‘It ended at Duthie Park, there was some music afterwards.’
Rebus nodded: Dancing Pigs. The day he’d visited Bannock.
‘I can give you their phone number,’ she said. The smile was human now.
Rebus telephoned the group’s headquarters.
‘I’m looking for a friend of Allan Mitchison’s. I don’t know her name, but she’s got short fair hair, with some of it braided, you know, with beads and stuff. One braid hangs down past her forehead to her nose. Sort of an American accent, I think.’
‘And who might you be?’ The voice was cultured; for some reason, Rebus visualised the speaker sporting a beard, but it wasn’t the kilted Jerry Garcia, different accent.
‘My name’s Detective Inspector John Rebus. You know Allan Mitchison is dead?’
A pause, then an exhalation: cigarette smoke. ‘I heard. Bloody shame.’
‘Did you know him well?’ Rebus was trying to recall the faces in the photographs.
‘He was the shy type. Only met him a couple of times. Big fan of Dancing Pigs, that’s why he tried so bloody hard to get them to top the bill. I was amazed when it worked. He bombarded them with letters, you know. Maybe a hundred or more, probably wore down their resistance.’
‘And his girlfriend’s name?’
‘Not given out to strangers, I’m afraid. I mean, I’ve only your word for it you’re a police officer.’
‘I could come over —’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Look, I’d really like to talk to you...’
But the telephone was dead.
‘Want to take a run down there?’ Jack suggested.
Rebus shook his head. ‘He won’t tell us anything he doesn’t want to. Besides, I’ve got the feeling by the time we got there he’d have gone out for the day. Can’t afford to waste time.’
Rebus tapped his pen against his teeth. They were back in his bedroom. The telephone had a speaker, and he’d kept it on so Jack could hear. Jack was helping himself to last night’s chocolates.
‘Local cops,’ Rebus said, picking up the receiver. ‘That gig was probably licensed, maybe Queen Street will have records of other organisers.’
‘Worth a go,’ Jack agreed, plugging in the kettle.
So Rebus spent twenty minutes knowing how a pinball feels, as he was shunted from one office to another. He was pretending to be a Trading Standards Officer, interested in bootleggers, following up on an operation at an earlier Dancing Pigs concert. Jack nodded his approvaclass="underline" not a bad story.
‘Yes, John Baxter here, City of Edinburgh Trading Standards. I was just explaining to your colleague...’ And off he went again. When he was passed on to yet another voice, and recognised it as belonging to the first person he’d spoken to, he slammed down the phone.
‘They couldn’t organise the proverbial piss-up.’
Jack handed him a cup of tea. ‘End of the road?’
‘No chance.’ Rebus consulted his notebook, picked up the phone again and was put through to Stuart Minchell at T-Bird Oil.
‘Inspector, what a pleasant surprise.’
‘Sorry to keep pestering you, Mr Minchell.’
‘How’s your investigation?’
‘To be honest, I could use a bit of help.’
‘Fire away.’
‘It’s about Bannock. The day I went out there, some protesters were brought aboard.’
‘Yes, I heard. Handcuffed themselves to the rails.’ Minchell sounded amused. Rebus remembered the platform, the strong gusts, the way his hard-hat wouldn’t stay on, and the helicopter overhead, filming everything...
‘I was wondering what happened to the protesters. I mean, were they placed under arrest?’ He knew they weren’t: a couple of them had been at the concert.
‘Best person to ask would be Hayden Fletcher.’
‘Do you think you could ask for me, sir? On the quiet, as it were.’
‘I suppose so. Give me your number in Edinburgh.’
‘That’s all right, I’ll call you back... say, twenty minutes?’ Rebus glanced towards the window: he could almost see the T-Bird headquarters from here.
‘Depends if I can find anyone.’
‘I’ll try again in twenty minutes. Oh, and Mr Minchell?’
‘Yes?’
‘If you should need to speak to Bannock, could you put a question from me to Willie Ford?’
‘What’s the question?’
‘I want to know if he knew Allan Mitchison had a girlfriend, blonde with braided hair.’
‘Braided hair.’ Minchell was writing it down. ‘Can do.’
‘If so, I’d like her name, and an address if possible.’ Rebus thought of something else. ‘When the protesters came to your headquarters, you had them videoed, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Could you find out? It would be security, wouldn’t it?’
‘Do I still have twenty minutes for all this?’
Rebus smiled. ‘No, sir. Let’s make it half an hour.’
Rebus put down the phone and drained his tea.
‘How about another phone call now?’ Jack asked.
‘Who to?’
‘Chick Ancram.’
‘Jack, look at me.’ Rebus pointed to his face. ‘Could a man this ill possibly pick up the telephone?’
‘You’ll swing.’
‘Like a pendulum do.’
Rebus gave Stuart Minchell forty minutes.
‘You know, Inspector, you make working for the Major seem like a picnic by comparison.’
‘Glad to be of service, sir. What have you got?’
‘Just about everything.’ A rustle of paper. ‘No, the protesters weren’t arrested.’
‘Isn’t that a bit generous, under the circumstances?’
‘It would only have generated more bad publicity.’
‘Something you don’t need right now?’
‘The company did get names out of the protesters, but they were false. At least, I’m assuming Yuri Gagarin and Judy Garland are aliases.’
‘Sound reasoning.’ Judy Garland: Braid-Hair. Interesting choice.
‘So they were detained, given something hot to drink, and flown back to the mainland.’
‘Very decent of T-Bird.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
‘And the video recording?’
‘That was, as you guessed, our security staff. Precautionary, I’m told. If there’s trouble, we have physical evidence.’
‘They don’t use the film to identify the protesters?’
‘We’re not the CIA, Inspector. We’re an oil company.’
‘Sorry, sir, go on.’
‘Willie Ford says he knew Mitch had been seeing someone in Aberdeen — past tense. But they never discussed her. Mitch was — quote — “a dark horse on the question of his love life” — unquote.’
Dead ends everywhere.
‘Is that everything?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, thank you, sir, I really appreciate this.’
‘My pleasure, Inspector. But next time you want a favour, try not to make it on a day when I’m due to sack a dozen of our workforce.’
‘Hard times, Mr Minchell?’
‘A book by Dickens, Inspector Rebus. Goodbye.’
Jack was laughing. ‘Good line,’ he said approvingly.
‘So it should be,’ Rebus said, ‘he was less than a mile away.’ He walked over to the window, watched another plane taking off in the near-distance, the roar of its jets fading as it headed north.
‘Had enough for one morning?’
Rebus didn’t say anything. He’d been expecting Eve to call. There was that favour. He wondered if she’d do it. She owed him, but crossing Judd Fuller didn’t sound like the wisest move on the dance floor. She’d been dancing her own little steps for years: why trip up now?
Jack repeated his question.
‘One option left,’ Rebus said, turning to face him.