‘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?’