour guide. Ludo: player of games. Rebus knew he was being sold a line, the same line any tourists to the north would be sold — this was the country of Baxter’s soups, men in skirts, and granny’s hieland hame; oil was just another industry, the city and its people had risen above it. There was still a sense of Highland perspective.

There was no down side.

‘I thought you might find this place interesting,’ Lumsden yelled over the music.

‘Why?’

‘It’s where Michelle Strachan met Johnny Bible.’

Rebus tried to swallow, couldn’t. He hadn’t noticed the name of the club. He looked with new eyes, saw dancers and drinkers, saw proprietorial arms around unwilling necks. Saw hungry eyes and money used for mating. He imagined Johnny Bible standing quietly by the bar, ticking off possibles in his mind, narrowing the options down to one. Then asking Michelle Fifer for a dance...

When Rebus suggested they move on, Lumsden didn’t disagree. So far, they’d paid for one round of drinks: the restaurant meal had been ‘taken care of, and the bouncer on the door of the club had nodded them through, bypassing the cash desk.

As they left, a man escorted a young woman past them. Rebus half-turned his head.

‘Someone you know?’ Lumsden asked.

Rebus shrugged. ‘Thought I recognised the face.’ He’d seen it only that afternoon: dark curly hair, glasses, olive complexion. Hayden Fletcher, Major Weir’s ‘PR guru’. He was looking like he’d had a good day. Fletcher’s companion glanced back at Rebus and smiled.

Outside, there were still slants of purple light in the sky. In a cemetery across the road, starlings were mobbing a tree.

‘Where now?’ Lumsden said.

Rebus stretched his spine. ‘Actually, Ludo, I think I’ll just head back to the hotel. Sorry to wimp out like this.’

Lumsden tried not to look relieved. ‘So what’s your itinerary tomorrow?’

Suddenly Rebus didn’t want him to know. ‘Another meeting with the deceased’s employer.’ Lumsden seemed satisfied.

‘And then home?’

‘In a couple of days.’

Lumsden tried not to let his disappointment show. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘get a good night’s sleep. You know your way back?’

Rebus nodded and they shook hands. Lumsden headed off one way, Rebus the other. He kept walking in the direction of the hotel, taking his time, window-shopping, checking behind him. Then he stopped and consulted his map, saw that the harbour area was almost walking distance. But the first taxi that came along, he flagged it down.

‘Where to?’ the driver asked.

‘Somewhere I can get a good drink. Somewhere down by the docks.’ He thought: ‘Down Where the Drunkards Roll.’

‘How rough do you want?’

‘As rough as it gets.’

The man nodded, started off. Rebus leaned forward in his seat. ‘I thought the city would be livelier.’

‘Ach, it’s a bit early yet. And mind, the weekends are wild. Pay-packets coming off the rigs.’

‘A lot of drinking.’

‘A lot of everything.’

‘I hear all the clubs are owned by Americans.’

‘Yanks,’ the driver said. ‘They’re everywhere.’

‘Illegal as well as legal?’

The driver stared at him in his rearview. ‘What were you after in particular?’

‘Maybe something to get me high.’

‘You don’t look the type.’

‘What does the type look like?’

‘It doesn’t look like a copper.’

Rebus laughed. ‘Off-duty and playing away from home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Edinburgh.’

The driver nodded thoughtfully. ‘If I wanted to get high,’ he said, ‘I’d maybe think about Burke’s Club on College Street. This is us.’

He pulled the cab to a stop. The meter read just over two pounds; Rebus handed over five and told him to keep the change. The driver leaned out of his window.

‘You weren’t a hundred yards from Burke’s when I picked you up.’

‘I know.’ Of course he knew: Burke’s was where Johnny Bible had met Michelle.

As the cab drew away, he took stock of his surroundings. Right across the road was the harbour, boats moored there, lights showing where men were still working — maintenance crews probably. This side of the road was a mix of tenements, shops and pubs. A couple of girls were working the street, but traffic was quiet. Rebus was outside a place called the Yardarm. It promised karaoke nights, exotic dancers, a happy hour, guest beers, satellite TV, and ‘a warm welcome’.

As Rebus pushed open the door, he felt the warmth straight off. It was broiling inside. It took him a full minute to work his way to the bar, by which time the smoke was stinging even his hardened eyes. Some of the customers looked like fishermen — cherry faces, slick hair and thick jerseys. Others had hands blackened with oil — dockside mechanics. The women had eyes drooping from drunkenness, faces either too heavily made-up or else needing to be. At the bar, he ordered a double whisky. Now that the metric system had taken over, he could never remember whether thirty-five mils was less or more than a quarter gill. Last time he’d seen so many drunks in the same place had been after a Hibs/Hearts match. He’d been drinking down Easter Road, and Hibs had won. Pandemonium.

It took him five minutes to engage in conversation with his neighbour, who used to work on the rigs. He was short and wiry, already completely bald in his thirties, and wore Buddy Holly glasses with jam-jar lenses. He had worked in the canteen.

‘Best of fucking food every day. Three menus, two shifts. Top quality. The new arrivals always stuffed themselves, but they soon learned.’

‘Did you work two weeks on, two off?’

‘Everybody did. Seven-day weeks at that.’ The man’s face was pointing down at the bar as he spoke, like his head was too heavy to lift. ‘You got hooked on it. The time I spent on land, I couldn’t settle, couldn’t wait to get back offshore.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Times got tougher. I was surplus to requirements.’

‘I hear the rigs are hoaching with dope. Did you ever see any?’

‘Fuck aye, all over the place. Just for relaxation, understand? Nobody was daft enough to go out to work wired up. One false move, a pipe can have your hand off — I know, I’ve seen it. Or if you lose your balance, I mean, it’s a two-hundred fucking foot drop to the water. But there was plenty of dope, plenty of booze. And I’ll tell you, there might not have been any women, but we had scud mags and films up to our ears. Never seen the like. All tastes catered for, and some of them were pretty disgusting. That’s a man of the world talking, so you know what I mean.’

Rebus thought he did. He bought the wee man a drink. If his companion leaned any lower over the bar, his nose would be in the glass. When someone announced that the karaoke would start in five minutes, Rebus knew it was time to leave. Been there, done that. He used his map to guide him back towards Union Street. The night was growing livelier. Groups of teenagers were roaming, police wagons — plain blue Transits — checking them out. There was a strong uniformed presence, but nobody seemed intimidated. People were roaring, singing, clapping their hands. Midweek Aberdeen was like Edinburgh on a bad Saturday night. A couple of woolly suits were discussing something with two young men, while girlfriends stood by chewing gum. A wagon was parked next to them, its back doors open.

I’m just a tourist here, Rebus told himself, walking past.

He took a wrong turn somewhere, ended up approaching his hotel from the opposite direction, passing a large statue of William Wallace brandishing a claymore.

‘Evening, Mel,’ Rebus said.

He climbed the hotel steps, decided on a nightcap, one to take up to his room. The bar was full of conventioneers, some of them still wearing their delegate badges. They sat at tables awash with empty glasses. A lone woman was perched at the bar, smoking a black cigarette, blowing the smoke ceiling-wards. She had peroxide hair and wore a lot of gold. Her two-piece suit was crimson, her tights or stockings black. Rebus looked at her and decided they were stockings. Her face was hard, the hair pulled back and held with a large gold clasp. There was powder on her cheeks, and dark gloss lipstick on her lips. Maybe Rebus’s age; maybe even a year or two older — the sort of woman men called ‘handsome’. She’d had a couple of drinks, which was perhaps why she smiled.

‘Are you with the convention?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Thank Christ for that. I swear every one of them’s tried chatting me up, but all they can talk about is crude.’ She paused. ‘As in crude oil — dead crude and live crude. Did you know there was a difference?’

Rebus smiled, shook his head and ordered his drink. ‘Do you want another, or does that count as a chat-up line?’

‘It does and I will.’ She saw him looking at her cigarette. ‘Sobranie.’

‘Does the black paper make them taste any better?’

‘The tobacco makes them taste better.’

Rebus got out his own pack. ‘I’m a wood-shavings man myself.’

‘So I see.’

The drinks arrived. Rebus signed the chit to charge them to his room.

‘Are you here on business?’ Her voice was deep, west coast or thereabouts, working-class educated.

‘Sort of. What about you?’

‘Business. So what do you do?’

World’s worst reply to a chat-up: ‘I’m a police officer.’

She raised one eyebrow, interested. ‘CID?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you working on the Johnny Bible case?’

‘No.’

‘The way the papers tell it, I thought every policeman in Scotland was.’

‘I’m the exception.’

‘I remember Bible John,’ she said, sucking on the cigarette. ‘I was brought up in Glasgow. For weeks my mum wouldn’t let me out of the house. It was like being in the clink.’

‘He did that to a lot of women.’

‘And now it’s all happening again.’ She paused. ‘When I said I remembered Bible John, your line should have been, “You don’t look old enough”.’

‘Which proves I’m not chatting you up.’

She stared at him. ‘Pity,’ she said, reaching for her drink. Rebus used his own glass as a prop, too, buying time. She’d given him all the information he needed. He had to decide whether to act on it or not. Ask her up to his room? Or plead... what exactly? Guilt? Fear? Self-loathing?

Fear.

He saw the way the night could go, trying to extract beauty from need, passion from a certain despair.

‘I’m flattered,’ he said at last.

‘Don’t be,’ she said quickly. His move again, an amateur chess player thrown against a pro.

‘So what do you do?’

She turned to him. Her eyes said that she knew every tactic in this game. ‘I’m in sales. Products for the oil industry.’ She angled her head towards the rest of the men in the bar. ‘I may have to work with them, but nobody says I have to share my time off with them.’

‘You live in Aberdeen?’

She shook her head. ‘Let me get you another.’

‘I’ve an early start tomorrow.’

‘One more won’t hurt.’

‘It might,’ Rebus said, holding her gaze.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘bang goes the perfect end to a perfectly shitty day.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

He felt her eyes on him as he walked out of the bar towards reception. He had to force his feet up the stairs towards his room. Her pull was strong. He realised he didn’t even know her name.

He switched on the TV while he got undressed. Some sub-Hollywood garbage: the women looked like skeletons with lipstick; the men acted with their necks — he’d seen barbers with more Method. He thought of the woman again. Was she on the game? Definitely not. But she’d hit on him quick. He’d told her he was flattered; in truth, he was bemused. Rebus had always found relationships with the opposite sex difficult. He’d grown up in a mining village, a bit behind the times when it came to things like promiscuity. You stuck your hand in a girl’s blouse and next thing her father was after you with a leather belt.

Then he’d joined the army, where women were by turns fantasy figures and untouchables: slags and madonnas, there seemed no middle ground. Released from the army, he’d joined the police. Married by then, but his job had proved more seductive, more all-consuming than the relationship — than any relationship. Since then, his affairs had lasted months, weeks, mere days sometimes. Too late now, he felt, for anything more permanent. Women seemed to like him — that wasn’t the problem. The problem lay somewhere inside him, and it hadn’t been eased by things like the Johnny Bible case, by women abused and then killed. Rape was all about power; killing, too, in its way. And wasn’t power the ultimate male fantasy? And didn’t he sometimes dream of it, too?

He’d seen the post mortem photos of Angie Riddell, and the first thought that had come to him, the thought he’d had to push past, was: good body. It had bothered him, because in that instant she’d been just another object. Then the pathologist had got to work, and she had stopped being even that.

He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. His prayer, as every night, was that there would be no dreams. He woke up in darkness, his back drenched in sweat, and to a ticking noise. It wasn’t a clock, not even his watch. His watch was on the cabinet. This was closer, much more intimate. Was it coming from the wall? The headboard? He switched the light on, but the sound had stopped. Woodworm maybe? He couldn’t find any holes in the headboard’s wooden surround. He switched the lamp off and closed his eyes. There it was again: more geiger counter than metronome. He tried to ignore it, but it was too close. It was inescapable. It was the pillow, his feather pillow. There was something inside, something alive. Would it want to crawl into his ear? Lay its eggs there? Mutate or pupate or just enjoy a snack of wax and eardrum? Sweat cooled on his back and on the sheet beneath him. There was no air in the room. He was too tired to get up, too nervy to sleep. He did what he had to do — tossed the pillow towards the door.

No more ticking, but still he couldn’t sleep. The ringing phone came as a relief. Maybe it was the woman from the bar. He’d tell her, I’m an alcoholic, a fuck-up, I’m no good for any other human being.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Ludo here, sorry to wake you.’

‘I wasn’t asleep. What’s the problem?’

‘A patrol car’s coming to pick you up.’ Rebus grimaced: had Ancram tracked him down already?

‘What for?’

‘A suicide in Stonehaven. Thought you might be interested. The name appears to be Anthony Ellis Kane.’

Rebus shot out of bed. ‘Tony El? Suicide?’

‘Looks like. The car should be there in five minutes.’

‘I’ll be ready.’

Now that John Rebus was in Aberdeen, things were more dangerous.

John Rebus.

The librarian’s list had first thrown up the name, along with an address in Arden Street, Edinburgh EH9. With a short-term reader’s ticket, Rebus had consulted editions of The Scotsman from February 1968 to December 1969. Four others had consulted the same sets of microfilm during the previous six months. Two were known to Bible John as journalists, the third was an author — he’d written a chapter on the case for a book on Scottish murderers. As for the fourth... the fourth had given his name as Peter Manuel. It would have meant nothing to the librarian writing out another short-term reader’s ticket. But the real Peter Manuel had killed up to a dozen people in the 1950s, and been hanged for it at Barlinnie Prison. It became clear to Bible John: the Upstart had been reading up on famous murderers, and in the course of his studies had come across both Manuel and Bible John. Narrowing his search, he’d decided to concentrate his research on Bible John, learning more about the case by reading newspapers from the period. ‘Peter Manuel’ had requested not only Scotsmans from 1968–70, but Glasgow Heralds too.

His was to be thorough research. And the address on his reader’s ticket was as fictitious as his name: Lanark Terrace, Aberdeen. The real Peter Manuel had carried out his killing spree in Lanarkshire.

But though the address be false, Bible John wondered about Aberdeen. His own investigations had already led him to site the Upstart in the Aberdeen area. This seemed a further connection. And now John Rebus was in Aberdeen, too... Bible John had been pondering John Rebus, even before he knew who he was. He was at first an enigma, and now a problem. Bible John had scanned some of the Upstart’s most recent cuttings into the computer, and browsed through them while he wondered what to do about the policeman. He read another policeman’s words: ‘This person needs help, and we would ask him to come forward so that we can help him.’ Followed by more speculation. They were whistling in the dark.

Except that one of them was in Aberdeen.

And Bible John had given him his business card.

He’d always known that it would be dangerous, tracking down the Upstart, but he could hardly have expected to bump into a policeman along the way. And not just any officer, but someone who’d been looking at the Bible John case. John Rebus, policeman, based in Edinburgh, address in Arden Street, currently in Aberdeen... He decided to open a new file on his computer, dedicated to Rebus. He had looked through some recent papers, and thought he’d found why Rebus was in Aberdeen: an oil-worker had fallen from a tenement window in Edinburgh, foul play suspected. Reasonable to conclude that Rebus was working that case rather than any other. But there was still the fact that Rebus had been reading up on the Bible John case. Why? What business was it of his?

And a second fact, more problematical still: Rebus now had his business card. It wouldn’t mean anything to him, couldn’t, not yet. But there might come a time... the closer he came to the Upstart, the more risks he would face. The card might mean something to the policeman sometime down the road. Could Bible John risk that? He seemed to have two options: quicken his hunt for the Upstart.

Or take the policeman out of the game.

He would think it over. Meantime, he had to concentrate on the Upstart.

His contact at the National Library had informed him that a reader’s ticket required proof of identity: driver’s licence, something like that. Maybe the Upstart had forged himself a whole new identity as ‘Peter Manuel’, but Bible John doubted it. More likely he had managed to talk himself past proving his identity. He would be good at talking. He’d be ingratiating, wheedling. He wouldn’t look like a monster. His would be a face women — and men — could trust. He was able to walk out of night clubs with women he’d met only an hour or two before. Getting round a security check would have posed him few problems.

He stood up and examined his face in the mirror. The police had issued a series of photofits, computer generated, ageing the original photofit of Bible John. One of them wasn’t a bad likeness, but it was one amongst many. Nobody had so much as looked at him twice; none of his colleagues had remarked on any resemblance. Not even the policeman had seen anything. He rubbed his chin. The bristles showed through red where he hadn’t shaved. The house was silent. His wife was elsewhere. He’d married her because it had seemed expedient, one more lie to the profile. He unlocked the study door, walked to the front door and made sure it was locked. Then he climbed the stairs to the upstairs hall, and pulled down the sliding ladder which led up into the attic. He liked it up here, a place only he visited. He looked at a trunk, on top of which sat a couple of old boxes — camouflage. They hadn’t been moved. He lifted them off now and took a key from his pocket, unlocked the trunk and snapped open the two heavy brass clasps. He listened again, hearing only silence past the dull beat of his own heart, then lifted the lid of the trunk.

Inside, it was filled with treasure: handbags, shoes, scarves, trinkets, watches and purses — nothing with any means of identifying the previous owner. The bags and purses had been emptied, checked thoroughly for telltale initials or even blemishes and distinguishing marks. Any letters, anything with a name or address, had been incinerated. He settled on the floor in front of the open trunk, not touching anything. He didn’t need to touch. He was remembering a girl who’d lived on his street when he’d been eight or nine — she’d been a year younger. They’d played a game. They would take it in turns to lie very still on the ground, eyes closed, while the other one tried to remove as much of their clothing as they could without the one being stripped feeling anything.

Bible John had been quick to feel the girl’s fingers on him — he’d played by the rules. But when the girl had lain there, and he’d started working at buttons and zips... her eyelids had fluttered, a smile on her lips... and she’d lain there uncomplaining, even though he knew she must be able to feel his clumsy fingers.

She’d been cheating, of course.

Now his grandmother came to him, with her constant warnings: beware women who wear too much perfume; don’t play cards with strangers on trains...

The police hadn’t said anything about the Upstart taking souvenirs. No doubt they wanted to keep it quiet; they’d have their reasons. But the Upstart would be taking souvenirs. Three so far. And he’d be hoarding them in Aberdeen. He’d slipped just a little, giving Aberdeen as his address on the reader’s card... Bible John stood up suddenly. He saw it now, saw the transaction between the librarian and ‘Peter Manuel’. The Upstart claiming that he needed the use of a reference library. The librarian asking for details, for proof of identity... The Upstart flustered, saying he’d left all that sort of thing at home. Could he go and fetch it? Impossible, he’d come down from Aberdeen for the day. A long way to travel, so the librarian had relented, issued the ticket. But now the Upstart was obliged to give Aberdeen as his address.

He was in Aberdeen.

Revived, Bible John locked the trunk, replaced the boxes exactly as they had been, and went back downstairs. It grieved him that with John Rebus so close, he might have to move the trunk... and himself with it. In his study, he sat at his desk. Have the Upstart based in Aberdeen but mobile. Have him learn from his first mistakes. So now he plans each cull well in advance. Are the victims chosen at random, or is there some pattern there? Easier to choose prey that wasn’t random; but then easier, too, for the police to establish a pattern and eventually catch you. But the Upstart was young: maybe that was one lesson he hadn’t yet learned. His choice of ‘Peter Manuel’ showed a certain cockiness, teasing anyone who was able to track him that far. He either knew his victims or he didn’t. Two routes to follow. Route one: say he did know them, say there existed some pattern linking all three to the Upstart.

One profile: the Upstart was a travelling man — lorry driver, company rep, a job like that. Lots of travel throughout Scotland. Travelling men could be lonely men, sometimes they used the services of a prostitute. The Edinburgh victim had been a prostitute. Often they stayed in hotels. The Glasgow victim had worked as a chambermaid. The first victim — the Aberdeen cull — failed to fit that pattern.

Or did she? Was there something the police had missed, something he might find? He picked up his telephone, called Directory Enquiries.

‘It’s a Glasgow number,’ he told the voice on the other end.

14

In the middle of the night, Stonehaven was only twenty minutes south of Aberdeen, especially with a maniac at the wheel.

‘He’ll still be dead when we get there, pal,’ Rebus told the driver.

And so he was, dead in a bed & breakfast bathroom, one arm over the side of the bath Marat-style. He’d slashed his wrists by the book — up and down rather than across. The water in the bath looked cold. Rebus didn’t get too close — the arm over the side had leaked blood all across the floor.

‘The landlady didn’t know who was in the bathroom,’ Lumsden explained. ‘She just knew whoever it was had been in there long enough. She got no answer, so went to fetch one of her “boys” — this place caters to oil-workers. She tells me she thought Mr Kane was an oil-worker. Anyway, one of her lodgers got the door open and they found this.’

‘Nobody saw or heard anything?’

‘Suicide tends to be a quiet affair. Follow me.’

They went along narrow passages and up two short flights of stairs to Tony El’s bedroom. It was fairly tidy. ‘The landlady vacuums and dusts twice a week, sheets and towels are changed twice a week too.’ There was a bottle of cheap whisky with the top unscrewed, about a fifth of the bottle left. An empty glass stood beside it. ‘Look over here.’

Rebus looked. On the dressing table sat a full set of works: syringe, spoon, cotton wool, lighter, and a tiny polythene bag of brown powder.

‘I hear heroin’s back in a big way,’ Lumsden said.

‘I didn’t see marks on his arms,’ Rebus said. Lumsden nodded that they were there, but Rebus went back to the bathroom to make sure. Yes, a couple of pinpricks on the inside left forearm. He went back to the bedroom. Lumsden was seated on the bed, flicking through a magazine.

‘He hadn’t been using long,’ Rebus said. ‘His arms are pretty clean. I didn’t see the knife.’

‘Look at this stuff,’ Lumsden said. He wanted to show Rebus the magazine. A woman with a plastic bag over her head was being entered from behind. ‘Some people have sick minds.’

Rebus took the magazine from him. It was called Snuff Babes. On the front inside page it stated that it was printed ‘with pride’ in the USA. It wasn’t just illegal; it was the hardest core Rebus had ever seen. Pages and pages of mock-up deaths with sex attached.

Lumsden had reached into his pocket, drew out an evidence bag. Inside was a blood-stained knife. But no ordinary knife: a Stanley.

‘I’m not so sure this was suicide,’ Rebus said quietly.

So then he had to explain his reasons: the visit to Uncle Joe, how Uncle Joe’s son came by his nickname, and the fact that Tony El used to be one of Uncle Joe’s henchmen.

‘The door was locked from the inside,’ Lumsden said.

‘And it hadn’t been forced when I got here.’

‘So?’

‘So how did the landlady’s “boy” get in?’ He took Lumsden back to the bathroom and they examined the door: with the turn of a screwdriver, it could be locked and unlocked from the outside.

‘You want us to treat this as murder?’ Lumsden said. ‘You think this guy Stanley walked in here, spiked Mr Kane, dragged him along to the bathroom, and sliced his wrists open? We just passed half a dozen bedroom doors and came up two flights of stairs — don’t you think somebody might have noticed?’

‘Have you asked them?’

‘I’m telling you, John, no one saw anything.’

‘And I’m telling you this has Joseph Toal written all over it.’

Lumsden was shaking his head. He’d rolled up the magazine. It was sticking out of his jacket pocket. ‘All I see here is a suicide. And from what you’ve told me, I’m glad to see the back of the fucker, end of story.’

The same patrol car took Rebus back into the city, still keeping the wrong side of the speed limit.

Rebus felt wide awake. He paced his room, smoked three cigarettes. The city outside his cathedral windows was finally asleep. The adult pay-movie channel was still available. The only other thing on offer was beach volleyball from California. For want of any other distraction he got out the flyers from the demo. They made depressing reading. Mackerel and other species of fish were now ‘commercially extinct’ in the North Sea, while others, including haddock — staple of the fish supper — wouldn’t survive the millennium. Meantime, there were 400 oil installations out there which would one day become redundant, and if they were simply dumped along with their heavy metals and chemicals... bye-bye fishies.

Of course, it might be that the fish were for the crow road anyway: nitrates and phosphates from sewage, plus agricultural fertilisers... all drained into the seas. Rebus felt worse than ever, tossed the flyers into the bin. One of them didn’t make it, and he picked it up. It told him there was going to be a march and rally on Saturday, with a benefit concert headlined by the Dancing Pigs. Rebus binned it and decided to check his answering machine at home. There were two calls from Ancram, agitated verging on furious, and one from Gill, telling him to call her whatever the hour. So he did.

‘Hello?’ She sounded like someone had gummed up her mouth.

‘Sorry it’s so late.’

‘John.’ She paused to check the time. ‘It’s so late it’s practically early.’

‘Your message said...’

‘I know.’ She sounded like she was struggling to sit up in bed, yawned mightily. ‘Howdenhall worked on that message pad, used ESDA on it, electrostatics.’

‘And?’

‘Came up with a phone number.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Aberdeen code.’

Rebus felt his spine tingle. ‘Where in Aberdeen?’

‘It’s the payphone in some discotheque. Hang on, I’ve got the name here... Burke’s Club.’

Clickety-click.

‘Does it mean anything to you?’ she said.

Yes, he thought, it means I’m up here working at least two cases, maybe three.

‘You said a payphone?’

‘A public phone. I know because I called it. Not far from the bar by the sound of it.’

‘Give me the number.’ She did. ‘Anything else?’

‘The only fingerprints found belonged to Fergie himself. Nothing interesting on his home computer, except that he was trying a few tax dodges.’

‘Hold the front page. And his business premises?’

‘Nothing so far. John, are you OK?’

‘Fine, why?’

‘You sound... I don’t know, sort of distant.’

Rebus allowed himself a smile. ‘I’m right here. Get some sleep, Gill.’

‘Night, John.’

‘Night-night.’

He decided to try phoning Lumsden at the cop-shop. Conscientious: nearly three a.m. and he was there.

‘You should be in the land of Nod,’ Lumsden told him.

‘Something I meant to ask earlier.’

‘What?’

‘That club we were in, the one where Michelle Strachan met Johnny Bible.’

‘Burke’s?’

‘I just wondered,’ Rebus said. ‘Is it above board?’

‘Moderately.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘It skates on thin ice sometimes. There’s been a bit of drug dealing on the premises. The owners tried to clean it up, I think they’ve done a pretty good job.’

‘Who owns it?’

‘A couple of Yanks. John, what’s this about?’

Rebus took less than a second constructing his lie. ‘The Edinburgh jumper, he had a book of matches in his pocket. They were from Burke’s.’

‘It’s a popular spot.’

Rebus made a sound of agreement. ‘These owners, what were their names again?’

‘I didn’t say.’ Cagey now.

‘Is it a secret?’

A humourless laugh. ‘No.’

‘Maybe you don’t want me bothering them?’

‘Jesus, John...’ A theatrical sigh. ‘Erik-with-a-k Stemmons, Judd Fuller. I don’t see the point in talking to them.’

‘Me neither, Ludo. I just wanted their names.’ Rebus attempted an American accent. ‘Ciao, baby.’ He was smiling when he put down the receiver. He looked at his watch. Ten past three. It was a five-minute walk to College Street. But would the place still be open? He got out the phone book, looked up Burke’s — the number listed was the same one Gill had given him. He tried it: no answer. He decided to leave it at that... for the moment.

Spinning in a narrowing gyre: Allan Mitchison... Johnny Bible... Uncle Joe... Fergus McLure’s drug deal.

Beach Boys: ‘God Only Knows’. Segue to Zappa and the Mothers: ‘More Trouble Every Day’. Rebus picked his pillow off the floor, listened to it for a full minute, threw it back on to the bed, then lay him down to sleep.

He was awake early and didn’t feel like breakfast, so went for a walk instead. It was a glorious morning. The seagulls were busy hoovering up the night before’s leftovers, but the streets were otherwise uncrowded. He walked up to the Mercat Cross, then left along King Street. He knew he was heading in the vague direction of his aunt’s house, but doubted he could find it on foot. Instead, he came to something looking like an old school building but calling itself RGIT Offshore. He knew RGIT was Robert Gordon’s Institute of Technology, and that Allan Mitchison had studied for a time at RGIT-OSC. He knew Johnny Bible’s first victim had studied at Robert Gordon’s University, but not what she had studied. Had she taken classes here? He stared at the grey granite walls. The first murder was in Aberdeen. Only later did Johnny Bible move to Glasgow and Edinburgh. Meaning what? Did Aberdeen hold some particular significance for the killer? He’d walked the victim from a nightclub to Duthie Park, but that didn’t mean he was local: Michelle herself could have shown him the way. Rebus got out his map again, found College Street, then traced a finger from Burke’s Club to Duthie Park. A long walk, residential, nobody had seen them the whole length of the route. Had they taken especially quiet back roads? Rebus folded the map and put it away.

He headed past the City Hospital and ended up on the Esplanade: a long expanse of grass links with bowling green, tennis and putting. There were amusements, all closed this early. People were on the Esplanade — jogging, walking their dogs, morning constitutionals. Rebus joined them. Groynes divided the mostly sandy beach into neat compartments. It was as clean a part of the city as he’d seen, excepting the graffiti — an artist called Zero had been hard at work, making this his or her personal gallery.

Zero the Hero: a character from somewhere... Gong. Jesus, he hadn’t thought of them for years. Pot-head pixies with stoned synths. Floating anarchy.

At the end of the Esplanade, next to the harbour, stood a couple of squares of housing, a village within the city. The squares themselves comprised drying greens and garden sheds. Dogs barked a warning as he passed. It reminded him of the east neuk of Fife, fishermen’s cottages, brightly painted but unpretentious. A taxi was cruising the harbour. Rebus waved it down. The R&R was over.

There was a demo outside the headquarters of T-Bird Oil. The young woman with the braided hair who’d been so persuasive the previous day was sitting cross-legged on the grass, smoking a roll-up, looking like she was on her break. The young man currently on the megaphone didn’t have half her anger or eloquence, but his friends cheered him on. Maybe he was new to the demonstrating game.

Two young woolly suits, no older than the activists, were in consultation with three or four environmentalists in red boiler-suits and gas masks. The policemen were saying that if they took the gas masks off, conversation might be less of a chore. They were also asking that the demonstration move off land owned by T-Bird Oil. Namely, the patch of grass in front of the main entrance. The demonstrators were saying something about the laws of trespass. Legal knowledge came with the territory these days. It was like rules of unarmed combat to a squaddie.

Rebus was offered the same literature as the day before.

‘I already took,’ he said with a smile. Braid-hair looked up at him and squinted, like she was taking a photograph.

In the reception area, someone was videoing the demo through the windows. Maybe for police intelligence; maybe for T-Bird’s own files. Stuart Minchell was waiting for Rebus.

‘Isn’t it unbelievable?’ he said. ‘I hear there are groups like that one outside each of the Six Sisters, plus smaller operations like ours.’

‘The Six Sisters?’

‘The big North Sea players. Exxon, Shell, BP, Mobil... I forget the other two. So, ready for the trip?’

‘I’m not sure. What are my chances of getting a kip?’

‘It might be pretty bumpy. Good news is, we’ve a plane heading up, so you’ll be spared a budgie — at least for today. You’ll fly in to Scatsta. It used to be an RAF base. Saves the hassle of changing at Sumburgh.’

‘And it’s near Sullom Voe?’

‘Right next door. Someone’ll be there to meet you.’

‘I appreciate this, Mr Minchell.’

Minchell shrugged. ‘Ever been to Shetland?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’re probably not going to see much of it, except from the air. Just remember, when that plane takes off, you’re not in Scotland any more. You’re a “Sooth-Moother” heading for miles and miles of bugger all.’

15

Minchell drove Rebus to Dyce Airport. The plane was a twin-propeller model with seats for fourteen, but today carrying only half a dozen passengers, all men. Four of them wore suits, and were quick to open their briefcases, disgorging sheafs of paper, ring-bound reports, calculators, pens and laptops. One wore a sheepskin jacket and lacked what the others would probably call ‘proper grooming’. He kept his hands in his pockets and stared out of the window. Rebus, who didn’t mind an aisle seat, decided to sit beside him.

The man tried to stare him elsewhere. His eyes were bloodshot, grey stubble covering cheeks and chin. In reply, Rebus fastened his seat-belt. The man growled, but shifted upright, allowing Rebus half an arm-rest. Then he went back to window-watching. A car was drawing up outside.

The engine started up, propellers turning. There was a stewardess at the back of the cramped compartment. She hadn’t closed the door yet. The man in the window-seat turned to the assembly of suits.

‘Prepare to shite yourselves.’ Then he started laughing. Whisky fumes from the night before wafted over Rebus, making him glad he’d skipped breakfast. Someone else was boarding the plane. Rebus peered down the aisle. It was Major Weir, dressed in a kilt, sporran attached. The suits froze. Sheepskin was still chuckling. The door slammed shut. Seconds later, the plane began to taxi.

Rebus, who hated flying, tried to think himself into a nice Intercity 125, speeding along terra firma, no intention of suddenly pushing skywards.

‘Grab that arm-rest any harder,’ his neighbour said, ‘and you’ll uproot the fucking thing.’

The ascent was like an unpaved road. Rebus thought he could feel fillings popping loose and hear the plane’s various bolts and soldered joins snapping. But then they were levelling out, and things settled down. Rebus started breathing again, noticed sweat on his palms and brow. He adjusted the air-intake above him.

‘Better?’ the man said.

‘Better,’ Rebus agreed. The wheels retracted, covers closing. The sheepskin explained what the sounds were. Rebus nodded his thanks. He could hear the stewardess behind them.

‘I’m sorry, Major, if we’d known you were coming we’d have arranged for coffee to be served.’

She got a grunt for her trouble. The suits were staring at their work, but couldn’t concentrate. The plane hit some turbulence, and Rebus’s hands went to the arm-rests again.

‘Fear of flying,’ sheepskin said with a wink.

Rebus knew he had to get his mind off the flight. ‘Do you work at Sullom Voe?’

‘Practically run the place.’ He nodded towards the suits. ‘I don’t work for this lot you know. I’m just cadging a lift. I work for the consortium.’

‘The Six Sisters?’

‘And the rest. Thirty-odd at the last count.’

‘You know, I don’t know a damned thing about Sullom Voe.’

Sheepskin gave him a sidelong look. ‘You a reporter?’

‘I’m a CID detective.’

‘Just so long as you’re not a reporter. I’m the relief Maintenance Manager. We’re always getting grief in the press about cracked pipes and spills. I’ll tell you, the only leaks around my terminal are the ones to the fucking papers!’ He stared out of the window again, as if their conversation had reached a natural end. But a full minute later he turned to Rebus.

‘There are two pipelines into the terminal — Brent and Ninian — plus we offload from tankers. Four jetties in near-constant use. I was here from the start, 1973. That’s only four years after the first exploration ships chugged into Lerwick. By Christ, I’d have loved to’ve seen the looks on the fishermen’s faces. They probably thought it was the start of bugger all. But oil came and oil stayed, we got to fuck with the islands, and they screwed every penny they could out of the consortium. Every last penny.’

As sheepskin talked, his mouth began to relax. Rebus thought he might still be drunk. He spoke quietly, mostly with his face to the window.

‘You should have seen the place in the seventies, kiddo. It was like the Klondike — trailer parks, shanty towns, the roads churned to mud. We had power cuts, not enough fresh water, and the locals fucking hated us. I loved it. There was about one pub we could all drink in. The consortium were choppering in supplies like we were at war. Fuck, maybe we were.’

He turned to Rebus.

‘And the weather... the wind’ll strip the skin off your face.’

‘So I needn’t have brought a razor?’

The big man snorted. ‘What takes you to Sullom Voe?’

‘A suspicious death.’

‘On Shetland?’

‘In Edinburgh.’

‘How suspicious?’

‘Maybe not very, but we have to check.’

‘I know all about that. It’s like at the terminal, we run hundreds of checks every day, whether they’re needed or not. The LPG chilldown area, we had a suspected problem there, and I stress suspected. I’ll tell you, we had more men on standby than God knows what. See, it’s not that far from the crude oil storage.’

Rebus nodded, not sure what the man was getting at. He seemed to be drifting off again. Time to reel him in.

‘The man who died worked for a while at Sullom Voe. Allan Mitchison.’

‘Mitchison?’

‘He might’ve been on maintenance. I think that was his speciality.’

Sheepskin shook his head. ‘Name doesn’t... no.’

‘What about Jake Harley? He works at Sullom Voe.’

‘Oh aye, I’ve come across him. Don’t much like him, but I know the face.’

‘Why don’t you like him?’

‘He’s one of those Green bastards. You know, ecology.’ He almost spat the word. ‘What the fuck’s ecology ever done for us?’

‘So you know him.’

‘Who?’

‘Jake Harley?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

‘He’s off on some walking holiday.’

‘On Shetland?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Aye, sounds about right. He’s always on about archaeology and whatsit, bird-watching. The only birds I’d spend all day watching don’t have fucking feathers on them, let me tell you.’

Rebus to himself: I thought I was bad, but this guy redefines all the terms.

‘So he’s off walking and bird-watching: any idea where he’d go?’

‘The usual places. There are a few bird-watchers at the terminal. It’s like pollution control. We know we’re doing all right as long as the birds don’t suddenly start turning up their toes. Like with the Negrita.’ He almost bit off the end of the word, swallowed hard. ‘Thing is, the wind’s so fierce, and the currents are fierce too. So you get dispersal, like with the Braer. Somebody told me Shetland has a complete change of air every quarter hour. Perfect dispersal conditions. And fuck it, they’re only birds. What are they good for, when it comes down to it?’

He rested his head against the window.

‘When we get to the terminal, I’ll get a map for you, mark some of the places he might go...’ Seconds later, his eyes were closed. Rebus got up and went to the back of the cabin, where the toilet was. As he passed Major Weir, who was seated in the very back row, he saw he was deep in the Financial Times. The toilet was no smaller than a child’s coffin. If Rebus had been any wider, they’d have had to starve him out. He flushed, thinking of his urine splashing into the North Sea — as far as pollution went, a mere drop in the ocean — and tugged open the accordion doors. He slid into the seat across the aisle from the Major. The stewardess had been sitting there, but he could see her up front in the cockpit.

‘Any chance of a keek at the racing results?’

Major Weir lifted his eyes from the newsprint, swivelled his head to take in this strange new creature. The whole process couldn’t have taken longer than half a minute. He didn’t say anything.

‘We met yesterday,’ Rebus told him. ‘My name’s Detective Inspector Rebus. I know you don’t say much...’ he patted his jacket... ‘I’ve a notepad in my pocket if you need one.’

‘In your spare time, Inspector, are you some sort of comedian?’ The voice was a cultured drawl; urbane just about summed it up. But it was also dry, a little rusty.

‘Can I ask you something, Major? Why did you name your oilfield after an oatcake?’

Weir’s face reddened with sudden rage. ‘It’s short for Bannockburn!’

Rebus nodded. ‘Did we win that one?’

‘Don’t you know your history, laddie?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘I swear, sometimes I despair. You’re a Scot.’

‘So?’

‘So your past is important! You need to know it so you can learn.’

‘Learn what, sir?’

Weir sighed. ‘To borrow a phrase from a poet — a Scots poet, he was talking about words — that we Scots are “creatures tamed by cruelty”. Do you see?’

‘I think I’m having trouble focusing.’

Weir frowned. ‘Do you drink?’

‘Teetotal is my middle name.’ The Major grunted his satisfaction. ‘Trouble is,’ Rebus went on, ‘my first name’s Not-at-all.’

He got it eventually and grudged a frowning smile, the first time Rebus had seen the trick.

‘The thing is, sir, I’m up here —’

‘I know why you’re up here, Inspector. When I saw you yesterday, I had Hayden Fletcher find out who you were.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Because you stared back at me in the elevator. I’m not used to that sort of behaviour. It meant you didn’t work for me, and since you were with my personnel manager...’

‘You thought I was after a job?’

‘I meant to see to it you didn’t get one.’

‘I’m flattered.’

The Major looked at him again. ‘So why is my company flying you to Sullom Voe?’

‘I want to talk to a friend of Mitchison’s.’

‘Allan Mitchison.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I had Minchell report to me yesterday evening. I like to know everything that’s going on in my company. I have a question for you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Could Mr Mitchison’s death have anything to do with T-Bird Oil?’

‘At the moment... I don’t think so.’

Major Weir nodded, lifted his newspaper to eye level. The interview was over.

16

Welcome to the Mainland,’ Rebus’s guide said, meeting him on the tarmac.

Major Weir had already been installed in a Range Rover and was speeding from the airfield. A row of helicopters stood in repose nearby. The wind was... well, the wind was serious. It was flapping the helicopters’ rotor blades, and it was singing in Rebus’s ears. The Edinburgh wind was a pro; sometimes you walked out your front door and it was like being punched in the face. But the Shetland wind... it wanted to pick you up and shake you.

The descent had been rocky, but before that he’d had his first sighting of Shetland proper. ‘Miles and miles of bugger all’ didn’t do it justice. Hardly any trees, plenty of sheep. And spectacular barren coastline with white breakers crashing into it. He wondered if erosion was a problem. The islands weren’t exactly large. They’d crossed to the east of Lerwick, then passed some dormitory towns, which, according to Sheepskin’s commentary, had been mere hamlets in the 1970s. He’d woken up by then, and had come armed with a few more facts and fancies.

‘Know what we did? The oil industry, I mean? We kept Maggie Thatcher in power. Oil revenue paid for all those tax cuts. Oil revenue paid for the Falklands War. Oil was pumping through the veins of her whole fucking reign, and she never thanked us once. Not once, the bitch.’ He laughed. ‘You can’t help liking her.’

‘Apparently there are pills you can take.’ But Sheepskin wasn’t listening.

‘You can’t separate oil and politics. The sanctions against Iraq, whole point was to stop him flooding the market with cheap oil.’ He paused. ‘Norway, the bastards.’

Rebus felt he’d missed something. ‘Norway?’

‘They’ve got oil, too, only they’ve banked the money, used it to kickstart other industries. Maggie used it to pay for a war and a bloody election...’

As they swung out to sea past Lerwick, Sheepskin had pointed out some boats — bloody big boats.

‘Klondikers,’ he said. ‘Factory ships. They’re busy processing fish. Probably doing more environmental damage than the whole North Sea oil industry. But the locals just let them get on with it, they don’t give a bugger. Fishing’s a heritage thing with them... not like oil. Aah, fuck the lot of them.’

Rebus still hadn’t learned the man’s name when they parted on the runway. There was someone waiting for Rebus, a slight grinning man with too many teeth in his head. And he said, ‘Welcome to the Mainland.’ Then explained what he meant in the car, during the short trip to the Sullom Voe terminal. ‘That’s what Shetlanders call the main island: Mainland, as opposed to mainland with a small m, which means... well, the mainland.’ A snort for a laugh. He had to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. He drove the way a kid would when seated in its father’s car: bent forward, hands overly busy on the steering-wheel.

His name was Walter Rowbotham, and he was a new recruit to the Sullom Voe Public Relations Department.

‘I’d be happy to show you around, Inspector,’ he said, still grinning, trying too hard to please.

‘Maybe if there’s time,’ Rebus conceded.

‘My pleasure entirely. You know, of course, that the terminal cost one thousand three hundred million just to construct. That’s pounds, not dollars.’

‘Interesting.’

Rowbotham’s face practically lit up, encouraged now. ‘The first oil flowed into Sullom Voe in 1978. It is a major employer and has helped contribute greatly to Shetland’s low unemployment rate, currently around four per cent or half the Scottish average.’

‘Tell me something, Mr Rowbotham.’

‘Walter, please. Or Walt if you like.’

‘Walt.’ Rebus smiled. ‘Had any more trouble with the LPG chilldown?’

Rowbotham’s face turned pickled baby beet. Jesus, Rebus thought, the media were going to love him...

They ended up driving through half the installation to get to where Rebus wanted to be, so he heard most of the tour narration anyway and learned more than he hoped he’d ever have to know about debutanising, de-ethanising and depropanising, not to mention surge tanks and integrity meters. Wouldn’t it be great, he thought, if you could fit integrity meters to human beings?

At the main administration building they’d been told that Jake Harley worked in the process control room, and that his colleagues were waiting there and knew a police officer was coming to talk to them. They passed the incoming crude lines, the pigging station, and the final holding basin, and at one point Walt thought they were lost, but he had a little orientation map with him.

Just as well: Sullom Voe was huge. It had taken seven years to build, breaking all sorts of records in the process (and Walt knew every one of them), and Rebus had to admit that it was an impressive monster. He’d been past Grangemouth and Mossmorran dozens of times, but they just weren’t in the picture. And if you looked out past the crude oil tanks and the unloading jetties, you saw water — the Voe itself to the south; then Gluss Isle over to the west, doing a good impression of unspoilt wilderness. It was like a sci-fi city transported to prehistory.

For all of which, the process control room was about as peaceful a place as Rebus had ever been. Two men and a woman sat behind computer consoles in the centre of the room, while the walls were taken up with electronic charts, softly flashing lights indicating the oil and gas flows. The only sounds were those of fingers on keyboards, and the occasional muted conversation. Walt had decided that it was his job to introduce Rebus. The atmosphere had quieted him, as if he’d walked into the middle of a church service. He went to the central console and spoke in an undertone to the trinity seated there.

The elder of the two men stood up and came to shake Rebus’s hand.

‘Inspector, my name’s Milne. How can we help?’

‘Mr Milne, I really wanted to speak to Jake Harley. But since he’s made himself scarce, I thought maybe you could tell me a little about him. Specifically, about his friendship with Allan Mitchison.’

Milne wore a check shirt, its sleeves rolled up. He scratched at one arm while Rebus spoke. He was in his thirties, with tousled red hair and a face pitted from teenage acne. He nodded, half-turning to his two colleagues, assuming the role of spokesman.

‘Well, we all work beside Jake, so we can tell you about him. Personally, I didn’t know Allan very well, though Jake introduced us.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever met him,’ the woman said.

‘I met him once,’ the other man added.

‘Allan only worked here for two or three months,’ Milne went on. ‘I know he struck up a friendship with Jake.’ He shrugged. ‘Really, that’s about it.’

‘If they were friends, they must have had something in common. Was it bird-watching?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Green issues,’ the woman said.

‘That’s true,’ Milne said, nodding. ‘Of course, in a place like this, we always end up talking about ecology sooner or later — sensitive subject.’

‘Is it a big thing with Jake?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Milne looked to his colleagues for support. They shook their heads. Rebus realised that nobody was talking much above a whisper.

‘Jake works right here?’ he asked.

‘That’s right. We alternate shifts.’

‘So sometimes you’re working together...’

‘And sometimes we’re not.’

Rebus nodded. He was learning nothing; wasn’t sure he’d ever actually thought he would learn anything. So Mitchison had been into ecology — big deal. But it was pleasant here, relaxing. Edinburgh and all his troubles were a long way away, and felt it.

‘This looks like a cushy job,’ he said. ‘Can anyone apply?’

Milne smiled. ‘You’ll have to hurry, who knows how long the oil will last?’

‘A while yet surely?’

Milne shrugged. ‘It’s down to the economics of retrieval. Companies are beginning to look west — Atlantic oil. And oil from west of Shetland is being landed at Flotta.’

‘On Orkney,’ the woman explained.

‘They won the contract from us,’ Milne went on. ‘Five or ten years from now, the profit margin may be bigger out there.’

‘And they’ll mothball the North Sea?’

All three nodded, like a single beast.

‘Have you talked to Briony?’ the woman asked suddenly.

‘Who’s Briony?’

‘Jake’s... I don’t know, she’s not his wife, is she?’ She looked to Milne.

‘Just a girlfriend, I think.’

‘Where does she live?’ Rebus asked.

‘Jake and her share a house,’ Milne said. ‘In Brae. She works at the swimming pool.’

Rebus turned to Walt. ‘How far is it?’

‘Six or seven miles.’

‘Take me.’

They tried the baths first, but she wasn’t on shift, so they tracked down her house. Brae looked to be suffering a crisis of identity, like it had suddenly plopped into being and didn’t know what to make of itself. The houses were new but anonymous; there was obviously money around, but it couldn’t buy everything. It couldn’t turn Brae back into the village it had been in the days before Sullom Voe.

They found the house. Rebus told Walt to wait in the car. A woman in her early twenties answered his knock. She was wearing jogging bottoms and a white singlet, her feet bare.

‘Briony?’ Rebus asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry, I don’t know your last name. Can I come in?’

‘No. Who are you?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector John Rebus.’ Rebus showed his warrant card. ‘I’m here about Allan Mitchison.’

‘Mitch? What about him?’

There were a lot of answers to that question. Rebus picked one. ‘He’s dead.’ Then he watched the colour drain from her face. She clung on to the door as if for support, but she still wasn’t letting him in.

‘Would you like to sit down?’ Rebus hinted.

‘What happened to him?’

‘We’re not sure, that’s why I want to talk to Jake.’

‘You’re not sure?’

‘Could be an accident. I’m trying to fill in some background.’

‘Jake isn’t here.’

‘I know, I’ve been trying to reach him.’

‘Somebody from personnel keeps phoning.’

‘On my behalf.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Well, he’s still not here.’ She hadn’t taken her hand off the jamb.

‘Can I get a message to him?’

‘I don’t know where he is.’ As she spoke, the colour started to return to her cheeks. ‘Poor Mitch.’

‘You’ve no idea where Jake is?’

‘He sometimes goes off on a walk. He doesn’t know himself where he’ll end up.’

‘He doesn’t phone you?’

‘He needs his space. So do I, but I find mine when I swim. Jake walks.’

‘He’s due back tomorrow though, or the day after?’

She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Rebus reached into a pocket, wrote on a page of his notebook, tore it out. He held it out to her. ‘It has a couple of phone numbers. Will you tell him to call me?’

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks.’ She was staring dully at the piece of paper, her eyes just short of tears. ‘Briony, is there anything you can tell me about Mitch? Anything that might help?’

She looked up from the card to him.

‘No,’ she said. Then, slowly, she closed the door on his face. In that final glimpse of her before the door separated them, Rebus had found her eyes, and seen something there. Not just bewilderment or grief.

Something more like fear. And behind it, a degree of calculation.

It struck him that he was hungry, and gasping for coffee. So they ate in the Sullom Voe canteen. It was a clean white space with potted plants and no smoking signs. Walt was rattling on about how Shetland remained more Norse than Scots; nearly all the place names were Norwegian. To Rebus, it was like the edge of the world, and he liked that. He told Walt about the man on the plane, the one in sheepskin.

‘Oh, that sounds like Mike Sutcliffe.’

Rebus asked to be taken to him.

Mike Sutcliffe had changed out of his sheepskin and was dressed in crisp work clothes. They finally found him in heated conversation beside the ballast water tanks. Two underlings were listening to him complain that they could be replaced by gibbons and nobody would notice. He pointed up at the tanks, then out towards the jetties. There was a tanker moored at one of them, it couldn’t have been any bigger than half a dozen football pitches. Sutcliffe saw Rebus and lost the thread of his argument. He dismissed the workers and began to move away, only he had to get past Rebus first.

Rebus had a smile ready. ‘Mr Sutcliffe, did you get me that map?’

‘What map?’ Sutcliffe kept walking.

‘You said you might have an idea where I could find Jake Harley.’

‘Did I?’

Rebus was almost having to jog to keep up with him. He wasn’t wearing the smile any more. ‘Yes,’ he said coldly, ‘you did.’

Sutcliffe stopped so suddenly, Rebus ended up in front of him. ‘Look, Inspector, I’m up to my gonads in thistles right now. I don’t have time for this.’

And he walked, his eyes not meeting Rebus’s. Rebus marched alongside, keeping silent. He kept it up for a hundred yards, then stopped. Sutcliffe kept going, looking like he might walk right along the jetty and across the water if he had to.

Rebus went back to where Walt was standing. He took his time, thoughtful. The bum’s rush and then some. What or who had changed Sutcliffe’s mind? Rebus pictured an old white-haired man in kilt and sporran. The picture seemed to fit.

Walt took Rebus back to his office in the main admin building. He showed Rebus where the phone was, and said he’d be back with two coffees. Rebus closed the office door, and sat down behind the desk. He was surrounded by oil platforms, tankers, pipelines, and Sullom Voe itself — huge framed photos on the walls; PR literature stacked high; a scale model of a super tanker on the desk. Rebus got an outside line and telephoned Edinburgh, weighing up diplomacy against bullshit and deciding it might save time to just tell the truth.

Mairie Henderson was at home.

‘Mairie, John Rebus.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ she said.

‘You’re not working?’

‘Haven’t you heard of the portable office? Fax-modem and a telephone, that’s all you need. Listen, you owe me.’

‘How so?’ Rebus tried to sound aggrieved.

‘All that work I did for you, and no story at the end of it. That’s not exactly quid pro quo, is it? And journalists have longer memories than elephants.’

‘I gave you Sir Iain’s resignation.’

‘A full ninety minutes before every other hack knew. And it wasn’t exactly the crime of the century to begin with. I know you held back on me.’

‘Mairie, I’m hurt.’

‘Good. Now tell me this is purely a social call.’

‘Absolutely. So how are you keeping?’

A sigh. ‘What do you want?’

Rebus swung ninety degrees in the chair. It was a comfortable chair, good enough to sleep in. ‘I need some digging.’

‘I am completely and utterly surprised.’

‘The name’s Weir. He calls himself Major Weir, but the rank may be spurious.’

‘T-Bird Oil?’

Mairie was a very good journalist. ‘That’s the one.’

‘He just made a speech at that convention.’

‘Well, he had someone else read it out.’

A pause. Rebus flinched. ‘John, you’re in Aberdeen?’

‘Sort of,’ he confessed.

‘Tell me.’

‘Later.’

‘And if there’s a story...?’

‘You’re in pole position.’

‘With something longer than a ninety-minute lead time?’

‘Absolutely.’

Silence on the line: she knew he could be lying. She was a journalist; she knew these things.

‘OK, so what do you want to know about Weir?’

‘I don’t know. Everything. The interesting stuff.’

‘Business or personal life?’

‘Both, mainly business.’

‘Do you have a number in Aberdeen?’

‘Mairie, I’m not in Aberdeen. Especially if anyone asks. I’ll get back to you.’

‘I hear they’re reopening the Spaven case.’

‘An internal inquiry, that’s all.’

‘Preliminary to a reopening?’

Walt opened the door, brought in two beakers of coffee. Rebus stood up. ‘Look, I have to go.’

‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘Bye, Mairie.’

‘I checked,’ Walt said, ‘your plane leaves in an hour.’ Rebus nodded and took the coffee. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit.’

Christ, Rebus thought, he means it, too.

17

That evening, once he’d recovered from the flight back to Dyce, Rebus ate at the same Indian restaurant Allan Mitchison had frequented: no coincidence. He didn’t know why he wanted to see the place for himself; he just did. The meal was decent, a chicken dopiaza neither better nor worse than he could find in Edinburgh. The diners were couples, young and middle-aged, their conversations quiet. It didn’t look the sort of restaurant you’d raise hell in after sixteen days offshore. If anything, it was a place for contemplation, always supposing you were dining alone. When Rebus’s bill came, he recalled the sums on Mitchison’s credit-card statement — they were about double the present figure.

Rebus showed his warrant card and asked to speak to the manager. The man came bounding up to his table, nervous smile in place.

‘Is there some problem, sir?’

‘No problem,’ Rebus said.

The manager lifted the bill from the table and was about to tear it up, but Rebus stopped him.

‘I’d prefer to pay,’ he said. ‘I only want to ask a couple of questions.’

‘Of course, sir.’ The manager sat down opposite him. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘A young man called Allan Mitchison used to eat here regularly, about once a fortnight.’

The manager nodded. ‘A policeman came in to ask me about him.’

Aberdeen CID: Bain had asked them to check up on Mitchison, their report back an almost total blank.

‘Do you remember him? The customer, I mean?’

The manager nodded. ‘Very nice man, very quiet. He came maybe ten times.’

‘Alone?’

‘Sometimes alone, sometimes with a lady.’

‘Can you describe her?’

The manager shook his head. There was a clatter from the kitchen, distracting him. ‘I just remember he was not always alone.’

‘Why didn’t you tell the other policeman this?’

The man didn’t seem to understand the question. He got to his feet, the kitchen decidedly on his mind. ‘But I did,’ he said, moving away.

Something Aberdeen CID had conveniently left out of their report...

There was a different bouncer on the door at Burke’s Club, and Rebus paid his entrance money the same as everybody else. Inside, it was seventies night, with prizes for the best period costume. Rebus watched the parade of platform shoes, Oxford bags, midis and maxis, kipper ties. Nightmare stuff: it all reminded him of his wedding photos. There was a Saturday Night Fever John Travolta, and a girl who was doing a passable imitation of Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver.

The music was a mix of kitsch disco and regressive rock: Chic, Donna Summer, Mud, Showaddywaddy, Rubettes, interspersed with Rod Stewart, the Stones, Status Quo, a blast of Hawkwind and bloody ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’.

Jeff Beck: up against the wall now!

The odd song clicked with him, had the power to send him reeling in the years. The DJ somehow still had a copy of Montrose’s ‘Connection’, one of the very best cover versions of a Stones song. Rebus in the army listened to it in his billet late at night, playing on an early Sanyo cassette player, an earpiece plugged in so nobody else could hear. Next morning, he’d be deaf in one ear. He switched the earpiece about each night so he wouldn’t suffer long-term damage.

He sat at the bar. That seemed to be where the single men congregated in silent appraisal of the dance floor. The booths and tables were for couples and office parties, squawks of women who genuinely looked to be enjoying themselves. They wore low-cut tops and short tight skirts, and in the shadowy half-light they all looked terrific. Rebus decided he was drinking too quickly, poured more water into his whisky and asked the barman for more ice, too. He was seated at the corner of the bar, less than six feet from the payphone. Impossible to use it when the music was pounding, and there hadn’t been much of a let-up yet. Which made Rebus think — the only sensible time to use the payphone would be out of hours, when the place was quiet. But at that time there’d be no punters on the premises, just staff...

Rebus slipped off his stool and circuited the dance floor. The toilets were signposted down a passageway. He went inside and listened to someone in one of the cubicles snorting something. Then he washed his hands and waited. The toilet flushed, the lock clicked, and a young man in a suit came out. Rebus had his warrant card ready.

‘You’re under arrest,’ he said. ‘Anything you say —’

‘Hey, wait a minute!’ The man still had flecks of white powder in his nostrils. He was mid-twenties, lower management struggling to be middle. His jacket wasn’t expensive, but at least it was new. Rebus pushed him against the wall, angled the hand-drier and pushed the button so the hot air blew across his face.

‘There,’ he said, ‘blow some of that talc away.’

The man turned his face away from the heat. He was shaking, his whole body limp, beaten before they really got started.

‘One question,’ Rebus said, ‘and then you walk out of here... how does the song go? As free as a bird. One question.’ The man nodded. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘What?’

Rebus pushed a bit harder. ‘The stuff.’

‘I only do this on a Friday night!’

‘Last time: where did you get it?’

‘Just some guy. He’s here sometimes.’

‘Is he here tonight?’

‘I haven’t seen him.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Nothing special. Mr Average. You said one question.’

Rebus let the man go. ‘I lied.’

The man sniffed, straightened his jacket. ‘Can I go?’

‘You’re gone.’

Rebus washed his hands, loosened the knot in his tie so he could undo his top button. The sniffer might go back to his booth. He might decide to leave. He might complain to the management. Maybe they paid their way so busts like this wouldn’t happen. He left the toilet and went looking for the office, couldn’t find one. Out in the foyer, there was a staircase. The bouncer was parked in front of it. Rebus told the tux he wanted to speak to the manager.

‘No can do.’

‘It’s important.’

The bouncer shook his head slowly. His eyes didn’t move from Rebus’s face. Rebus knew what he saw: a middle-aged lush, a pathetic figure in a cheap suit. It was time to disabuse him. He opened his warrant card.

‘CID,’ he told the tux. ‘People are selling drugs on these premises and I’m a heartbeat away from calling in the Drugs Squad. Now do I get to talk to the boss?’

He got to talk to the boss.

‘My name’s Erik Stemmons.’ The man came around from his desk to shake Rebus’s hand. It was a small office, but well furnished. Good sound-proofing too: the bass from the dance floor was as much as you could hear. But there were video screens, half a dozen of them. Three showing the main dance floor, two the bar, and one a general view of the booths.

‘You want to put one in the bogs,’ Rebus said, ‘that’s where the action is. You’ve got two on the bar: staff problems?’

‘Not since we put the cameras in.’ Stemmons was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, the arms of which he’d rolled up to his shoulders. He had long curling locks, maybe permed, but his hair was thinning and there were tell-tale lines down his face. He wasn’t much younger than Rebus, and the younger he tried to look the older he seemed.

‘Are you with Grampian CID?’

‘No.’

‘Thought not. We get most of them in here, good customers. Sit down, won’t you?’

Rebus sat down. Stemmons got comfortable behind his desk. It was covered with paperwork.

‘Frankly I’m surprised by your allegation,’ he went on. ‘We cooperate fully with the local police, and this club is as clean as any in the city. You know of course that it’s impossible to rule narcotics out of the equation.’

‘Someone was snooking up in the toilet.’

Stemmons shrugged. ‘Exactly. What can we do? Strip search everyone as they enter? Have a sniffer dog roaming the premises?’ He laughed a short laugh. ‘You see the problem.’

‘How long have you lived here, Mr Stemmons?’

‘I came over in ’78. Saw a good thing and stayed. That’s nearly two decades. I’m practically integrated.’ Another laugh; another no reaction from Rebus. Stemmons placed his palms on the desktop. ‘Wherever Americans go in the world — Vietnam, Germany, Panama — entrepreneurs follow. And so long as the pickings stay good, why should we leave?’ He looked down at his hands. ‘What do you really want?’

‘I want to know what you can tell me about Fergus McLure.’

‘Fergus McLure?’

‘You know, dead person, lived near Edinburgh.’

Stemmons shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, that name means nothing to me.’

Oh, Vienna, Rebus nearly sang. ‘You don’t seem to have a phone in here.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘A phone.’

‘I carry a mobile.’

‘The portable office.’

‘Open twenty-four hours. Look, if you’ve a beef, take it up with the local cops. I don’t need this grief.’

‘You haven’t seen grief yet, Mr Stemmons.’

‘Hey.’ Stemmons pointed a finger. ‘If you’ve got something to say, say it. Otherwise, the door’s the thing behind you with the brass handle.’

‘And you’re the thing in front of me with the brass neck.’ Rebus stood up and leaned across the desk. ‘Fergus McLure had information on a drug ring. He died suddenly. Your club’s phone number was lying on his desk. McLure wasn’t exactly the clubbing type.’

‘So?’

Rebus could see Stemmons in a court of law, saying the exact same thing. He could see a jury asking itself the question too.

‘Look,’ Stemmons said, relenting. ‘If I was setting up a drug deal, would I give this guy McLure the number of the club’s payphone, which anyone might pick up, or would I give him my mobile number? You’re a detective, what do you think?’

Rebus saw a judge tossing the case out.

‘Johnny Bible met his first victim here, didn’t he?’

‘Jesus, don’t drag that up. What are you, a ghoul or something? We had CID hassling us for weeks.’

‘You didn’t recognise his description?’

‘Nobody did, not even the bouncers, and I pay them to remember faces. I told your colleagues, maybe he met her after she left the club. Who’s to say?’

Rebus went to the door, paused.

‘Where’s your partner?’

‘Judd? He’s not in tonight.’

‘Does he have an office?’

‘Next door.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘I don’t have a key.’

Rebus opened the door. ‘Does he have a mobile phone too?’

He’d caught Stemmons off guard. The American coughed a response.

‘Didn’t you hear the question?’

‘Judd doesn’t have a mobile. He hates telephones.’

‘So what does he do in an emergency? Send up smoke signals?’

But Rebus knew damned well what Judd Fuller would do.

He’d use a payphone.

He thought he’d earned a last drink before home, but froze halfway to the bar. There was a new couple in one of the booths, and Rebus recognised both of them. The woman was the blonde from his hotel bar. The man sitting beside her, arms draped along the back of the booth, was her junior by about twenty years. He wore an open-necked shirt and a lot of gold chains around his neck. He’d probably seen someone dressed that way in a film once. Or maybe he was going in for the fancy-dress contest: seventies villain. Rebus knew the warty face straight away.

Mad Malky Toal.

Stanley.

Rebus made the connection, made almost too many of them. He felt dizzy, and found himself leaning against the wall-phone. So he picked up the receiver and slammed home a coin. He had the phone number in his notebook. Partick police station. He asked for DI Jack Morton, waited an age. He pushed more money home, only to have someone come on and tell him Morton had left the office.

‘This is urgent,’ Rebus said. ‘My name’s DI John Rebus. Do you have his home number?’

‘I can get him to call you,’ the voice said. ‘Would that do, Inspector?’

Would it? Glasgow was Ancram’s home turf. If Rebus handed over his number, Ancram could get to hear of it, and would know where he was... Fuck it, he was only here another day. He reeled the number off and put down the receiver, thanking God the DJ had been playing a slow number: Python Lee Jackson, ‘In a Broken Dream’.

Rebus had those to spare.

He sat at the bar, his back to Stanley and his woman. But he could see them distorted in the mirror behind the optics. Dark distant figures, coiling and uncoiling. Of course Stanley was in town: hadn’t he killed Tony El? But why? And two bigger questions: was he here in Burke’s Club by coincidence?

And what was he doing with the blonde from the hotel?

Rebus was starting to get inklings. He kept an ear out for the telephone, prayed for another slow record. Bowie, ‘John, I’m Only Dancing’. A guitar like sawing through metal. It didn’t matter: the phone didn’t ring.

‘Here’s one we’d all rather forget,’ the DJ drawled. ‘But I want to see you up dancing to it anyway, otherwise I might just have to play it again.’

Lieutenant Pigeon: ‘Mouldy Old Dough’. The telephone rang. Rebus leapt to it.

‘Hello?’

‘John? Got the hi-fi loud enough?’

‘I’m at a disco.’

‘At your age? Is this the emergency — you want me to talk you out of there?’

‘No, I want you to describe Eve to me.’

‘Eve?’

‘Uncle Joe Toal’s woman.’

‘I’ve only seen her in photos.’ Jack Morton thought about it. ‘Blonde out of a bottle, face that could bend nails. Twenty or thirty years ago she might have looked like Madonna, but I’m probably being generous.’

Eve, Uncle Joe’s lady — chatting Rebus up in an Aberdeen hotel. Coincidence? Hardly. Readying to pump him for information? Nap hand. And up here with Stanley, the two of them looking pretty cosy... He remembered her words: ‘I’m in sales. Products for the oil industry.’ Yes, Rebus could guess now what kind of products...

‘John?’

‘Yes, Jack?’

‘This phone number, is that an Aberdeen code?’

‘Keep it to yourself. No grassing me up to Ancram.’

‘Just one question...?’

‘What?’

‘Can I really hear “Mouldy Old Dough”?’

Rebus closed the conversation, finished his drink and left. There was a car parked on the other side of the road. The driver lowered his window so Rebus could see him. It was DS Ludovic Lumsden.

Rebus smiled, waved, started to cross the road. He was thinking: I don’t trust you.

‘Hiya, Ludo,’ he said. Just a man who’d been out for a drink and a dance. ‘What brings you here?’

‘You weren’t in your room. I guessed you might be here.’

‘Some guess.’

‘You lied to me, John. You told me about a book of matches from Burke’s Club.’

‘Right.’

‘They don’t do books of matches.’

‘Oh.’

‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘The hotel’s only two minutes away.’

‘John.’ Lumsden’s eyes were cold. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘Sure, Ludo.’ Rebus walked around the car and got into the passenger seat.

They drove down to the harbour, parked on an empty street. Lumsden turned off the ignition and turned in his seat.

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘So you went to Sullom Voe today and didn’t bother to tell me. So why has my patch suddenly become your patch? How would you like it if I started creeping around Edinburgh behind your back?’

‘Am I a prisoner here? I thought I was one of the good guys.’

‘It’s not your town.’

‘I’m beginning to see that. But maybe it’s not your town either.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean who really runs the place, behind the scenes? You’ve got kids going mad with frustration, you’ve got a ready audience for dope and anything else that might give their life a kick. In that club tonight, I saw the lunatic I told you about, Stanley.’

‘Toal’s son?’

‘That’s him. Tell me, is he up here for the floral displays?’

‘Did you ask him?’

Rebus lit a cigarette, wound down the window so he could flick the ash out. ‘He didn’t see me.’

‘You think we should question him about Tony El.’ A statement of fact, no answer required. ‘What would he tell us — “sure, I did it”? Come on, John.’

A woman was knocking on the window. Lumsden lowered it, and she was into her spiel.

‘Two of you, well, I don’t normally do threesomes but you look like nice... Oh, hello Mr Lumsden.’

‘Evening, Cleo.’

She looked at Rebus, then Lumsden again. ‘I see your tastes have changed.’

‘Lose yourself, Cleo.’ Lumsden wound the window back up. The woman disappeared into the darkness.

Rebus turned to face Lumsden. ‘Look, I don’t know just how bent you are. I don’t know whose money will be paying for my stay at the hotel. There’s a lot I don’t know, but I’m beginning to get the feeling I know this city. I know it because it’s much the same as Edinburgh. I know you could live here for years without glimpsing what’s beneath the surface.’

Lumsden started to laugh. ‘You’ve been here — what? — a day and a half? You’re a tourist here, don’t presume to know the place. I’ve been here a hell of a lot longer, and even I couldn’t claim that.’

‘All the same, Ludo...’ Rebus said quietly.

‘Is this leading somewhere?’

‘I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.’

‘And you’re the one who’s talking.’

Rebus sighed, spoke slowly as to a child. ‘Uncle Joe controls Glasgow, including — my guess — a fair bit of the drug trade. Now his son’s up here, drinking in Burke’s Club. An Edinburgh snitch had some gen on a consignment headed north. He also had the phone number of Burke’s. He ended up dead.’ Rebus held up a finger. ‘That’s one strand. Tony El tortured an oil-worker, who consequently died. Tony El scurried back up here but neatly passed away. That’s three deaths so far, every one of them suspicious, and nobody’s doing much about it.’ A second finger. ‘Strand two. Are the two connected? I don’t know. At the moment, all that connects them is Aberdeen itself. But that’s a start. You don’t know me, Ludo, a start is all I need.’

‘Can I change the subject slightly?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Did you get anything on Shetland?’

‘Just a bad feeling. A little hobby of mine, I collect them.’

‘And tomorrow you’re going out to Bannock?’

‘You’ve been busy.’

‘A few phone calls, that’s all it took. Know something?’ Lumsden started the car. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of you. My life was simple until you came along.’

‘Never a dull moment,’ Rebus said, opening the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ll walk. Nice night for it.’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘I always do.’

Rebus watched the car move off, turn a corner. He listened to the engine fade, flicked his cigarette on to the tarmac and started to walk. The first place he passed was the Yardarm. It was Exotic Dancer night, with a scarecrow on the door charging admission. Rebus had been there, done that. The heyday of the exotic dancer had been the late seventies, every pub in Edinburgh seemed to have them: men watching from behind pint glasses, the stripper selecting her three records from the jukebox, a collection afterwards if you wanted her to go a bit further.

‘Only two quid, pal,’ the scarecrow called, but Rebus shook his head and kept walking.

The same nighttime sounds were around him: drunken whoops, whistles, and the birds who didn’t know how late it was. A prowl of woolly suits was questioning two teenagers. Rebus passed by, just another tourist. Maybe Lumsden was right, but Rebus didn’t think so. Aberdeen felt so much like Edinburgh. Sometimes, you visited a town or city and couldn’t get a handle on it, but this wasn’t one of those.

On Union Terrace a low stone wall separated him from the gardens, which were in a gully below. He saw his car still parked across the road, directly outside the hotel. He was about to cross when hands grabbed at his arms and hauled him backwards. He felt the small of his back hit the wall, felt himself tipping backwards, up and over.

Falling, rolling... Skidding down the steep slope into the gardens, not able to stop himself, so going with the roll. He hit bushes, felt them tear at his shirt. His nose gouged the earth, tears springing into his eyes. Then he was on the flat. Clipped grass. Lying winded on his back, adrenalin masking any immediate damage. More sounds: crashing through bushes. They were following him down. He half rose to his knees, but a foot caught him, sent him sprawling on to his front. The foot came down hard on his head, held it there, so he was sucking grass, his nose feeling ready to break. Someone wrenched his hands behind his back and up, the pressure just right: excruciating pain couldn’t overcome the knowledge that if he moved, he’d pop an arm out of its socket.

Two men, at least two. One with the foot. One working the arms. The alcoholic streets seemed a long way off, traffic a distant drone. Now something cold against his temple. He knew the feeling — a handgun, colder than dry ice.

A voice hissing, close to his ear. Blood pounding there, so he had to strain to hear it. A hiss close to a whisper, hard to identify.

‘There’s a message, so I hope you’re listening.’

Rebus couldn’t speak. His mouth was full of dirt.

He waited for the message, but it didn’t come. Then it did.

Pistol-whipped to the side of his head, just above the ear. An explosion of light behind his eyes. Then darkness.

He woke up and it was still night. Sat up and looked around. His eyes hurt when he moved them. He touched his head — no blood. It hadn’t been that kind of thwack. Blunt, not sharp. Just the one by the feel of things. After he’d lost consciousness they’d left him. He searched his pockets, found money, car keys, warrant card and all his other cards. But of course it hadn’t been a robbery. It had been a message, hadn’t they told him so themselves?

He tried standing. His side hurt. He checked, saw that he’d grazed it coming down the slope. A graze on his forehead too, and his nose had bled a little. He checked the ground around him, but they hadn’t left anything. It wouldn’t have been professional. All the same, he tried as best he could to trace the route they’d come down, just in case something had been left behind.

Nothing. He hauled himself back over the wall. A taxi driver looked at him in disgust and pressed harder on the accelerator. He’d seen a drunk, a tramp, a loser.

Last year’s man.

Rebus limped across the road into the hotel. The woman behind the reception desk was reaching for the phone, ready to summon back-up, but then recognised him from earlier.

‘Whatever happened to you?’

‘Fell down some steps.’

‘Do you want a doctor?’

‘Just my key, please.’

‘We’ve a first aid kit.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Have it sent up to my room.’

He took a bath, a good long soak, then towelled off and examined the damage. His temple was swollen where the butt had connected, and he had a headache worse than half a dozen hangovers. Some thorns had lodged in his side, but he was able to pick them out with his fingernails. He cleaned the graze, no need for plasters. He might ache in the morning, but he’d probably sleep, so long as the ticking noise didn’t come back. A double brandy had arrived with the first aid; he sipped it, hand trembling. He lay on his bed and phoned home, checking the machine. Ancram, Ancram, Ancram. It was too late to phone Mairie, but he tried Brian Holmes’s number. A lot of rings later, Holmes picked up.

‘Aye?’

‘Brian, it’s me.’

‘What can I do you for?’

Rebus had his eyes screwed shut; difficult to think past the pain. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Nell had walked out?’

‘How do you know?’

‘I came by your house. I know a batch pad when I see one. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No.’

‘Is it the same problem as before?’

‘She wants me to leave the force.’

‘And?’

‘And maybe she’s right. But I’ve tried before, and it’s hard.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, there’s more than one way of leaving.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’ And he wouldn’t say any more about it. He wanted to talk about the Spaven case. The bottom line from his reading of the notes: Ancram would smell collusion, a certain economy with the truth; which wasn’t to say there was anything he could do about it.

‘I also notice you interviewed one of Spaven’s friends at the time, Fergus McLure. He’s just died, you know.’

‘Dearie me.’

‘Drowned in the canal, out Ratho way.’

‘What did the post mortem say?’

‘He received a nasty bump to the head some time before entering the water. It’s being treated as suspicious, so...’

‘So?’

‘So if I were you, I’d steer clear. Don’t want to hand Ancram any more ammo.’

‘Speaking of Ancram...’

‘He’s looking for you.’

‘I sort of missed our first interview.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Laying low.’ With his eyes closed and three paracetamol in his stomach.

‘I don’t think he went for your flu story.’

‘That’s his problem.’

‘Maybe.’

‘So you’re finished on Spaven?’

‘Looks like.’

‘What about that prisoner? The one who was the last to speak to Spaven?’

‘I’m on it, but I think he’s no fixed abode, could take a while.’

‘I really appreciate it, Brian. Do you have a story ready if Ancram finds out?’

‘No problem. Take care, John.’

‘You too, son.’ Son? Where had that come from? Rebus put down the phone, picked up the TV remote. Beach volleyball would just about do him for tonight...