‘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. ‘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.’
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.