‘And they’ll mothball the North Sea?’

All three nodded, like a single beast.

‘Have you talked to Briony?’ the woman asked suddenly.

‘Who’s Briony?’

‘Jake’s … I don’t know, she’s not his wife, is she?’ She looked to Milne.

‘Just a girlfriend, I think.’

‘Where does she live?’ Rebus asked.

‘Jake and her share a house,’ Milne said. ‘In Brae. She works at the swimming pool.’

Rebus turned to Walt. ‘How far is it?’

‘Six or seven miles.’

‘Take me.’

They tried the baths first, but she wasn’t on shift, so they tracked down her house. Brae looked to be suffering a crisis of identity, like it had suddenly plopped into being and didn’t know what to make of itself. The houses were new but anonymous; there was obviously money around, but it couldn’t buy everything. It couldn’t turn Brae back into the village it had been in the days before Sullom Voe.

They found the house. Rebus told Walt to wait in the car. A woman in her early twenties answered his knock. She was wearing jogging bottoms and a white singlet, her feet bare.

‘Briony?’ Rebus asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry, I don’t know your last name. Can I come in?’

‘No. Who are you?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector John Rebus.’ Rebus showed his warrant card. ‘I’m here about Allan Mitchison.’

‘Mitch? What about him?’

There were a lot of answers to that question. Rebus picked one. ‘He’s dead.’ Then he watched the colour drain from her face. She clung on to the door as if for support, but she still wasn’t letting him in.

‘Would you like to sit down?’ Rebus hinted.

‘What happened to him?’

‘We’re not sure, that’s why I want to talk to Jake.’

‘You’re not sure?’

‘Could be an accident. I’m trying to fill in some background.’

‘Jake isn’t here.’

‘I know, I’ve been trying to reach him.’

‘Somebody from personnel keeps phoning.’

‘On my behalf.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Well, he’s still not here.’ She hadn’t taken her hand off the jamb.

‘Can I get a message to him?’

‘I don’t know where he is.’ As she spoke, the colour started to return to her cheeks. ‘Poor Mitch.’

‘You’ve no idea where Jake is?’

‘He sometimes goes off on a walk. He doesn’t know himself where he’ll end up.’

‘He doesn’t phone you?’

‘He needs his space. So do I, but I find mine when I swim. Jake walks.’

‘He’s due back tomorrow though, or the day after?’

She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Rebus reached into a pocket, wrote on a page of his notebook, tore it out. He held it out to her. ‘It has a couple of phone numbers. Will you tell him to call me?’

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks.’ She was staring dully at the piece of paper, her eyes just short of tears. ‘Briony, is there anything you can tell me about Mitch? Anything that might help?’

She looked up from the card to him.

‘No,’ she said. Then, slowly, she closed the door on his face. In that final glimpse of her before the door separated them, Rebus had found her eyes, and seen something there. Not just bewilderment or grief.