Rebus felt he’d missed something. ‘Norway?’

‘They’ve got oil, too, only they’ve banked the money, used it to kickstart other industries. Maggie used it to pay for a war and a bloody election …’

As they swung out to sea past Lerwick, Sheepskin had pointed out some boats – bloody big boats.

‘Klondikers,’ he said. ‘Factory ships. They’re busy processing fish. Probably doing more environmental damage than the whole North Sea oil industry. But the locals just let them get on with it, they don’t give a bugger. Fishing’s a heritage thing with them … not like oil. Aah, fuck the lot of them.’

Rebus still hadn’t learned the man’s name when they parted on the runway. There was someone waiting for Rebus, a slight grinning man with too many teeth in his head. And he said, ‘Welcome to the Mainland.’ Then explained what he meant in the car, during the short trip to the Sullom Voe terminal. ‘That’s what Shetlanders call the main island: Mainland, as opposed to mainland with a small m, which means … well, the mainland.’ A snort for a laugh. He had to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. He drove the way a kid would when seated in its father’s car: bent forward, hands overly busy on the steering-wheel.

His name was Walter Rowbotham, and he was a new recruit to the Sullom Voe Public Relations Department.

‘I’d be happy to show you around, Inspector,’ he said, still grinning, trying too hard to please.

‘Maybe if there’s time,’ Rebus conceded.

‘My pleasure entirely. You know, of course, that the terminal cost one thousand three hundred million just to construct. That’s pounds, not dollars.’

‘Interesting.’

Rowbotham’s face practically lit up, encouraged now. ‘The first oil flowed into Sullom Voe in 1978. It is a major employer and has helped contribute greatly to Shetland’s low unemployment rate, currently around four per cent or half the Scottish average.’

‘Tell me something, Mr Rowbotham.’

‘Walter, please. Or Walt if you like.’

‘Walt.’ Rebus smiled. ‘Had any more trouble with the LPG chilldown?’

Rowbotham’s face turned pickled baby beet. Jesus, Rebus thought, the media were going to love him …

They ended up driving through half the installation to get to where Rebus wanted to be, so he heard most of the tour narration anyway and learned more than he hoped he’d ever have to know about debutanising, de-ethanising and depropanising, not to mention surge tanks and integrity meters. Wouldn’t it be great, he thought, if you could fit integrity meters to human beings?

At the main administration building they’d been told that Jake Harley worked in the process control room, and that his colleagues were waiting there and knew a police officer was coming to talk to them. They passed the incoming crude lines, the pigging station, and the final holding basin, and at one point Walt thought they were lost, but he had a little orientation map with him.

Just as well: Sullom Voe was huge. It had taken seven years to build, breaking all sorts of records in the process (and Walt knew every one of them), and Rebus had to admit that it was an impressive monster. He’d been past Grangemouth and Mossmorran dozens of times, but they just weren’t in the picture. And if you looked out past the crude oil tanks and the unloading jetties, you saw water – the Voe itself to the south; then Gluss Isle over to the west, doing a good impression of unspoilt wilderness. It was like a sci-fi city transported to prehistory.