Black And Blue

by Ian Rankin

  ‘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 shee
t 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.