‘I think I’m having trouble focusing.’

Weir frowned. ‘Do you drink?’

‘Teetotal is my middle name.’ The Major grunted his satisfaction. ‘Trouble is,’ Rebus went on, ‘my first name’s Not-at-all.’

He got it eventually and grudged a frowning smile, the first time Rebus had seen the trick.

‘The thing is, sir, I’m up here —’

‘I know why you’re up here, Inspector. When I saw you yesterday, I had Hayden Fletcher find out who you were.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Because you stared back at me in the elevator. I’m not used to that sort of behaviour. It meant you didn’t work for me, and since you were with my personnel manager …’

‘You thought I was after a job?’

‘I meant to see to it you didn’t get one.’

‘I’m flattered.’

The Major looked at him again. ‘So why is my company flying you to Sullom Voe?’

‘I want to talk to a friend of Mitchison’s.’

‘Allan Mitchison.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I had Minchell report to me yesterday evening. I like to know everything that’s going on in my company. I have a question for you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Could Mr Mitchison’s death have anything to do with T-Bird Oil?’

‘At the moment … I don’t think so.’

Major Weir nodded, lifted his newspaper to eye level. The interview was over.

16

Welcome to the Mainland,’ Rebus’s guide said, meeting him on the tarmac.

Major Weir had already been installed in a Range Rover and was speeding from the airfield. A row of helicopters stood in repose nearby. The wind was … well, the wind was serious. It was flapping the helicopters’ rotor blades, and it was singing in Rebus’s ears. The Edinburgh wind was a pro; sometimes you walked out your front door and it was like being punched in the face. But the Shetland wind … it wanted to pick you up and shake you.

The descent had been rocky, but before that he’d had his first sighting of Shetland proper. ‘Miles and miles of bugger all’ didn’t do it justice. Hardly any trees, plenty of sheep. And spectacular barren coastline with white breakers crashing into it. He wondered if erosion was a problem. The islands weren’t exactly large. They’d crossed to the east of Lerwick, then passed some dormitory towns, which, according to Sheepskin’s commentary, had been mere hamlets in the 1970s. He’d woken up by then, and had come armed with a few more facts and fancies.

‘Know what we did? The oil industry, I mean? We kept Maggie Thatcher in power. Oil revenue paid for all those tax cuts. Oil revenue paid for the Falklands War. Oil was pumping through the veins of her whole fucking reign, and she never thanked us once. Not once, the bitch.’ He laughed. ‘You can’t help liking her.’

‘Apparently there are pills you can take.’ But Sheepskin wasn’t listening.

‘You can’t separate oil and politics. The sanctions against Iraq, whole point was to stop him flooding the market with cheap oil.’ He paused. ‘Norway, the bastards.’