10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘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 leg
end, 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?’

&nbs
p; ‘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.’