Black and Blue

18

Oil: black gold. The North Sea’s exploration and exploitation rights had been divvied up long ago. The oil companies spent a lot of money on that initial exploration. A block might yield no oil or gas at all. Vessels were sent out laden with scientific equipment, their data studied and discussed — all this before a single test well was sunk. The reserves might lie three thousand metres beneath the sea bed — Mother Nature not keen to give up the hidden trove. But the plunderers had ever more technical expertise; water depths of two hundred metres no longer bothered them. In fact, the latest discoveries — Atlantic oil, two hundred kilometres west of Shetland — involved a water depth of between four and six hundred metres.

If the test drilling proved successful, showing reserves worth the game, a production platform would be built, along with all the various modules to accompany it. In some parts of the North Sea the weather was too unpredictable for tanker loading, so pipelines would have to be installed — the Brent and Ninian pipelines took crude directly to Sullom Voe, while other pipelines carried gas to Aberdeenshire. All this, and still the oil proved stubborn. In many fields, you could expect to recover only forty or fifty per cent of the available reserve, but then the reserve might consist of one and a half billion barrels.

Then there was the platform itself, sometimes three hundred metres high, a jacket weighing forty thousand tonnes, covered in eight hundred tonnes of paint, and with additional weight of modules and equipment totalling thirty thousand tonnes. The figures were staggering. Rebus tried to take them in, but gave up after a while and decided just to be awestruck. He’d only ever once seen a rig, when he’d been visiting relatives in Methil. The street of prefab bungalows led down to the construction yard, where a three-dimensional steel grid lay on its side, towering into the sky. From a distance of a mile, it had been spectacular enough. He recalled it now, staring at the glossy photographs in the brochure, a brochure all about Bannock. The platform, he read, carried fifteen hundred kilometres of electrical cable, and could accommodate nearly two hundred workers. Once the jacket had been towed out to the oilfield and anchored there, over a dozen modules were placed atop it, everything from accommodation to oil and gas separation. The whole structure had been designed to withstand winds of one hundred knots, and storms with hundred-foot waves.

Rebus was hoping for calm seas today.

He was sitting in a lounge at Dyce Airport, only a little nervous about the flight he was about to take. The brochure assured him that safety was paramount in ‘such a potentially hazardous environment’, and showed him photos of fire-fighting teams, a safety and support vessel on constant standby, and fully equipped lifeboats. ‘The lessons of Piper Alpha have been learned.’ The Piper Alpha platform, north-east of Aberdeen: over a hundred and sixty fatalities on a summer’s night in 1988.

Very reassuring.

The flunkey who’d handed him the brochure had said he hoped Rebus had brought something to read.

‘Why?’

‘Because the flight can take three hours total, and most of the time it’s too noisy for chit-chat.’

Three hours. Rebus had gone into the terminal’s shop and bought himself a book. He knew the journey comprised two stages — Sumburgh first, and then a Super Puma helicopter out to Bannock. Three hours out, three hours back. He yawned, checked his watch. It wasn’t quite eight o’clock yet. He’d skipped breakfast — didn’t like the idea of boaking it back up on the flight. His total consumption this morning: four paracetamol, one glass of orange juice. He held his hands out in front of him: tremors he could put down to aftershock.

There were two anecdotes he liked in the brochure: he learned that a ‘derrick’ was named after a seventeenth-century hangman; and that the first oil had come ashore at Cruden Bay, where Bram Stoker once took his holidays. From one kind of vampirism to another... only the brochure didn’t put it like that.

There was a television on in front of him, playing a safety video. It told you what to do if your helicopter went down into the North Sea. It all looked very slick on the video: nobody panicked. They slid out of their seats, located the inflatable life-rafts and launched them on to the calm waters of an indoor pool.

‘Holy God, what happened to you?’

He looked up. Ludovic Lumsden was standing there, newspaper folded in his jacket pocket, a beaker of coffee in his hand.

‘Mugged,’ Rebus said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?’

‘Mugged?’

‘Two men were waiting for me last night outside the hotel. Threw me over the wall into the gardens, then stuck a gun against my head.’ Rebus rubbed the lump on his temple. It felt worse than it looked.

Lumsden sat down a couple of seats away, looked aghast. ‘Did you get a look at them?’

‘No.’

Lumsden put his coffee on the floor. ‘Did they take anything?’

‘They weren’t after anything. They just had a message for me.’

‘What?’

Rebus tapped his temple. ‘A thumping.’

Lumsden frowned. ‘That was the message?’

‘I think I was supposed to read between the lines. You wouldn’t be any good at translating, would you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’ Rebus stared at him hard. ‘What are you doing here?’

Lumsden was staring at the tiled floor, mind elsewhere. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Why?’

‘Oil Liaison. You’re visiting a rig. I should be there.’

‘Keeping an eye on me?’

‘It’s procedure.’ He looked towards the television. ‘Don’t worry about ditching, I’ve had the training. What it boils down to is, you’ve got about five minutes from the time you hit the water.’

‘And after five minutes?’

‘Hypothermia.’ Lumsden lifted his coffee cup, drank from it. ‘So pray we don’t hit a storm out there.’

After Sumburgh Airport, there was nothing but sea and a sky wider than any Rebus had seen before, thin clouds strung across it. The twin-engined Puma flew low and loud. The interior was cramped, and so were the survival suits they’d been made to put on. Rebus’s was a bright orange one-piece with a hood, and he’d been ordered to keep it zipped up to his chin. The pilot wanted him to keep his hood up, too, but Rebus found that sitting down with the hood tight across his head, the legs of the suit threatened to dissect his scrotum. He’d been in choppers before — back in army days — but for short hops only. Designs might have changed over the years, but the Puma didn’t sound any quieter than the old buckets the army had used. Everyone, however, wore ear-protectors, through which the pilot could talk to them. Two other men, contract engineers, flew with them. From flying height, the North Sea looked tranquil, a gentle rise and fall showing the currents. The water looked black, but that was just cloud cover. The brochure had gone into great detail concerning anti-pollution measures. Rebus tried to read his book, but couldn’t. It juddered on his knees, blurring the words, and he couldn’t keep his mind on the story anyway. Lumsden was looking out of the window, squinting into the light. Rebus knew Lumsden was keeping an eye on him, and he was doing so because Rebus had touched a nerve last night. Lumsden tapped his shoulder, pointed through the window.

There were three rigs below them, off to the east. A tanker was moving away from one of them. Tall flares sent bright yellow flames licking into the sky. The pilot told them they would pass to the west of the Ninian and Brent fields before reaching Bannock. Later, he came back on the radio.

‘This is Bannock coming up now.’

Rebus looked past Lumsden’s shoulder, saw the single platform coming into view. The tallest structure on it was the flare, but there were no flames. That was because Bannock was coming to the end of its useful life. Very little gas and oil were left to exploit. Next to the flare was a tower, like a cross between an industrial chimney and a space rocket. It was painted with red and white stripes, like the flare. It was probably the drilling tower. Rebus made out the words T-Bird Oil on the jacket below it, along with the block number — 211/7. Three large cranes stood against one edge of the platform, while a whole corner was given over to a helipad, painted green with a yellow circle surrounding the letter H. Rebus thought: one gust could have us over the side. There was a two hundred foot drop to the waiting sea. Orange lifeboats clung to the underside of the jacket, and in another corner sat layers of white portacabins, like bulk containers. A ship sat alongside the platform — the safety and support vessel.

‘Hello,’ said the pilot, ‘what’s this?’

He’d spotted another boat, circling the platform at a distance of maybe half a mile.

‘Protesters,’ he said. ‘Bloody idiots.’

Lumsden looked out of his window, pointing. Rebus saw it: a narrow boat painted orange, its sails down. It looked to be very close to the safety ship.

‘They could get themselves killed,’ Lumsden said. ‘And good riddance.’

‘I do like a copper with a balanced view.’

They swept out to sea again and banked sharply, then headed for the heliport. Rebus was deep in prayer as they seemed to weave wildly, only fifty feet or so above the deck. He could see the helipad, then whitecapped water, then the helipad again. And then they were down, landing on what looked like a fishing net, covering the white capital H. The doors opened and Rebus removed his ear-protectors. The last words he heard were, ‘Keep your head down when you get out.’

He kept his head down when he got out. Two men in orange overalls, wearing yellow hard hats and ear-protectors, led them off the helipad and handed out hard hats. The engineers were led one way, Rebus and Lumsden another.

‘You’ll probably want a mug of tea after that,’ their guide said. He saw that Rebus was having trouble with the hat. ‘You can adjust the strap.’ He showed him how. There was a fierce wind blowing, and Rebus said as much. The man laughed.

‘This is dead calm,’ he yelled into the wind.

Rebus felt like he wanted to hang on to something. It wasn’t just the wind, it was the feeling of how fragile this whole enterprise was. He’d expected to see and smell oil, but the most obvious product around here wasn’t oil — it was seawater. The North Sea surrounded him, massive compared to this speck of welded metal. It insinuated itself into his lungs; the salt gusts stung his cheeks. It rose in vast waves as if to engulf him. It seemed bigger than the sky above it, a force as threatening as any in nature. The guide was smiling.

‘I know just what you’re thinking. I thought the same thing myself first time I came out here.’

Rebus nodded. The Nationalists said it was Scotland’s oil, the oil companies had the exploitation rights, but the picture out here told a different story: oil belonged to the sea, and the sea wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

Their guide led them to the relative safety of the canteen. It was clean and quiet, with brick troughs filled with plants, and long white tables ready for the next shift. A couple of orange overalls sat drinking tea at one table, while at another three men in checked shirts ate chocolate bars and yoghurt.

‘This place is mad at mealtimes,’ the guide said, grabbing a tray. ‘Tea all right for you?’

Lumsden and Rebus agreed that tea was fine. There was a long serving-hatch, and a woman at the far end smiling at them.

‘Hello, Thelma,’ their guide said. ‘Three teas. Lunch smells good.’

‘Ratatouille, steak and chips, or chilli.’ Thelma poured tea from a huge pot.

‘Canteen’s open twenty-four hours,’ the guide told Rebus. ‘Most guys, when they first arrive, they overeat. The puddings are lethal.’ He slapped his stomach and laughed. ‘Isn’t that right, Thelma?’ Rebus recalled the man in the Yardarm telling him much the same thing.

Even seated, Rebus’s legs felt shaky. He put it down to the flight. Their guide introduced himself as Eric, and said that seeing how they were police officers, they could skip the introductory safety video.

‘Though by rights I’m supposed to show you it.’

Lumsden and Rebus shook their heads, and Lumsden asked how close the platform was to decommissioning.

‘Last oil’s already been pumped out,’ Eric said. ‘Pump a final load of seawater into the reservoir and most of us will ship out. Maintenance crew only, until they decide what to do with her. They’d better make up their minds soon, manning this even just with maintenance shifts is an expensive business. You still have to get the supplies out here, the shift changeovers, and you still need the safety ship. It all costs money.’

‘Which is all right so long as Bannock is producing oil?’

‘Exactly,’ said Eric. ‘But when it’s not producing... well, the accountants start having palpitations. We lost a couple of days’ worth last month, some problem with the heat exchangers. They were out here, waving their calculators about...’ Eric laughed.

He was nothing like the roustabout of legend, the myth of the roughneck. He was a skinny five and a half feet and wore steel-rimmed glasses above a sharp nose and pointed chin. Rebus looked at the other men in the canteen and tried to equate them with the picture of the oil ‘bear’, face blackened with crude, biceps expanding as he fought to contain a gusher. Eric saw him looking.

‘The three over there,’ meaning the checked shirts, ‘work in the Control Room. Nearly everything these days is computerised: logic circuits, computer monitoring... You should ask for a look round, it’s like NASA or something, and it only takes three or four people to work the whole system. We’ve come a long way from “Texas Tea”.’

‘We saw some protesters in a boat,’ Lumsden said, scooping sugar into his mug.

‘They’re off their noggins. These are dangerous waters for a craft that size. Plus they circle too close, all it’d take is a gust to blow them into the platform.’

Rebus turned to Lumsden. ‘You’re the Grampian Police presence here, maybe you should do something.’

Lumsden snorted and turned to Eric. ‘They haven’t done anything illegal yet, have they?’

‘All they’re breaking so far are the unwritten maritime rules. When you’ve finished your tea, you’ll want to see Willie Ford, is that right?’

‘Right,’ Rebus said.

‘I told him we’d meet him in the recky room.’

‘I’d like to see Allan Mitchison’s room, too.’

Eric nodded. ‘Willie’s room: the cabins here are twin berths.’

‘Tell me,’ Rebus said, ‘the decommissioning — any idea what T-Bird are going to do with the platform?’

‘Might still end up sinking it.’

‘After the trouble with Brent Spar?’

Eric shrugged. ‘The accountants are in favour. They only need two things: the government on their side, and a good public relations campaign. The latter’s already well under way.’

‘With Hayden Fletcher in charge?’ Rebus guessed.

‘That’s the man.’ Eric picked up his hard hat. ‘All finished?’

Rebus drained his mug. ‘Lead the way.’

Outside, it was now ‘blustery’ — Eric’s description. Rebus held on to a rail as he walked. Some workers were leaning over the side of the platform. Beyond them, Rebus could see a huge spume of water. He went up to the rail. The support ship was sending jets of water in the direction of the protest boat.

‘Trying to scare them off,’ Eric explained. ‘Keep them from getting too close to the legs.’

Christ, thought Rebus, why today? He could just see the protest boat ramming the platform, forcing an evacuation... The jets continued their work, all four of them. Someone passed him a pair of binoculars and he trained them on the protest vessel. Orange oilskins — half a dozen figures on the deck. Banners tied to the rails. NO DUMPING. SAVE OUR OCEANS.

‘That boat doesn’t look too healthy to me,’ someone said.

Figures were going below, reappearing, waving their arms as they explained something.

‘Stupid buggers, they’ve probably let the engine flood.’

‘She can’t be left to drift.’

‘Could be a Trojan horse, lads.’

They all laughed at that. Eric moved off, Rebus and Lumsden following. They climbed up and down ladders. At certain points, Rebus could see clear through the latticework of steel flooring to the churning sea below. There were cables and pipes everywhere, but nowhere you could trip over them. Eventually, Eric opened a door and led them down a corridor. It was a relief to be out of the wind; Rebus realised they’d been outdoors for all of eight minutes.

They passed rooms with pool tables in them, and table-tennis tables, dart boards, video games. The video games seemed popular. Nobody was playing table-tennis.

‘Some platforms have swimming pools,’ Eric said, ‘but not us.’

‘Is it my imagination,’ Rebus asked, ‘or did I just feel the floor move?’

‘Oh aye,’ Eric said, ‘there’s a bit of give, has to be. In a swell, you’d swear she was going to break free.’ And he laughed again. They kept walking along the corridor, passing a library — no one in it — and a TV room.

‘We’ve three TV rooms,’ Eric explained. ‘Satellite telly only, but mostly the lads prefer videos. Willie should be in here.’

They entered a large room with a couple of dozen stiff-backed chairs and a large-screen TV. There were no windows, and the lights had been dimmed. Eight or nine men sat, arms folded, in front of the screen. They were complaining about something. A man was standing at the video recorder, holding a tape in his hand, turning it over. He shrugged.

‘Sorry about this,’ he said.

‘That’s Willie,’ Eric said.

Willie Ford was in his early forties, well built but slightly hunched, with a regulation number one haircut: down to the wood. His nose covered a quarter of his face, a beard protected most of the rest. With more of a tan, he might have passed for a Muslim fundamentalist. Rebus walked up to him.

‘Are you the policeman?’ Willie Ford asked. Rebus nodded.

‘The natives look restless.’

‘It’s this video. It was supposed to be Black Rain, you know, Michael Douglas. But instead it’s some Jap flick with the same name, all about Hiroshima. Close but no cigar.’ He turned to the audience. ‘Some you win, guys. You’ll have to settle for something else.’ Then shrugged and moved away, Rebus following. The four of them went back along the corridor and into the library.

‘So you’re in charge of entertainment, Mr Ford?’

‘No, I just like videos. There’s a place in Aberdeen does fortnight rentals. I usually bring some out with me.’ He was still holding the video. ‘I can’t believe this. The last foreign language film that lot watched was probably Emmanuelle.’

‘You get porn films?’ Rebus asked, like he was just making conversation.

‘Dozens of them.’

‘How strong?’

‘It varies.’ An amused look. ‘Inspector, did you fly out here to ask me about dirty videos?’

‘No, sir, I came to ask you about Allan Mitchison.’

Ford’s face clouded like the sky outside. Lumsden was watching from the window, maybe wondering if they’d have to stay the night...

‘Poor Mitch,’ Ford said. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘You shared a room?’

‘These past six months.’

‘Mr Ford, we don’t have too much time, so you’ll forgive me if I’m blunt.’ Rebus paused to let him digest this. His mind was half on Lumsden. ‘Mitch was killed by a man called Anthony Kane, a thug for hire. Kane used to work for a Glasgow ganglord, but recently he’s apparently been operating freelance out of Aberdeen. The night before last, Mr Kane turned up dead, too. Do you know why Kane would kill Mitch?’

Ford looked stunned, blinked a few times and let his jaw drop open. Eric was looking disbelieving, too, while Lumsden affected a look of merely professional interest. Finally Ford was able to speak.

‘I’ve... I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘Could it be a mistake?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It could be anything. That’s why I’m trying to compose a picture of Mitch’s life. For that, I need his friends’ help. Will you help me?’

Ford nodded. Rebus sat down on a chair. ‘Then you can start,’ he said, ‘by telling me about him, tell me anything and everything you can.’

At some point, Eric and Lumsden wandered off for lunch. Lumsden brought sandwiches back for Rebus and Willie Ford. Ford talked, pausing only to take drinks of water. He told Rebus what Allan Mitchison had told him of his background — the parents who weren’t his real parents; the special school with its dorms. That was why Mitch liked the rigs — the sense of fellowship, and the shared accommodation. Rebus began to see why his flat in Edinburgh had remained unloved. Ford knew a lot about Mitch, knew that his hobbies included hill-walking and ecology.

‘Is that how he came to be friends with Jake Harley?’

‘Is he the one at Sullom Voe?’ Rebus nodded. Ford nodded with him. ‘Yes, Mitch told me about him. They were both keen on ecology.’

Rebus thought of the demo boat outside... thought of Allan Mitchison working in an industry that was a target for Green protest.

‘How involved was he?’

‘He was pretty active. I mean, the work schedule here, you can’t be active all the time. Sixteen days out of every month, he was offshore. We get TV news, but not much in the way of newspapers — not the kind Mitch liked to read. But that didn’t stop him organising that concert. Poor sod was looking forward to it.’

Rebus frowned. ‘What concert?’

‘In Duthie Park. Tonight, I think, if the weather holds.’

‘The protest concert?’ Ford nodded. ‘Allan Mitchison organised it?’

‘Well, he did his bit. Contacted a couple of the bands to see if they’d play.’

Rebus’s head birled. The Dancing Pigs were playing that gig. Mitchison was a big fan of theirs. Yet he hadn’t had a ticket for their Edinburgh gig... No, because he hadn’t needed one — he would be on the guest list! Which meant what exactly?

Answer: bugger all.

Except that Michelle Strachan had been murdered in Duthie Park...

‘Mr Ford, weren’t Mitch’s employers worried about his... loyalty?’

‘You don’t have to be in favour of raping the world to get a job in this industry. In fact, as industries go it’s a lot cleaner than some.’

Rebus mulled this over. ‘Mr Ford, can I take a look at your cabin?’

‘Sure.’

The cabin was small. You wouldn’t want to suffer claustrophobia of a night. There were two narrow single beds. Above Ford’s bed were pinned pictures; nothing above the other bed but holes where the drawing-pins had been.

‘I packed away all his stuff,’ Ford explained. ‘Do you know if there’s anyone...?’

‘There’s no one.’

‘Oxfam then, maybe.’

‘Whatever you like, Mr Ford. Let’s call you the unofficial executor.’

That did it. Ford slumped on his bed, head in hands. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, rocking. ‘Jesus, Jesus.’

Tactful, John. The silver-tongued clarion of bad news. With tears in his eyes, Ford excused himself and left the room.

Rebus got to work.

He opened drawers and the small built-in wardrobe, but eventually found what he wanted beneath Mitchison’s bed. A bin-bag and a series of carrier bags: the deceased’s worldly goods.

They didn’t amount to much. Maybe Mitchison’s background had something to do with it. If you didn’t burden yourself with stuff, you could high-tail it out of anywhere, any time. There were some clothes, some books — sci-fi, political economics, The Dancing Wu-Li Masters. The last one sounded to Rebus like a ballroom competition. He found a couple of envelopes of photographs, went through them. The platform. Workmates. The budgie and its crew. Other groups, onshore this time: trees in the background. Only these didn’t look like workmates — long hair, tie-dye T-shirts, reggae hats. Friends? Friends of the Earth? The second packet seemed light. Rebus counted the photos: fourteen. Then he pulled out the negatives: a count of twenty-five. Eleven short. He held the negs up to the light, but couldn’t make out much. The missing photos seemed more of the same; group portraits, a couple of them with only three or four figures. Rebus put the negs in his pocket, just as Willie Ford came back into the room.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘My fault, Mr Ford. I spoke without thinking. You know earlier I asked you about porn?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about drugs?’

‘I don’t use them.’

‘But if you did...’

‘It’s a closed circle, Inspector. I don’t use, and no one’s offered me any. As far as I’m concerned, people could be shooting up round the corner and I’d never know, because I’m not in the loop.’

‘But there is a loop?’

Ford smiled. ‘Maybe. But on R&R time only. I’d know if I was working beside someone who was wired. They know better than to do that. Working on a platform, you need all the wits you’ve got and any you can borrow.’

‘Have there been accidents?’

‘One or two, but our safety record’s good. They weren’t drug-related.’

Rebus looked thoughtful. Ford seemed to remember something.

‘You should see what’s happening outside.’

‘What?’

‘They’re bringing the protesters aboard.’

So they were. Rebus and Ford went out to take a look. Ford donned his hard hat, but Rebus carried his: he couldn’t get it to sit right, and the only thing threatening to fall from the skies was rain. Lumsden and Eric were already there, along with a few other men. They watched the bedraggled figures climb the last few steps. Despite their oilskins, they looked soaked — courtesy of the power hoses. Rebus recognised one of them: it was braid-hair again. She looked glum verging on furious. He moved towards her, until she was looking at him.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said.

But she wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead, she yelled ‘NOW!’ and snaked to her right, bringing her hand out of her pocket. She already had one half of the handcuffs clamped around her wrist, and now attached the other firmly around the top rail. Two of her companions did likewise, and started yelling protests at the tops of their voices. Two others were hauled back before they could complete the process. The cuffs were snapped shut on themselves.

‘Who’s got the keys?’ an oil-worker was yelling.

‘We left them on the mainland!’

‘Christ.’ The oilman turned to a colleague. ‘Go fetch the oxy-acetylene.’ He turned to braid-hair. ‘Don’t worry, the sparks may burn, but we’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.’

She ignored him, kept on chanting with the others. Rebus smiled: you had to admire it. Trojan horse with knobs on.

The torch arrived. Rebus couldn’t believe they were really going to do it. He turned to Lumsden.

‘Don’t say a word,’ the policeman warned. ‘Remember what I said about frontier justice. We’re well out of it.’

The torch was lit, a little flare of its own. There was a helicopter overhead. Rebus had half a mind — maybe more than half — to throw the torch over the side.

‘Christ, it’s the telly!’

They all looked up. The helicopter was hovering low, a video camera pointed straight at them.

‘Fucking TV news.’

Oh great, Rebus thought. That’s just spot on. Really low-key, John. National television news. Maybe he should just send Ancram a postcard...

19

Back in Aberdeen, he thought he could still feel the deck moving beneath him. Lumsden had headed off home, carrying with him a promise from Rebus that he’d be packed and off the following morning.

Rebus hadn’t mentioned he might be back.

It was early evening, cool but bright, the streets busy with last shoppers trudging home and Saturday night revellers starting early. He walked down to Burke’s Club. A different bouncer again, so no grief there. Rebus paid his money like a good boy, waded through the music until he reached the bar. The place hadn’t been open long, only a few punters in, looking like they’d be moving on if things didn’t start happening. Rebus bought an overpriced short loaded with ice, gave the place a once-over in the mirror. No sign of Eve and Stanley. No sign of any obvious dealers. But Willie Ford was right about that: what did dealers look like? Leave aside the junkies and they looked much like anyone else. Their trade was in eye contact, in a shared knowledge with the person whose eyes they were meeting. A cross between a transaction and a chat-up.

Rebus imagined Michelle Strachan dancing in here, beginning the last movements of her life. As he sloshed the ice around his glass, he decided to walk a route from the club to Duthie Park. It might not be the route she took, and he doubted it would throw up anything like a clue, but he wanted to do it, same as he’d driven down to Leith to pay his respects to Angie Riddell’s patch. He started off down South College Street, saw from his map that if he kept to this route he’d be walking a main thoroughfare alongside the Dee. Lots of traffic: he decided Michelle would have cut through Ferryhill, so did likewise. Here the streets were narrower and quieter; big houses, leafy. A comfortable middle-class enclave. A couple of corner shops were still doing business — milk, ice-lollies, evening papers. He could hear children playing in back gardens. Michelle and Johnny Bible had walked down here at two a.m. It would have been deserted. If they’d been making any noise, it would have been noted behind the net curtains. But no one had reported anything. Michelle couldn’t have been drunk. Drunk, her student friends said, she got loud. Maybe she was a bit merry; just enough to have lost her survival instinct. And Johnny Bible... he’d been quiet, sober, his smile failing to betray his thoughts.

Rebus turned on to Polmuir Road. Michelle’s digs were halfway down. But Johnny Bible had persuaded her to keep walking down to the park. How had he managed it? Rebus shook his head, trying to clear it of jumble. Maybe her digs were strict, she couldn’t invite him in. She liked it there, didn’t want to be kicked out for an infraction of the rules. Or maybe Johnny had commented on the nice mild night, how he didn’t want it to end, he liked her so much. Couldn’t they just walk down to the park and back? Maybe walk through the park, just the two of them. Wouldn’t that be perfect?

Did Johnny Bible know Duthie Park?

Rebus could hear something approximating music, then silence, then applause. Yes: the protest concert. The Dancing Pigs and friends. Rebus went into the park, passed a children’s play area. Michelle and her beau had come this way. Her body had been found near here, not far from the Winter Gardens and the tea-room... There was a huge open space at the heart of the park, and a stage had been erected. Several hundred kids comprised the audience. Bootleggers had spread out their merchandise on the grass, alongside tarot readers, hairbraiders, and herbalists. Rebus forced a smile: it was the Ingliston concert in miniature. People were passing through the crowd, rattling collecting tins. The banner which had adorned the roof of the Conference Centre — DON’T KILL OUR OCEANS! — was now flapping atop the stage. Even the inflatable whale was there. A girl in her mid-teens approached Rebus.

‘Souvenir T-shirts? Programmes?’

Rebus shook his head, then changed his mind. ‘Give me a programme.’

‘Three pounds.’

It was a stapled Xerox with a colour cover. The paper was recycled, and so was the text. Rebus flicked through it. Right at the back there was a list of Thank Yous. His eye caught a name a third of the way down: Mitch, ‘with love and gratitude’. Allan Mitchison had played his part organising the gig, and here was his reward — and memorial.

‘I’ll see if I can do better,’ Rebus said, rolling the programme into his pocket.

He made for the area behind the stage, which had been cordoned off by means of arranging lorries and vans into a semi-circle, inside which the bands and their entourages moved like zoo exhibits. His warrant card got him where he wanted to be, as well as a few dirty looks.

‘You in charge?’ he asked the overweight man in front of him. The man was in his fifties, Jerry Garcia with red hair and a kilt, sweat showing through a stained white vest. Beads of perspiration dripped from his overhanging brow.

‘Nobody’s in charge,’ he told Rebus.

‘But you helped organise —’

‘Look, what’s your problem, man? The concert’s licensed, the last thing we need is grief.’

‘I’m not giving any. I just have a question about the organisation.’

‘What about it?’

‘Allan Mitchison — Mitch.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you know him?’

‘No.’

‘I hear he was responsible for getting the Dancing Pigs to play.’

The man thought about it, nodded. ‘Mitch, right. I don’t know him, I mean, I’ve seen him around.’

‘Anyone I could ask about him?’

‘Why, man, what’s he done?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Bad number.’ He shrugged. ‘Wish I could help.’

Rebus made his way back to front-of-stage. The sound system was the usual travesty, and the band didn’t sound nearly as good as on their studio album. Notch one up for the producer. The music stopped suddenly, the momentary silence sweeter than any tune. The singer stepped up to the mike.

‘We’ve got some friends we’d like to bring on. A few hours back they were fighting the good fight, trying to save our seas. Put your hands together for them.’

Applause, cheering. Rebus watched two figures walk onstage, still dressed in orange oilskins: he recognised their faces from Bannock. He waited, but there was no sign of braid-hair. When they started their speeches, he turned to go. There was one last collecting tin to be avoided, but he thought better of it, folded a fiver in through the slot. And decided to treat himself to dinner in his hotel: putting it on the room, of course.

Insistent noise.

Rebus folded it into his dream, then gave up. One eye open: chinks of light through the heavy curtains. What fucking time was it? Bedside lamp: on. He clawed at his watch, blinked. Six a.m. What? Did Lumsden want rid of him that badly?

He swung out of bed, walked stiff-legged to the door, working his muscles. He’d washed a great dinner down with a bottle of wine. In itself the wine would have posed no problem, but as a digestif he’d put away four malts, in flagrant disregard of the drinker’s rule: never mix the grape and the grain.

Thump, thump, thump.

Rebus pulled open the door. Two woolly suits stood there, looking like they’d been up for hours.

‘Inspector Rebus?’

‘Last time I looked.’

‘Will you get dressed, please, sir?’

‘You don’t like the outfit?’ Y-fronts and a T-shirt.

‘Just get dressed.’

Rebus looked at them, decided to comply. When he walked back into the room, they followed, looked around the way cops always do.

‘What have I done?’

‘Tell them at the station.’

Rebus looked at him. ‘Tell me you’re fucking joking.’

‘Language, sir,’ the other uniform said.

Rebus sat on the bed, pulled on clean socks. ‘I’d still like to know what this is all about. You know, on the q.t., officer to officer.’

‘Just a few questions, sir. Quick as you can.’

The second uniform tugged open the curtains, light stabbing Rebus’s eyeballs. He seemed impressed by the view.

‘We had a brawl in the gardens a few nights ago. Remember, Bill?’

His colleague joined him at the window. ‘And someone jumped off the bridge a fortnight back. Whee, smack on to Denburn Road.’

‘Woman in the car got an awful fright.’

They smiled at the memory.

Rebus stood up, looked around him, wondering what to take.

‘Shouldn’t be too long, sir.’

They were smiling at him now. Rebus’s stomach did a back-flip. He tried not to think about timbale of haggis... cranachan with a fruit coulis... wine and whisky...

‘Feeling a bit rough, sir?’

The uniform looked about as solicitous as a razor blade.

20

‘My name’s Chief Inspector Edward Grogan. We’ve a few questions for you, Inspector Rebus.’

So everyone keeps telling me, Rebus thought. But he didn’t say anything, just sat there with arms folded and a wronged man’s smouldering look. Ted Grogan: Rebus had heard of him. Hard bastard. He looked it, too: bull-necked and bald, his physique more Frazier than Ali. Thin eyes and thick lips; a street-taught fighter. Jutting forehead; simian.

‘You already know DS Lumsden.’ Sitting over by the door, head bowed, legs apart. He looked exhausted, embarrassed. Grogan sat down opposite Rebus at the table. They were in a biscuit-tin, though they probably had another name for it in Furry Boot Town.

‘No point beating around the bush,’ Grogan said. He looked about as comfortable on the chair as a prize Aberdeen Angus. ‘How did you get the bruises?’

‘I told Lumsden.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I was mugged by a couple of message-boys. Their message was a pistol whipping.’

‘Any other scars?’

‘They pushed me over a wall, I hit a thorn-bush on the way down. My side’s scratched.’

‘Is that it?’

‘That’s it. Look, I appreciate your concern, but —’

‘But that’s not our concern, Inspector. DS Lumsden says he dropped you off down by the docks, night before last.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I believe he offered you a lift to your hotel.’

‘Probably.’

‘But you didn’t want that.’

Rebus looked over at Lumsden. What the fuck is going on? But Lumsden’s gaze was still concentrated floorwards. ‘I felt like a walk.’

‘Back to your hotel?’

‘Right.’

‘And on the way, you were beaten up?’

‘With a pistol.’

A smile, mixing sympathy with disbelief. ‘In Aberdeen, Inspector?’

‘There’s more than one Aberdeen. I don’t see what this has to do with anything.’

‘Bear with me. So you walked home?’

‘To the very expensive hotel Grampian Police provided for me.’

‘Ah, the hotel. We’d pre-booked for a visiting Chief Constable, only he cancelled at the last minute. We’d have ended up paying anyway. I believe DS Lumsden used his initiative and decided you might as well stay there. Highland courtesy, Inspector.’

Highland fabrication more like.

‘If that’s your story.’

‘It’s not my story that’s important here. On this walk home of yours, did you see anyone, speak to anyone?’

‘No.’ Rebus paused. ‘I saw a crew of your finest in discussion with a couple of teenagers.’

‘You spoke to them?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Didn’t want to interfere. This isn’t my patch.’

‘From what DS Lumsden tells me, you’ve been acting like it was.’

Rebus caught Lumsden’s eyes. They stared right through him.

‘Did a doctor look at your injuries?’

‘I fixed myself up. Hotel reception had a first aid kit.’

‘They asked you if you wanted a doctor.’ A statement.

‘I said it wasn’t necessary. Lowland self-reliance.’

A cool smile from Grogan. ‘You spent yesterday on an oil rig, I believe.’

‘With DS Lumsden at my heels.’

‘And last night?’

‘I had a drink, went for a walk, ate dinner at the hotel. I put it on the tab, by the way.’

‘Where did you drink?’

‘Burke’s Club, a dope-dealer’s paradise on College Street. My bet is, my attackers started life there. What’s the going rate up here for hiring hard men? Fifty for a duffing? Seventy-five per broken limb?’

Grogan sniffed, rose to his feet. ‘Those prices might be a wee bit on the high side.’

‘Look, with respect, I’m about two hours from out of here. If this is some kind of warning, it’s too much too late.’

Grogan spoke very quietly. ‘It’s not a warning, Inspector.’

‘What is it then?’

‘You say when you left Burke’s you went for a walk?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘Duthie Park.’

‘A fair hike.’

‘I’m a big Dancing Pigs fan.’

‘Dancing Pigs?’

‘A band, sir,’ Lumsden said, ‘they were playing a concert last night.’

‘It talks.’

‘No need for that, Inspector.’ Grogan was standing behind Rebus. The invisible interrogator: did you turn to face him, or did you stare at the wall? Rebus had played the trick himself many a time. Objective: unnerve the prisoner.

Prisoner — Jesus.

‘You’ll remember, sir,’ Lumsden said, voice almost atonal, ‘that’s the route Michelle Strachan took.’

‘That’s true, isn’t it, Inspector? I expect you knew that.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, you’ve been taking a great interest in the Johnny Bible case, haven’t you?’

‘I’ve been involved tangentially, sir.’

‘Oh, tangentially?’ Grogan came back into view, showing yellow teeth that looked like they’d been filed short. ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it. DS Lumsden says you seemed very interested in the Aberdeen side of the case, kept asking him questions.’

‘With respect, that’s DS Lumsden’s interpretation.’

‘And what’s yours?’ Leaning over the desk, fists resting on it. Getting in close. Objective: cow the suspect, show him who’s boss.

‘Mind if I smoke?’

‘Answer the question!’

‘Stop treating me like a fucking suspect!’

Rebus regretted the outburst immediately — sign of weakness, sign he was rattled. In army training, he’d survived days on end of interrogation techniques. Yes, but back then his head had been emptier; there’d been less to feel guilty about.

‘But, Inspector,’ Grogan sounding hurt by the flare-up, ‘that’s precisely what you are.’

Rebus grabbed at the edge of the table, feeling its rough metal edge. He tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He probably looked like he was crapping himself, forced his hands to release the table.

‘Yesterday evening,’ Grogan said coolly, ‘a woman’s body was found in a crate on the dockside. Pathologist reckons she was killed some time the previous night. Strangled. Raped. One of her shoes is missing.’

Rebus was shaking his head. Sweet Jesus, he was thinking, not another one.

‘There’s no sign that she fought back, no skin beneath the fingernails, but she could have lashed out with her fists. She had the look of a strong woman, tenacious.’

Involuntarily, Rebus touched the bruise on his temple.

‘You were down near the docks, Inspector, and in a foul mood according to DS Lumsden.’

Rebus was on his feet. ‘He’s trying to stitch me up!’ Attack, they said, was the best form of defence. Not necessarily true, but if Lumsden wanted to play dirty, Rebus would give as good as he got.

‘Sit down, Inspector.’

‘He’s trying to protect his fucking clients! How much do you take a week, Lumsden? How much do they slip you?’

‘I said sit down!’

‘Sod you,’ said Rebus. It was like a boil had burst; he couldn’t halt the outpour. ‘You’re trying to tell me I’m Johnny Bible! I’m nearer Bible John’s age, for Christ’s sake.’

‘You were at the docks around the time she was murdered. You arrived back at your hotel cut and bruised, your clothes a mess.’

‘This is bullshit! I don’t have to listen to this!’

‘Yes you do.’

‘Charge me then.’

‘We’ve a few more questions, Inspector. This can be as painless as you like, or it can be absolute bastarding agony. You choose, but before you do that — sit down!’

Rebus stood there. His mouth was open, and he wiped saliva from his chin. He looked over at Lumsden, who was still seated, albeit tensed, ready to jump if words became deeds. Rebus wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He sat down.

Grogan took a deep breath. The air in the room — what was left of it — was beginning to smell bad. It wasn’t even half past seven.

‘Bovril and oranges at half time?’ Rebus asked.

‘That might be a long way off.’ Grogan walked to the door, opened it and stuck his head out. Then he held the door wide open so someone outside could come in.

Chief Inspector Chick Ancram.

‘Saw you on the news, John. Not exactly telegenic, are you?’ Ancram slipped off his jacket and placed it carefully over the back of a chair. He looked like he was about to enjoy himself. ‘You weren’t wearing your hard hat, mightn’t have recognised you otherwise.’ Grogan walked over to where Lumsden was sitting, like a tag-team wrestler leaving the ring. Ancram started rolling up his sleeves.

‘Going to be a hot one, John, eh?’

‘A scorcher,’ Rebus muttered. Now he knew why CID liked dawn raids: he felt exhausted already. Exhaustion played tricks with your mind; it made you make mistakes. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

Ancram looked to Grogan. ‘I don’t see why not. How about you, Ted?’

‘I could do with a cup myself.’ He turned to Lumsden. ‘On you go, son.’

‘Fucking message-boy,’ Rebus couldn’t help saying.

Lumsden sprang to his feet, but Grogan had a restraining hand out.

‘Easy, son, just go get those coffees, eh?’

‘And DS Lumsden?’ Ancram called. ‘Make sure Inspector Rebus gets decaf, we don’t want him getting all jumpy.’

‘Any jumpier and I’d be a kangaroo. Lumsden? I like hundred per cent decaf, no pissing or howking into it, OK?’

Lumsden left the room in silence.

‘Now then.’ Ancram sat down across from Rebus. ‘You’re a hard man to catch.’

‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’

‘I think you’re worth it, don’t you? Tell me something about Johnny Bible.’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything. His methods, background, profile.’

‘That could take all day.’

‘We’ve got all day.’

‘Maybe you have, but my room’s got to be vacated by eleven, or else it’s another day’s rate.’

‘Your room’s already empty,’ Grogan said. ‘Your stuff’s in my office.’

‘Inadmissible as evidence: you should have had a search warrant.’

Ancram shared a laugh with Grogan. Rebus knew why they were laughing, he’d’ve been doing it too if he’d been where they were. But he wasn’t. He was where a lot of men and women, some of them barely adult, had been before him. Same chair, same sweaty room, same set-up. Hundreds and thousands of them, suspects. In the eyes of the law, innocent until proven guilty. In the eyes of the interrogator, the other way round. Sometimes to prove to yourself that a suspect was innocent you had to break them. Sometimes you had to go that far before you were sure in your mind. Rebus didn’t know how many sessions like this he’d sat in on... hundreds, certainly. He’d broken maybe a dozen suspects only to find they were innocent. He knew where he was, knew why he was there, but that didn’t make it any easier.

‘I’ll tell you something about Johnny Bible,’ Ancram said. ‘His profile can fit several professions, and one of those is serving or retired police officer, someone who knows our methods and is careful not to leave trace evidence.’

‘We’ve a physical description of him. I’m too old.’

Ancram screwed up his face. ‘IDs, John, we all know their failings.’

‘I’m not Johnny Bible.’

‘Doesn’t mean you’re not a copycat. Mind, we’re not saying you are. All we’re saying is, there are questions that have to be asked.’

‘So ask them.’

‘You came to Partick.’

‘Correct.’

‘Ostensibly to talk to me about Uncle Joe Toal.’

‘Uncannily astute.’

‘Yet if memory serves, you ended up asking me a lot of questions about Johnny Bible. And you seemed to know a lot about the Bible John case.’ Ancram waited to see if Rebus had a smart comeback. None came. ‘While in Partick, you spent a lot of time in the room where the original Bible John files were being checked.’ Ancram paused again. ‘And now a TV reporter tells me you have cuttings and notes about Bible John and Johnny Bible stashed in your kitchen cupboards.’

Bitch!

‘Now wait a minute,’ Rebus said.

Ancram sat back. ‘I’m waiting.’

‘Everything you’ve said is true. I am interested in the two cases. Bible John... that takes a bit of explaining. And Johnny Bible... well, for one thing, I knew one of the victims.’

Ancram sat forward. ‘Which one?’

‘Angie Riddell.’

‘In Edinburgh?’ Ancram and Grogan exchanged a look. Rebus knew what they were thinking: another connection.

‘I was part of the team that picked her up once. I saw her again after that.’

‘Saw her?’

‘Drove down to Leith, passed the time of day.’

Grogan snorted. ‘There’s a euphemism I’ve not heard before.’

‘We talked, that’s all. I bought her a cup of tea and a bridie.’

‘And you didn’t tell anyone? Do you know how that looks?’

‘Another black mark against me. I’ve got so many, I could play Al Jolson on stage.’

Ancram got up. He wanted to pace the room, but it wasn’t big enough. ‘This is bad,’ he said.

‘How can the truth be bad?’ But Rebus knew Ancram was right. He didn’t want to agree with Ancram about anything — that would be to fall into the interrogator’s trap: empathy — but he couldn’t make himself disagree on this one point. This was bad. His life was turning into a Kinks song: ‘Dead End Street’.

‘You’re up to your oxters, pal,’ Ancram said.

‘Thanks for reminding me.’

Grogan lit a cigarette for himself, offered one to Rebus, who refused the ploy with a smile. He had his own if he wanted one.

He wanted one — but not enough yet. Instead, he scratched at his palms, clawing his nails across them, a wake-up call to his nerve-endings. There was silence in the room for a minute or so. Ancram rested his backside against the table.

‘Christ, is he waiting for the coffee beans to grow or what?’

Grogan shrugged. ‘Shift changeover, the canteen’ll be busy.’

‘You just can’t get the staff these days,’ Rebus said. Head down, Ancram smiled into his chest. Then he gave a sideways look at the seated figure.

Here we go, thought Rebus: the sympathy routine. Maybe Ancram read his mind, changed his own accordingly.

‘Let’s talk a bit more about Bible John,’ he said.

‘Fine with me.’

‘I’ve started on the Spaven casenotes.’

‘Oh aye?’ Had he got to Brian Holmes?

‘Fascinating reading.’

‘We had a few publishers interested at the time.’

No smile for that one. ‘I didn’t know,’ the inquisitor said quietly, ‘that Lawson Geddes worked on Bible John.’

‘No?’

‘Or that he was kicked off the inquiry. Any idea why that was?’

Rebus didn’t say anything. Ancram spotted the flaw in the armour, stood up and leaned over him.

‘You didn’t know?’

‘I knew he’d worked the case.’

‘But you didn’t know he’d been ordered off it. No, because he didn’t tell you. I found that particular nugget in the Bible John files. But no mention of why.’

‘Is this going anywhere other than up the garden path?’

‘Did he talk to you about Bible John?’

‘Maybe once or twice. He talked a lot about his old cases.’

‘I’m sure he did, the two of you were close. And from what I hear, Geddes liked to shoot his mouth off.’

Rebus glared at him. ‘He was a good copper.’

‘Was he?’

‘Believe it.’

‘But even good coppers make mistakes, John. Even good coppers can cross the line once in their lives. Little birdies tell me you’ve crossed that line more than a few times yourself.’

‘Little birdies shouldn’t shit in their own nests.’

Ancram shook his head. ‘Your past conduct isn’t an issue here.’ He straightened up and turned away, letting that remark sink in. He still had his back to Rebus when he spoke. ‘You know something? This media interest in the Spaven case, it coincided with the first Johnny Bible killing. Know what that might make people think?’ Now he turned round, held up a finger. ‘A copper obsessed with Bible John, remembering stories his old sparring partner told him about the case.’ Second finger. ‘The dirt on the Spaven case is about to be uncovered, years after said copper thought it was buried.’ Third finger. ‘Copper snaps. There’s been this time-bomb in his brain, and now it’s activated...’

Rebus got to his feet. ‘You know it’s not true,’ he said quietly.

‘Convince me.’

‘I’m not sure I need to.’

Ancram looked disappointed in him. ‘We’ll want to take samples — saliva, blood, prints.’

‘What for? Johnny Bible hasn’t left any clues.’

‘I also want a forensic lab to look at your clothes, and a team to give your flat the once-over. If you haven’t done anything, there should be nothing to object to.’ He waited for a reply, got none. The door opened. ‘About fucking time,’ he said.

Lumsden bearing a tray swimming with spilled coffee.

Break-time. Ancram and Grogan went into the corridor for a chat. Lumsden stood by the door, arms folded, thinking he was on guard duty, thinking Rebus wasn’t pumped-up enough to rip his head off.

But Rebus just sat there drinking what was left of his coffee. It tasted disgusting, so probably was unleaded. He took out his cigarettes, lit one, inhaled like it might be his last. He held the cigarette vertical, wondered how something so small and brittle could have taken such a hold over him. Not so very different from this case... The cigarette wavered: his hands were shaking.

‘This is you,’ he told Lumsden. ‘You’ve sold your boss a story. I can live with that, but don’t think I’ll forget.’

Lumsden stared at him. ‘Do I look scared?’

Rebus stared back, smoked his cigarette, said nothing. Ancram and Grogan came back into the room, all business-like.

‘John,’ Ancram said, ‘CI Grogan and I have decided this would be best dealt with in Edinburgh.’

Meaning they couldn’t prove a thing against him. If there was the slightest possibility, then Grogan would want a home collar.

‘There are disciplinary matters here,’ Ancram went on. ‘But they can be dealt with as part of my inquiry into the Spaven case.’ He paused. ‘Shame about DS Holmes.’

Rebus went for it, had to. ‘What about him?’

‘When we went to pick up the Spaven casenotes, some clerk told us there’d been a lot of interest in them recently. Holmes had consulted them three days in a row, apparently for hours at a time — when he should have been on regular duties.’ Another pause. ‘Your name was down, too. Apparently you visited him. Going to tell me what he was up to?’

Silence.

‘Removing evidence?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘That’s the way it looks. Stupid move, whatever it was. He’s refusing to talk, facing disciplinary action. He could be out on his ear.’

Rebus kept his face a blank; not so easy to blank his heart.

‘Come on,’ Ancram said, ‘let’s get you out of here. My driver can take your car, we’ll take mine, maybe have a wee chat on the road.’

Rebus stood up, walked over to Grogan, who straightened his shoulders as if expecting physical assault. Lumsden clenched his fists, ready. Rebus stopped with his face inches from Grogan’s.

‘Are you on the take, sir?’ It was fun to watch the balloon fill with blood, highlighting burst veins and ageing lines.

‘John...’ Ancram warned.

‘It’s an honest question,’ Rebus went on. ‘See, if you’re not, you could do a lot worse than put a surveillance on two Glasgow hoods who seem to be holidaying up here — Eve and Stanley Toal, only his real name’s Malky. His dad’s called Joseph Toal, Uncle Joe, and he runs Glasgow, where CI Ancram works, lives, splashes out money and buys his suits. Eve and Stanley drink at Burke’s Club, where coke isn’t something in a long glass with ice. DS Lumsden took me there, looked like he’d been before. DS Lumsden reminded me that Johnny Bible had picked out his first victim there. DS Lumsden drove me down to the harbour that night, I didn’t ask to be taken there.’ Rebus looked over at Lumsden. ‘He’s a canny operator, DS Lumsden. The games he plays, no wonder he’s called Ludo.’

‘I won’t have malicious comments made about my men.’

‘Surveillance on Eve and Stanley,’ Rebus stressed. ‘And if it’s blown, you know where to look.’ Same place he was looking now.

Lumsden flew at him, hands at his throat. Rebus threw him off.

‘You’re as dirty as bilge-water, Lumsden, and don’t think I don’t know it!’

Lumsden swung a punch; it didn’t connect. Ancram and Grogan pulled the two of them apart. Grogan pointed to Rebus, but spoke to Ancram.

‘Maybe we’d better keep him here after all.’

‘I’m taking him back with me.’

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘I said I’m taking him back, Ted.’

‘Long time since I had two men fighting over me,’ Rebus said with a smile.

The two Aberdeen officers were looking ready to plough a field with him. Ancram slapped a proprietorial hand on to his shoulder.

‘Inspector Rebus,’ he said, ‘I think we’d best be going, don’t you?’

‘Do me one favour,’ Rebus said.

‘What?’ They were in the back of Ancram’s car, heading for Rebus’s hotel, where they’d pick up his car.

‘A quick detour down to the docks.’

Ancram glanced at him. ‘Why?’

‘I want to see where she died.’

Ancram looked at him again. ‘What for?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘To pay my respects,’ he said.

Ancram had only a vague idea where the body had been found, but it didn’t take long to find the runs of bright police tape which were there to secure the scene. The docks were quiet, no sign of the crate in which the body had been discovered. It would be in a police lab somewhere. Rebus kept the right side of the cordon, looked around him. Huge white gulls strutted at a safe distance. The wind was fresh. He couldn’t tell how close this was to the spot where Lumsden had dropped him off.

‘What do you know about her?’ he asked Ancram, who stood, hands in pockets, studying him.

‘Name’s Holden, I think. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.’

‘Did he take a souvenir?’

‘Just one of her shoes. Listen, Rebus... all this interest is because you once bought a prostitute a cup of tea?’

‘Her name was Angie Riddell.’ Rebus paused. ‘She had beautiful eyes.’ He gazed towards a rusting hulk chained dockside. ‘There’s a question I’ve been asking myself. Do we let it happen, or do we make it happen?’ He looked at Ancram. ‘Any idea?’

Ancram frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Me neither,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Tell your driver to be careful with my car. The steering’s a bit loose.’