10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (264 page)

‘So he wishes it was Scottish.’

With the Jag gone, they walked out to the car park. ‘He’s got this obsession with Scotland,’ Minchell went on. ‘His parents were Scots migrants, used to tell him stories about the “old country”. He got hooked. He only spends maybe a third of the year here – T-Bird Oil stretches around the globe – but you can tell he hates to leave.’

‘Anything else I should know?’

‘He’s a strict teetotaller, one whiff of alcohol from an employee and they’re out.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Widower. His wife’s buried on Islay or somewhere like that. This is my car.’

It was a midnight-blue Mazda racing model, low-slung with just enough room for two bucket seats. Minchell’s briefcase all but filled the back. He hooked his phone up before turning the ignition.

‘He had a son,’ Minchell went on, ‘but I think he died, too, or was disinherited. The Major won’t talk about him. Do you want the good news or the bad?’

‘Let’s try the bad.’

‘Still no sign of Jake Harley, he hasn’t returned from his walking holiday. He’s due back in a couple of days.’

‘I’d like to head up to Sullom Voe anyway,’ Rebus said. Especially if Ancram were going to be able to track him to Aberdeen.

‘No problem with that. We’ll get you up there on a chopper.’

‘What’s the good news?’

‘Good news is, I’ve arranged for you to take another chopper out to Bannock to talk to Willie Ford. And as it’s a day-trip, you won’t need any survival training. Believe me,
that’s
good news. Part of the training, they belt you into a simulator and tip you into a swimming pool.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Oh, yes. Anyone making more than ten day-trips a year has to. Scared the hell out of me.’

‘But the helicopters are safe enough?’

‘Don’t worry about that. And you’re lucky just now: a nice window.’ He saw Rebus’s blank look. ‘A window in the weather, no major storms brewing. See, oil is an all-year industry, but it’s also seasonal. We can’t always get to and from the platforms, it depends on the weather. If we want to tow a rig out to sea, we need to plot a window, then hope for the best. The weather out there . . .’ Minchell shook his head. ‘Sometimes it can make you believe in the Almighty.’

‘Old Testament variety?’ Rebus guessed. Minchell smiled and nodded, then made a call on his phone.

They came out of Dyce and into Bridge of Don, following signs to the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre. Rebus waited until Minchell had finished his call before asking a question.

‘Where was Major Weir headed?’

‘Same place we are. He’s got to make a speech.’

‘I thought you said he doesn’t speak.’

‘He doesn’t. That man with him was his PR guru, Hayden Fletcher. He’ll read the speech. The Major will sit beside him and listen.’

‘Does that count as eccentric?’

‘Not when you’re worth a hundred million dollars.’

The Conference Centre car park was full of upper-tier management models: Mercs, Beamers, Jags, the occasional Bentley or Roller. A huddle of chauffeurs smoked cigarettes and swapped anecdotes.

‘Might have been better PR if you’d all come on bikes,’ Rebus said, getting his first view of a demo outside the prism-shaped dome which marked the entrance to the Centre. Someone had unfurled a huge banner from the roof, painted green on white: DON’T KILL OUR OCEANS! Security personnel were up there, trying to haul it in while still retaining their balance and dignity. Someone with a megaphone was leading the chant. There were demonstrators in full combat kit and radiation hoods, and others dressed up as mermaids and mermen, plus an inflatable whale which, gusted by the wind, was in danger of snapping its moorings. Uniformed police patrolled the demo, speaking into their shoulder radios. Rebus guessed there’d be a wagon nearby with the heavier artillery: riot shields, visors, US-style defence batons . . . It didn’t look like that kind of demo, not yet.

‘We’re going to have to go through them,’ Minchell said. ‘I
hate
this. We’re spending millions on environmental protection. I’m even a member of Greenpeace, Oxfam, you name it. But every bloody year it’s the same.’ He grabbed his briefcase and cellphone, remote-locked the car and set its alarm, then headed for the doors.

‘You’re supposed to have a delegate badge to get in,’ he
explained. ‘But just show a warrant card or something. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

They were close to the main demo now. There was background music through a portable PA, a song about whales, or maybe it was Wales. Rebus recognised the vocal style: The Dancing Pigs. People were shoving flyers at him. He took one of each and thanked them. A young woman was pacing in front of him like a caged leopard. She controlled the megaphone. Her voice was nasal and North American.

‘Decisions made now will affect your children’s grandchildren! You can’t put a price on the future! Put the future first, for everybody’s sake!’

She looked at Rebus as he passed her. Her face was blank, no hate, no recrimination, just working. Her bleached hair was rat-tailed, threaded with bright braids, one of which fell down the middle of her forehead.

‘Kill the oceans and you kill the planet! Put Mother Earth before profits!’

Rebus was convinced even before he reached the door.

There was a bin inside, where the flyers were being dumped. But Rebus folded his and put them in his pocket. Two guards wanted to see ID, but his warrant card, as predicted, was effective. There were more guards patrolling the concourse – private security, uniformed, wearing shiny caps which meant nothing. They’d probably had a one-day crash course in menacing pleasantry. The concourse itself was full of suits. Messages were being relayed over a PA system. There were static displays, tables piled high with literature, sales pitches for God knows what. Some of the booths looked to be doing good business. Minchell excused himself and said he’d meet Rebus at the main doors in about half an hour. He said he had to do some ‘schmoozing’. This seemed to mean shaking hands with people, smiling, giving them a few words and in some cases his business card, then moving on. Rebus quickly lost him.

Rebus didn’t see too many pictures of rigs, and those he did
see were tension legs and semi-submersibles. The real excitement seemed to be FPSOs – Floating Production, Storage and Offloading Systems – which were like tankers, but did away with the need for a platform altogether. Flowlines connected straight to the FPSO, and it could store 300,000 barrels of oil.

‘Impressive, isn’t she?’ a Scandinavian in a salesman’s suit asked Rebus. Rebus nodded.

‘No need for a platform.’

‘And easier to scrap when the time comes. Cheap
and
environmental.’ The man paused. ‘Interested in leasing one?’

‘Where would I park it?’ He walked off before the salesman could translate.

Maybe it was his tracker’s nose, but he found the bar with no difficulty and settled at the far end with a whisky and a bowl of nibbles. Lunch had been a petrol station sandwich, so he tucked in. A man came and stood next to him, wiped his face with a huge white handkerchief and asked for a soda water with lots of ice.

‘Why do I still come to these things?’ the man growled. His accent was pitched somewhere in mid-Atlantic. He was tall and thin, his reddish hair thinning. The flesh around his neck was slack, putting him in his early fifties, though he could have passed for five years younger. Rebus didn’t have an answer for him, so said nothing. The drink arrived, and he downed it in one, then ordered another. ‘Want one?’ he asked.

‘No, thanks.’

The man noticed that Rebus’s photocard was missing. ‘Are you a delegate?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Observer.’

‘The newspaper?’

Rebus shook his head again.

‘Thought not. Oil’s only news when something goes wrong. It’s bigger than the nuclear industry, but gets half the coverage.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it, if the news they’re printing is all bad?’

The man thought about this, then laughed, showing perfect teeth. ‘You’ve got me there.’ He wiped his face again. ‘So what exactly are you observing?’

‘I’m off duty right now.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘So what do you do?’

‘I work my guts out. But I have to tell you, my company’s just about given up trying to sell to the oil industry. They’d rather buy Yank or Scandinavian. Well, fuck them. No wonder Scotland’s down the pan . . . and we want independence.’ The man shook his head, then leaned forwards over the bar. Rebus did likewise: co-conspirator. ‘Mostly what I do is, I attend boring conventions like this. And I go home at night and wonder what it’s all about. You sure about that drink?’

‘Go on then.’

So Rebus let the man buy him a drink. The way he had said ‘fuck them’ made Rebus think he didn’t swear that often. It was just something he did to break the ice, to show he was speaking man to man; off the record, as it were. Rebus offered a cigarette, but his friend shook his head.

‘Gave them up years ago. Don’t think I’m not still tempted.’ He paused, looked around the bar. ‘Know who I’d like to be?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Go on, guess.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Sean Connery.’ The man nodded. ‘Think about it, with what he earns per film, he could give a pound to every man, woman and child in this country, and
still
have a couple of mill left over. Isn’t that incredible?’

‘So if you were Sean Connery, you’d give everyone a pound?’

‘I’d be the world’s sexiest man, what would I need money for?’

It was a good point, so they drank to it. Only thing was,
talking about Sean reminded Rebus of Ancram, Sean’s lookalike. He checked his watch, saw that he had to leave.

‘Can I buy you one before I go?’

The man shook his head, then produced his business card, doing so in a slick movement, like a magician. ‘In case you ever need it. My name’s Ryan, by the way.’ Rebus read the card: Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division, and a company masthead: Eugene Construction.

‘John Rebus,’ he said, shaking Slocum’s hand.

‘John Rebus,’ Slocum said, nodding. ‘No business card, John?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

Slocum’s eyes widened. ‘Did I say anything incriminating?’

‘Wouldn’t bother me if you did. I’m based in Edinburgh.’

‘A long way from home. Is it Johnny Bible?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He’s killed in both cities, hasn’t he?’

Rebus nodded. ‘No, it’s not Johnny Bible. Take care, Ryan.’

‘You too. It’s a mad bad world out there.’

‘Isn’t it just?’

Stuart Minchell was waiting for him at the doors. ‘Anything else you’d like to see, or shall we head back?’

‘Let’s go.’

Lumsden called up to his room, and Rebus came downstairs to meet him. Lumsden was well-dressed, but casual – the blazer swapped for a cream jacket, yellow shirt open at the neck.

‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘do I call you Lumsden all night?’

‘First name’s Ludovic.’

‘Ludovic Lumsden?’

‘My parents had a sense of humour. Friends call me Ludo.’

The evening was warm and still light. Birds were noisy in the gardens, and fat seagulls were picking their way along the pavements.

‘It’ll stay light till ten, maybe eleven,’ Lumsden explained.

‘Those are the fattest seagulls I’ve ever seen.’

‘I hate them. Look at the state of the pavements.’

It was true, the slabs underfoot were speckled with birdshit. ‘Where are we going?’ Rebus asked.

‘Call it a mystery tour. It’s all within walking distance. You like mystery tours?’

‘I like having a guide.’

Their first stop was an Italian restaurant, where Lumsden was well known. Everyone seemed to want to shake his hand, and the proprietor took him aside for a quiet word, apologising to Rebus beforehand.

‘The Italians up here are docile,’ Lumsden explained later. ‘They never quite managed to run the town.’

‘So who does?’

Lumsden considered the question. ‘A mixture.’

‘Any Americans?’

Lumsden looked at him, nodded. ‘They run a lot of the clubs and some of the newer hotels. Service industry stuff. They arrived in the seventies, never moved away. Do you want to go to a club later?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It sounds almost respectable.’

Lumsden laughed. ‘Oh, you want
sleaze
? That’s supposed to be what Aberdeen’s about, right? You’ve got the wrong idea. The city is strictly corporate. Later on, if you really want, I’ll take you down by the docks: strippers and hard drinkers, but a tiny minority.’

‘Living down south, you hear stories.’

‘Of course you do: high-class brothels, dope and porn, gambling and alcohol. We hear the stories, too. But as for
seeing
the stuff . . .’ Lumsden shook his head. ‘The oil industry’s pretty tame really. The roughnecks have all but disappeared. Oil’s gone legit.’

Rebus was almost convinced, but Lumsden was trying too hard. He kept talking, and the more he talked the less Rebus believed. The owner came over for another word, drew
Lumsden away to a corner of the restaurant. Lumsden kept a hand on the man’s back, patting it. He flattened his tie as he sat down again.

‘His son’s running wild,’ Lumsden explained. He shrugged, as if there were nothing more to say, and told Rebus to try the meatballs.

Afterwards, there was a nightclub, where businessmen vied with young turks for the attentions of the daytime shop-workers turned Lycra vixens. The music was loud and so were the clothes. Lumsden nodded his head to the pulse, but didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. He looked like a tour guide. Ludo: player of games. Rebus knew he was being sold a line, the same line any tourists to the north would be sold – this was the country of Baxter’s soups, men in skirts, and granny’s hieland hame; oil was just another industry, the city and its people had risen above it. There was still a sense of Highland perspective.

There was no down side.

‘I thought you might find this place interesting,’ Lumsden yelled over the music.

‘Why?’

‘It’s where Michelle Strachan met Johnny Bible.’