‘How so?’ Rebus tried to sound aggrieved.

‘All that work I did for you, and no story at the end of it. That’s not exactly quid pro quo, is it? And journalists have longer memories than elephants.’

‘I gave you Sir Iain’s resignation.’

‘A full ninety minutes before every other hack knew. And it wasn’t exactly the crime of the century to begin with. I know you held back on me.’

‘Mairie, I’m hurt.’

‘Good. Now tell me this is purely a social call.’

‘Absolutely. So how are you keeping?’

A sigh. ‘What do you want?’

Rebus swung ninety degrees in the chair. It was a comfortable chair, good enough to sleep in. ‘I need some digging.’

‘I am completely and utterly surprised.’

‘The name’s Weir. He calls himself Major Weir, but the rank may be spurious.’

‘T-Bird Oil?’

Mairie was a very good journalist. ‘That’s the one.’

‘He just made a speech at that convention.’

‘Well, he had someone else read it out.’

A pause. Rebus flinched. ‘John, you’re in Aberdeen?’

‘Sort of,’ he confessed.

‘Tell me.’

‘Later.’

‘And if there’s a story …?’

‘You’re in pole position.’

‘With something longer than a ninety-minute lead time?’

‘Absolutely.’

Silence on the line: she knew he could be lying. She was a journalist; she knew these things.

‘OK, so what do you want to know about Weir?’

‘I don’t know. Everything. The interesting stuff.’

‘Business or personal life?’

‘Both, mainly business.’

‘Do you have a number in Aberdeen?’

‘Mairie, I’m not in Aberdeen. Especially if anyone asks. I’ll get back to you.’

‘I hear they’re reopening the Spaven case.’

‘An internal inquiry, that’s all.’

‘Preliminary to a reopening?’

Walt opened the door, brought in two beakers of coffee. Rebus stood up. ‘Look, I have to go.’

‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘Bye, Mairie.’

‘I checked,’ Walt said, ‘your plane leaves in an hour.’ Rebus nodded and took the coffee. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit.’

Christ, Rebus thought, he means it, too.

17

That evening, once he’d recovered from the flight back to Dyce, Rebus ate at the same Indian restaurant Allan Mitchison had frequented: no coincidence. He didn’t know why he wanted to see the place for himself; he just did. The meal was decent, a chicken dopiaza neither better nor worse than he could find in Edinburgh. The diners were couples, young and middle-aged, their conversations quiet. It didn’t look the sort of restaurant you’d raise hell in after sixteen days offshore. If anything, it was a place for contemplation, always supposing you were dining alone. When Rebus’s bill came, he recalled the sums on Mitchison’s credit-card statement – they were about double the present figure.

Rebus showed his warrant card and asked to speak to the manager. The man came bounding up to his table, nervous smile in place.

‘Is there some problem, sir?’

‘No problem,’ Rebus said.

The manager lifted the bill from the table and was about to tear it up, but Rebus stopped him.

‘I’d prefer to pay,’ he said. ‘I only want to ask a couple of questions.’