Eric nodded. ‘Willie’s room: the cabins here are twin berths.’

‘Tell me,’ Rebus said, ‘the decommissioning – any idea what T-Bird are going to do with the platform?’

‘Might still end up sinking it.’

‘After the trouble with Brent Spar?’

Eric shrugged. ‘The accountants are in favour. They only need two things: the government on their side, and a good public relations campaign. The latter’s already well under way.’

‘With Hayden Fletcher in charge?’ Rebus guessed.

‘That’s the man.’ Eric picked up his hard hat. ‘All finished?’

Rebus drained his mug. ‘Lead the way.’

Outside, it was now ‘blustery’ – Eric’s description. Rebus held on to a rail as he walked. Some workers were leaning over the side of the platform. Beyond them, Rebus could see a huge spume of water. He went up to the rail. The support ship was sending jets of water in the direction of the protest boat.

‘Trying to scare them off,’ Eric explained. ‘Keep them from getting too close to the legs.’

Christ, thought Rebus, why today? He could just see the protest boat ramming the platform, forcing an evacuation … The jets continued their work, all four of them. Someone passed him a pair of binoculars and he trained them on the protest vessel. Orange oilskins – half a dozen figures on the deck. Banners tied to the rails. NO DUMPING. SAVE OUR OCEANS.

‘That boat doesn’t look too healthy to me,’ someone said.

Figures were going below, reappearing, waving their arms as they explained something.

‘Stupid buggers, they’ve probably let the engine flood.’

‘She can’t be left to drift.’

‘Could be a Trojan horse, lads.’

They all laughed at that. Eric moved off, Rebus and Lumsden following. They climbed up and down ladders. At certain points, Rebus could see clear through the latticework of steel flooring to the churning sea below. There were cables and pipes everywhere, but nowhere you could trip over them. Eventually, Eric opened a door and led them down a corridor. It was a relief to be out of the wind; Rebus realised they’d been outdoors for all of eight minutes.

They passed rooms with pool tables in them, and table-tennis tables, dart boards, video games. The video games seemed popular. Nobody was playing table-tennis.

‘Some platforms have swimming pools,’ Eric said, ‘but not us.’

‘Is it my imagination,’ Rebus asked, ‘or did I just feel the floor move?’

‘Oh aye,’ Eric said, ‘there’s a bit of give, has to be. In a swell, you’d swear she was going to break free.’ And he laughed again. They kept walking along the corridor, passing a library – no one in it – and a TV room.

‘We’ve three TV rooms,’ Eric explained. ‘Satellite telly only, but mostly the lads prefer videos. Willie should be in here.’

They entered a large room with a couple of dozen stiff-backed chairs and a large-screen TV. There were no windows, and the lights had been dimmed. Eight or nine men sat, arms folded, in front of the screen. They were complaining about something. A man was standing at the video recorder, holding a tape in his hand, turning it over. He shrugged.