‘What time?’
‘Two o’clock, it shouldn’t take long.’
‘Will there be tea and biccies? I’m not coming otherwise.’
A shocked pause, then a release of breath as she realised he was joking. ‘We’ll see what we can manage, Inspector.’
Rebus put down the phone. It rang again and he picked it up.
‘John? It’s Gill, did you get my message?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Oh. I thought you might have tried to call me.’
‘Mmm.’
‘John? Is something wrong?’
He shook himself. ‘I don’t know. The CC Rider wants to see me.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Nobody’s saying.’
A sigh. ‘What have you been up to this time?’
‘Absolutely nothing, Gill, that’s the God’s honest truth.’
‘Made any enemies yet at your new posting?’ As she spoke, Bain and Maclay walked through the door. Rebus nodded a greeting.
‘No enemies. Do you think I’m doing something wrong?’ Maclay and Bain were shedding jackets, pretending not to be interested.
‘Listen, about that message I left...?’
‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ Maclay and Bain dropped the pretence.
‘Can we meet?’
‘I don’t see why not. Dinner tonight?’
‘Tonight... yes, why not?’
She lived in Morningside, Rebus in Marchmont... make it a Tollcross rendezvous.
‘Brougham Street,’ Rebus said, ‘that Indian place with the slat blinds. Half eight?’
‘Sure.’
‘See you there, Chief Inspector.’
Bain and Maclay went about their business, said nothing for a minute or two. Then Bain coughed, swallowed, spoke.
‘How was Raintown?’
‘I got out alive.’
‘Find out anything about Uncle Joe and Tony El?’ Bain’s finger went to the nick below his eye.
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing.’
‘All right, don’t tell us,’ Maclay said. He looked funny, sitting at his desk. An inch had been sawn off each of the legs of his chair, so his thighs would fit under the lip of the desk. When Rebus had first arrived, he’d asked why Maclay hadn’t just lifted the table legs up an inch. Until then, Maclay hadn’t thought of it — sawing the chair legs had been Bain’s idea.
‘Nothing to tell,’ Rebus argued. ‘Except this — word is, Tony El’s a free agent, working out of the north-east, so we need to contact Grampian CID and ask about him.’
‘I’ll fax them his details,’ Maclay said.
‘I take it there’s been no sign?’ Rebus asked.
Bain and Maclay shook their heads.
‘I’ll let you into the secret though,’ Bain said.
‘What?’
‘There are at least two Indians on Brougham Street with slatted blinds.’
Rebus watched them have a good laugh about that, then asked what the background check on the decedent had produced.
‘Not much,’ Bain said, leaning back in his chair and waving a sheet of paper. Rebus got up, took the paper from him.
Allan Mitchison. Only child. Born in Grangemouth. His mother died in childbirth; his father went into decline, followed her two years later. Infant Allan was taken into care — no other kin found. Children’s home, then a foster family. Put up for adoption, but was an unruly kid, a trouble-maker. Screaming fits, tantrums, then long sulks. He always ran away eventually, always found his way back to the children’s home. Grew up into a quiet teenager, still prone to black sulks, the occasional outburst, but talented in some school subjects — English, geography, art, music — and mostly docile. Still preferred the children’s home to foster life. Left school at seventeen. Having seen a documentary on life on a North Sea platform, decided he liked the look of it. Miles from anywhere, and an existence not unlike the children’s home — regimented. He liked group life, dormitories, shared rooms. Painter. His work pattern was uneven — he’d spent time onshore as well as off — a spell of training at RGIT-OSC...
‘What’s RGIT-OSC?’
Maclay had been waiting for the question. ‘Robert Gordon Institute of Technology’s Offshore Survival Centre.’
‘Is that the same as Robert Gordon’s University?’
Maclay and Bain looked at one another, shrugged.
‘Never mind,’ Rebus said, thinking: Johnny Bible’s first victim had attended RGU.
Mitchison had also worked at the Sullom Voe terminal on Shetland, a few other locations. Friends and workmates: plenty of the latter, precious few of the former. Edinburgh had proved a dead end: none of his neighbours had ever clapped eyes on him. And the word from Aberdeen and points north was only a little more encouraging. A couple of names: one on a production platform, one at Sullom Voe...
‘Are these two willing to be interviewed?’
Bain: ‘Christ, you’re not thinking of going up there? First Glasgow, now teuchter-land — didn’t you get a holiday this year?’
Maclay’s high-pitched laughter.
Rebus: ‘I seem to be a sitting target down here. I had a thought today — whoever picked out that flat knew the area. I’m thinking a local. Either of you have snitches in Niddrie?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then get talking to them, a man answering Tony El’s description, he might’ve been hanging around the pubs and clubs, looking for local talent. Is there anything on decedent’s employer?’
Bain lifted another sheet, waved it, smiling. Rebus had to get up again, go fetch it.
T-Bird Oil got its name from Thom Bird, who had been co-founder with ‘Major’ Randall Weir.
‘Major?’
Bain shrugged. ‘That’s what they call him: Major Weir.’
Weir and Bird were both Americans, but with strong Scottish roots. Bird had died in 1986, leaving Weir in charge. It was one of the smaller companies hoovering up oil and gas from below the sea bed...
Rebus realised that he knew almost nothing about the oil industry. He had some pictures in his head, mostly disasters — Piper Alpha, the Braer.
T-Bird had its UK base in Aberdeen, near Dyce Airport, but the global HQ was in the US, and the company held other oil and gas interests in Alaska, Africa, and the Gulf of Mexico.
‘Boring, eh?’ Maclay offered.
‘Is that meant to be a joke?’
‘Just making conversation.’
Rebus got to his feet, put his jacket on. ‘Well, much as I could listen to your dulcet tones all day...’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Station to station.’
No one seemed very interested in his return to St Leonard’s; a couple of woolly suits stopped to say hello — it turned out they didn’t even know he’d been transferred.
‘I don’t know who that says more about — me or you.’
In the CID offices he saw Siobhan Clarke at her desk. She was on the phone, and waved her pen at him as he passed. She wore a white short-sleeved blouse, and her bare arms were deeply tanned, as were her neck and face.
Rebus kept looking, and acknowledged a few lukewarm greetings. Jings, but it was rare to be ‘home’. He thought of Allan Mitchison and his empty flat: he’d come back to Edinburgh because it was as close to a home as he had.
Eventually he spotted Brian Holmes, chatting up a WPC, giving it plenty.
‘Hello, Brian, how’s the wife?’
The WPC turned red, mumbled some excuse and left.
‘Ha fucking ha,’ Holmes said. Now that the WPC had gone, he looked dead done in, shoulders slumped, skin grey, specks of stubble left behind by a too-casual razor.