‘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.’