Spinning in a narrowing gyre: Allan Mitchison... Johnny Bible... Uncle Joe... Fergus McLure’s drug deal.
Beach Boys: ‘God Only Knows’. Segue to Zappa and the Mothers: ‘More Trouble Every Day’. Rebus picked his pillow off the floor, listened to it for a full minute, threw it back on to the bed, then lay him down to sleep.
He was awake early and didn’t feel like breakfast, so went for a walk instead. It was a glorious morning. The seagulls were busy hoovering up the night before’s leftovers, but the streets were otherwise uncrowded. He walked up to the Mercat Cross, then left along King Street. He knew he was heading in the vague direction of his aunt’s house, but doubted he could find it on foot. Instead, he came to something looking like an old school building but calling itself RGIT Offshore. He knew RGIT was Robert Gordon’s Institute of Technology, and that Allan Mitchison had studied for a time at RGIT-OSC. He knew Johnny Bible’s first victim had studied at Robert Gordon’s University, but not what she had studied. Had she taken classes here? He stared at the grey granite walls. The first murder was in Aberdeen. Only later did Johnny Bible move to Glasgow and Edinburgh. Meaning what? Did Aberdeen hold some particular significance for the killer? He’d walked the victim from a nightclub to Duthie Park, but that didn’t mean he was locaclass="underline" Michelle herself could have shown him the way. Rebus got out his map again, found College Street, then traced a finger from Burke’s Club to Duthie Park. A long walk, residential, nobody had seen them the whole length of the route. Had they taken especially quiet back roads? Rebus folded the map and put it away.
He headed past the City Hospital and ended up on the Esplanade: a long expanse of grass links with bowling green, tennis and putting. There were amusements, all closed this early. People were on the Esplanade — jogging, walking their dogs, morning constitutionals. Rebus joined them. Groynes divided the mostly sandy beach into neat compartments. It was as clean a part of the city as he’d seen, excepting the graffiti — an artist called Zero had been hard at work, making this his or her personal gallery.
Zero the Hero: a character from somewhere... Gong. Jesus, he hadn’t thought of them for years. Pot-head pixies with stoned synths. Floating anarchy.
At the end of the Esplanade, next to the harbour, stood a couple of squares of housing, a village within the city. The squares themselves comprised drying greens and garden sheds. Dogs barked a warning as he passed. It reminded him of the east neuk of Fife, fishermen’s cottages, brightly painted but unpretentious. A taxi was cruising the harbour. Rebus waved it down. The R&R was over.
There was a demo outside the headquarters of T-Bird Oil. The young woman with the braided hair who’d been so persuasive the previous day was sitting cross-legged on the grass, smoking a roll-up, looking like she was on her break. The young man currently on the megaphone didn’t have half her anger or eloquence, but his friends cheered him on. Maybe he was new to the demonstrating game.
Two young woolly suits, no older than the activists, were in consultation with three or four environmentalists in red boiler-suits and gas masks. The policemen were saying that if they took the gas masks off, conversation might be less of a chore. They were also asking that the demonstration move off land owned by T-Bird Oil. Namely, the patch of grass in front of the main entrance. The demonstrators were saying something about the laws of trespass. Legal knowledge came with the territory these days. It was like rules of unarmed combat to a squaddie.
Rebus was offered the same literature as the day before.
‘I already took,’ he said with a smile. Braid-hair looked up at him and squinted, like she was taking a photograph.
In the reception area, someone was videoing the demo through the windows. Maybe for police intelligence; maybe for T-Bird’s own files. Stuart Minchell was waiting for Rebus.
‘Isn’t it unbelievable?’ he said. ‘I hear there are groups like that one outside each of the Six Sisters, plus smaller operations like ours.’
‘The Six Sisters?’
‘The big North Sea players. Exxon, Shell, BP, Mobil... I forget the other two. So, ready for the trip?’
‘I’m not sure. What are my chances of getting a kip?’
‘It might be pretty bumpy. Good news is, we’ve a plane heading up, so you’ll be spared a budgie — at least for today. You’ll fly in to Scatsta. It used to be an RAF base. Saves the hassle of changing at Sumburgh.’
‘And it’s near Sullom Voe?’
‘Right next door. Someone’ll be there to meet you.’
‘I appreciate this, Mr Minchell.’
Minchell shrugged. ‘Ever been to Shetland?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Well, you’re probably not going to see much of it, except from the air. Just remember, when that plane takes off, you’re not in Scotland any more. You’re a “Sooth-Moother” heading for miles and miles of bugger all.’
15
Minchell drove Rebus to Dyce Airport. The plane was a twin-propeller model with seats for fourteen, but today carrying only half a dozen passengers, all men. Four of them wore suits, and were quick to open their briefcases, disgorging sheafs of paper, ring-bound reports, calculators, pens and laptops. One wore a sheepskin jacket and lacked what the others would probably call ‘proper grooming’. He kept his hands in his pockets and stared out of the window. Rebus, who didn’t mind an aisle seat, decided to sit beside him.
The man tried to stare him elsewhere. His eyes were bloodshot, grey stubble covering cheeks and chin. In reply, Rebus fastened his seat-belt. The man growled, but shifted upright, allowing Rebus half an arm-rest. Then he went back to window-watching. A car was drawing up outside.
The engine started up, propellers turning. There was a stewardess at the back of the cramped compartment. She hadn’t closed the door yet. The man in the window-seat turned to the assembly of suits.
‘Prepare to shite yourselves.’ Then he started laughing. Whisky fumes from the night before wafted over Rebus, making him glad he’d skipped breakfast. Someone else was boarding the plane. Rebus peered down the aisle. It was Major Weir, dressed in a kilt, sporran attached. The suits froze. Sheepskin was still chuckling. The door slammed shut. Seconds later, the plane began to taxi.
Rebus, who hated flying, tried to think himself into a nice Intercity 125, speeding along terra firma, no intention of suddenly pushing skywards.
‘Grab that arm-rest any harder,’ his neighbour said, ‘and you’ll uproot the fucking thing.’
The ascent was like an unpaved road. Rebus thought he could feel fillings popping loose and hear the plane’s various bolts and soldered joins snapping. But then they were levelling out, and things settled down. Rebus started breathing again, noticed sweat on his palms and brow. He adjusted the air-intake above him.
‘Better?’ the man said.
‘Better,’ Rebus agreed. The wheels retracted, covers closing. The sheepskin explained what the sounds were. Rebus nodded his thanks. He could hear the stewardess behind them.
‘I’m sorry, Major, if we’d known you were coming we’d have arranged for coffee to be served.’
She got a grunt for her trouble. The suits were staring at their work, but couldn’t concentrate. The plane hit some turbulence, and Rebus’s hands went to the arm-rests again.
‘Fear of flying,’ sheepskin said with a wink.
Rebus knew he had to get his mind off the flight. ‘Do you work at Sullom Voe?’