‘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?’

‘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.’