‘Bannock will be the first T-Bird field to undergo rigorous decommissioning,’ Rebus read. There seemed to be seven options available, from Leave In Place to Total Removal. The company’s ‘modest proposal’ was for mothballing: leaving the structure to be dealt with at a later date.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Rebus muttered, noting that mothballing ‘would leave funds available for future exploration and development’.
He put the pamphlets back in their envelope and shoved it in a drawer, returning to his paperwork. A sheet of fax paper was hidden near the bottom. He pulled it out. It was from Stuart Minchell, sent the previous day at seven in the evening: further details on Allan Mitchison’s two workmates. The one who worked at the Sullom Voe terminal was called Jake Harley. He was on a walking/birdwatching holiday somewhere on Shetland, and probably hadn’t yet heard of his friend’s demise. The one who worked offshore was called Willie Ford. He was halfway through a sixteen-day stint, and ‘of course’ had learned about Allan Mitchison.
Rebus picked up his telephone, reached into the drawer for Minchell’s compliment slip. He got the number from it and pushed the buttons. It was early; all the same...
‘Personnel.’
‘Stuart Minchell, please.’
‘Speaking.’ Bingo: Minchell a company man, early starter.
‘Mr Minchell, it’s Inspector Rebus again.’
‘Inspector, you’re lucky I picked up the phone. Usually I just let it ring, only way I can get some work done before the rush.’
‘Your fax, Mr Minchell — why did you say “of course” Willie Ford had learned of Allan Mitchison’s death?’
‘Because they worked together, didn’t I tell you?’
‘Offshore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which platform, Mr Minchell?’
‘Didn’t I tell you that either? Bannock.’
‘The one that’s being mothballed?’
‘Yes. Our Public Relations team’s got its work cut out there.’ A pause. ‘Is it important, Inspector?’
‘Probably not, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Rebus put down the receiver, drummed his fingers against it.
He went out to the shops, bought a filled roll for breakfast — corned beef and onion. The roll was too floury, and stuck to the roof of his mouth. He bought himself a coffee to wash it down. When he got back to the Shed, Bain and Maclay were at their desks, feet up, tabloid reading. Bain was eating a dough-ring; Maclay burping sausage-meat.
‘Snitch reports?’ Rebus asked.
‘Nothing so far,’ Bain said, not taking his eyes from the paper.
‘Tony El?’
Maclay’s turn: ‘Description’s gone out to every Scottish force, nothing’s come back.’
‘I phoned Grampian CID myself,’ Bain added, ‘told them to check out Mitchison’s Indian restaurant. Looks like he was a regular, they might know something.’
‘Nice one, Dod,’ Rebus said.
‘Not just a pretty face, is he?’ Maclay said.
The weather forecast was for sunshine and showers. It seemed to Rebus, as he drove out to Ratho, that they were coming at ten-minute intervals. Brisk black clouds, shafts of sunlight, blue skies, then clouds gathering again. At one point, it started raining when there didn’t seem to be a cloud in the sky.
Ratho was surrounded by farmland, with the Union Canal bordering it to the north. It was popular in the summer: you could take a boat trip on the canal, or feed the ducks, or eat at a waterfront restaurant. Yet it was less than a mile from the M8, two miles from Turnhouse Airport. Rebus drove out along Calder Road, trusting to his sense of direction. Fergus McLure’s house was on Hallcroft Park. He knew he could find it: there were only a dozen streets in the whole village. McLure was known to work from home. Rebus had decided against phoning ahead: he didn’t want Fergie forewarned.
When he reached Ratho, it took him five minutes to locate Hallcroft Park. He found Fergie’s address, stopped the car, and walked up to the door. There was no sign of life. He rang the bell a second time. Net curtains stopped him peering through the window.
‘Should have phoned,’ Rebus muttered.
A woman was walking past, terrier straining on its leash. The small dog made terrible choking sounds as it sniffed the pavement.
‘Is he not in?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Funny, his car’s here.’ She had time to nod in the direction of a parked Volvo before the dog hauled her away. It was a blue 940 estate. Rebus looked in through the windows, but all he saw was how clean the interior looked. He checked the mileage: low. A new car. The tyre-walls hadn’t even had time to lose their shine.
Rebus got back into his own car — mileage to date fifty times the Volvo’s — and decided to head back into town by the Glasgow Road. But as he made to drive over the canal bridge, he saw a police car at the far end of the restaurant car park, sitting on the slip-road down to the canal. There was an ambulance parked next to it. Rebus braked, reversed, and turned into the car park, crawling towards the scene. A woolly suit came to warn him off, but Rebus had his warrant card ready. He parked and got out.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Somebody went for a dip with their clothes on.’
The constable followed Rebus down to the jetty. There were cruise boats moored there, and a couple of tourist-types who looked like they’d come for a trip on one of them. The rain had started again, pockmarking the surface of the canal. The ducks were keeping their distance. A body had been hauled out of the water, clothes sodden, and laid on the wooden slats that constituted the jetty. A man who looked like a doctor was checking for signs of life, no real hope in his face. The back door to the restaurant was open, staff members standing there, faces interested but full of horror.
The doctor shook his head. One of the tourists, a woman, began to cry. Her companion, a man, cradled his video camera and put an arm around her.
‘He must’ve slipped and fallen in,’ someone said, ‘banged his head.’
The doctor checked the corpse’s head, found a clean gash.
Rebus looked up towards the staff. ‘Anyone see anything?’ Headshakes. ‘Who reported it?’
‘I did.’ The woman tourist, English accent.
Rebus turned to the doctor. ‘How long has he been in the water?’
‘I’m just a GP, not an expert. All the same, if you want a guess... not long. Certainly not overnight.’ Something had rolled out of the drowned man’s jacket pocket and wedged between two of the slats. A small brown bottle with white plastic top. Prescription pills. Rebus looked at the bloated face, fixed it to a much younger man, a man he’d interviewed in 1978 about his connection to Lenny Spaven.
‘He’s a local,’ Rebus told the company. ‘His name’s Fergus McLure.’
He tried phoning Gill Templer, couldn’t track her down, ended up leaving messages for her in half a dozen different places. Back home, he polished his shoes and changed into his best suit, picked out the shirt with the fewest creases, and found the most sober tie he had (excepting his funeral one).