by Ian Rankin
‘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. ‘Wh
at 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 note
d 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.
