‘Sorry about this,’ he said.

‘That’s Willie,’ Eric said.

Willie Ford was in his early forties, well built but slightly hunched, with a regulation number one haircut: down to the wood. His nose covered a quarter of his face, a beard protected most of the rest. With more of a tan, he might have passed for a Muslim fundamentalist. Rebus walked up to him.

‘Are you the policeman?’ Willie Ford asked. Rebus nodded.

‘The natives look restless.’

‘It’s this video. It was supposed to be Black Rain, you know, Michael Douglas. But instead it’s some Jap flick with the same name, all about Hiroshima. Close but no cigar.’ He turned to the audience. ‘Some you win, guys. You’ll have to settle for something else.’ Then shrugged and moved away, Rebus following. The four of them went back along the corridor and into the library.

‘So you’re in charge of entertainment, Mr Ford?’

‘No, I just like videos. There’s a place in Aberdeen does fortnight rentals. I usually bring some out with me.’ He was still holding the video. ‘I can’t believe this. The last foreign language film that lot watched was probably Emmanuelle.’

‘You get porn films?’ Rebus asked, like he was just making conversation.

‘Dozens of them.’

‘How strong?’

‘It varies.’ An amused look. ‘Inspector, did you fly out here to ask me about dirty videos?’

‘No, sir, I came to ask you about Allan Mitchison.’

Ford’s face clouded like the sky outside. Lumsden was watching from the window, maybe wondering if they’d have to stay the night …

‘Poor Mitch,’ Ford said. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘You shared a room?’

‘These past six months.’

‘Mr Ford, we don’t have too much time, so you’ll forgive me if I’m blunt.’ Rebus paused to let him digest this. His mind was half on Lumsden. ‘Mitch was killed by a man called Anthony Kane, a thug for hire. Kane used to work for a Glasgow ganglord, but recently he’s apparently been operating freelance out of Aberdeen. The night before last, Mr Kane turned up dead, too. Do you know why Kane would kill Mitch?’

Ford looked stunned, blinked a few times and let his jaw drop open. Eric was looking disbelieving, too, while Lumsden affected a look of merely professional interest. Finally Ford was able to speak.

‘I’ve … I’ve no idea,’ he said. ‘Could it be a mistake?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It could be anything. That’s why I’m trying to compose a picture of Mitch’s life. For that, I need his friends’ help. Will you help me?’

Ford nodded. Rebus sat down on a chair. ‘Then you can start,’ he said, ‘by telling me about him, tell me anything and everything you can.’

At some point, Eric and Lumsden wandered off for lunch. Lumsden brought sandwiches back for Rebus and Willie Ford. Ford talked, pausing only to take drinks of water. He told Rebus what Allan Mitchison had told him of his background – the parents who weren’t his real parents; the special school with its dorms. That was why Mitch liked the rigs – the sense of fellowship, and the shared accommodation. Rebus began to see why his flat in Edinburgh had remained unloved. Ford knew a lot about Mitch, knew that his hobbies included hill-walking and ecology.