‘Practically run the place.’ He nodded towards the suits. ‘I don’t work for this lot you know. I’m just cadging a lift. I work for the consortium.’
‘The Six Sisters?’
‘And the rest. Thirty-odd at the last count.’
‘You know, I don’t know a damned thing about Sullom Voe.’
Sheepskin gave him a sidelong look. ‘You a reporter?’
‘I’m a CID detective.’
‘Just so long as you’re not a reporter. I’m the relief Maintenance Manager. We’re always getting grief in the press about cracked pipes and spills. I’ll tell you, the only leaks around my terminal are the ones to the fucking papers!’ He stared out of the window again, as if their conversation had reached a natural end. But a full minute later he turned to Rebus.
‘There are two pipelines into the terminal — Brent and Ninian — plus we offload from tankers. Four jetties in near-constant use. I was here from the start, 1973. That’s only four years after the first exploration ships chugged into Lerwick. By Christ, I’d have loved to’ve seen the looks on the fishermen’s faces. They probably thought it was the start of bugger all. But oil came and oil stayed, we got to fuck with the islands, and they screwed every penny they could out of the consortium. Every last penny.’
As sheepskin talked, his mouth began to relax. Rebus thought he might still be drunk. He spoke quietly, mostly with his face to the window.
‘You should have seen the place in the seventies, kiddo. It was like the Klondike — trailer parks, shanty towns, the roads churned to mud. We had power cuts, not enough fresh water, and the locals fucking hated us. I loved it. There was about one pub we could all drink in. The consortium were choppering in supplies like we were at war. Fuck, maybe we were.’
He turned to Rebus.
‘And the weather... the wind’ll strip the skin off your face.’
‘So I needn’t have brought a razor?’
The big man snorted. ‘What takes you to Sullom Voe?’
‘A suspicious death.’
‘On Shetland?’
‘In Edinburgh.’
‘How suspicious?’
‘Maybe not very, but we have to check.’
‘I know all about that. It’s like at the terminal, we run hundreds of checks every day, whether they’re needed or not. The LPG chilldown area, we had a suspected problem there, and I stress suspected. I’ll tell you, we had more men on standby than God knows what. See, it’s not that far from the crude oil storage.’
Rebus nodded, not sure what the man was getting at. He seemed to be drifting off again. Time to reel him in.
‘The man who died worked for a while at Sullom Voe. Allan Mitchison.’
‘Mitchison?’
‘He might’ve been on maintenance. I think that was his speciality.’
Sheepskin shook his head. ‘Name doesn’t... no.’
‘What about Jake Harley? He works at Sullom Voe.’
‘Oh aye, I’ve come across him. Don’t much like him, but I know the face.’
‘Why don’t you like him?’
‘He’s one of those Green bastards. You know, ecology.’ He almost spat the word. ‘What the fuck’s ecology ever done for us?’
‘So you know him.’
‘Who?’
‘Jake Harley?’
‘I said so, didn’t I?’
‘He’s off on some walking holiday.’
‘On Shetland?’ Rebus nodded. ‘Aye, sounds about right. He’s always on about archaeology and whatsit, bird-watching. The only birds I’d spend all day watching don’t have fucking feathers on them, let me tell you.’
Rebus to himself: I thought I was bad, but this guy redefines all the terms.
‘So he’s off walking and bird-watching: any idea where he’d go?’
‘The usual places. There are a few bird-watchers at the terminal. It’s like pollution control. We know we’re doing all right as long as the birds don’t suddenly start turning up their toes. Like with the Negrita.’ He almost bit off the end of the word, swallowed hard. ‘Thing is, the wind’s so fierce, and the currents are fierce too. So you get dispersal, like with the Braer. Somebody told me Shetland has a complete change of air every quarter hour. Perfect dispersal conditions. And fuck it, they’re only birds. What are they good for, when it comes down to it?’
He rested his head against the window.
‘When we get to the terminal, I’ll get a map for you, mark some of the places he might go...’ Seconds later, his eyes were closed. Rebus got up and went to the back of the cabin, where the toilet was. As he passed Major Weir, who was seated in the very back row, he saw he was deep in the Financial Times. The toilet was no smaller than a child’s coffin. If Rebus had been any wider, they’d have had to starve him out. He flushed, thinking of his urine splashing into the North Sea — as far as pollution went, a mere drop in the ocean — and tugged open the accordion doors. He slid into the seat across the aisle from the Major. The stewardess had been sitting there, but he could see her up front in the cockpit.
‘Any chance of a keek at the racing results?’
Major Weir lifted his eyes from the newsprint, swivelled his head to take in this strange new creature. The whole process couldn’t have taken longer than half a minute. He didn’t say anything.
‘We met yesterday,’ Rebus told him. ‘My name’s Detective Inspector Rebus. I know you don’t say much...’ he patted his jacket... ‘I’ve a notepad in my pocket if you need one.’
‘In your spare time, Inspector, are you some sort of comedian?’ The voice was a cultured drawl; urbane just about summed it up. But it was also dry, a little rusty.
‘Can I ask you something, Major? Why did you name your oilfield after an oatcake?’
Weir’s face reddened with sudden rage. ‘It’s short for Bannockburn!’
Rebus nodded. ‘Did we win that one?’
‘Don’t you know your history, laddie?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘I swear, sometimes I despair. You’re a Scot.’
‘So?’
‘So your past is important! You need to know it so you can learn.’
‘Learn what, sir?’
Weir sighed. ‘To borrow a phrase from a poet — a Scots poet, he was talking about words — that we Scots are “creatures tamed by cruelty”. Do you see?’
‘I think I’m having trouble focusing.’
Weir frowned. ‘Do you drink?’
‘Teetotal is my middle name.’ The Major grunted his satisfaction. ‘Trouble is,’ Rebus went on, ‘my first name’s Not-at-all.’
He got it eventually and grudged a frowning smile, the first time Rebus had seen the trick.
‘The thing is, sir, I’m up here —’
‘I know why you’re up here, Inspector. When I saw you yesterday, I had Hayden Fletcher find out who you were.’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘Because you stared back at me in the elevator. I’m not used to that sort of behaviour. It meant you didn’t work for me, and since you were with my personnel manager...’
‘You thought I was after a job?’
‘I meant to see to it you didn’t get one.’
‘I’m flattered.’
The Major looked at him again. ‘So why is my company flying you to Sullom Voe?’
‘I want to talk to a friend of Mitchison’s.’
‘Allan Mitchison.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I had Minchell report to me yesterday evening. I like to know everything that’s going on in my company. I have a question for you.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Could Mr Mitchison’s death have anything to do with T-Bird Oil?’
‘At the moment... I don’t think so.’