‘Is that how he came to be friends with Jake Harley?’

‘Is he the one at Sullom Voe?’ Rebus nodded. Ford nodded with him. ‘Yes, Mitch told me about him. They were both keen on ecology.’

Rebus thought of the demo boat outside … thought of Allan Mitchison working in an industry that was a target for Green protest.

‘How involved was he?’

‘He was pretty active. I mean, the work schedule here, you can’t be active all the time. Sixteen days out of every month, he was offshore. We get TV news, but not much in the way of newspapers – not the kind Mitch liked to read. But that didn’t stop him organising that concert. Poor sod was looking forward to it.’

Rebus frowned. ‘What concert?’

‘In Duthie Park. Tonight, I think, if the weather holds.’

‘The protest concert?’ Ford nodded. ‘Allan Mitchison organised it?’

‘Well, he did his bit. Contacted a couple of the bands to see if they’d play.’

Rebus’s head birled. The Dancing Pigs were playing that gig. Mitchison was a big fan of theirs. Yet he hadn’t had a ticket for their Edinburgh gig … No, because he hadn’t needed one – he would be on the guest list! Which meant what exactly?

Answer: bugger all.

Except that Michelle Strachan had been murdered in Duthie Park …

‘Mr Ford, weren’t Mitch’s employers worried about his … loyalty?’

‘You don’t have to be in favour of raping the world to get a job in this industry. In fact, as industries go it’s a lot cleaner than some.’

Rebus mulled this over. ‘Mr Ford, can I take a look at your cabin?’

‘Sure.’

The cabin was small. You wouldn’t want to suffer claustrophobia of a night. There were two narrow single beds. Above Ford’s bed were pinned pictures; nothing above the other bed but holes where the drawing-pins had been.

‘I packed away all his stuff,’ Ford explained. ‘Do you know if there’s anyone …?’

‘There’s no one.’

‘Oxfam then, maybe.’

‘Whatever you like, Mr Ford. Let’s call you the unofficial executor.’

That did it. Ford slumped on his bed, head in hands. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, rocking. ‘Jesus, Jesus.’

Tactful, John. The silver-tongued clarion of bad news. With tears in his eyes, Ford excused himself and left the room.

Rebus got to work.

He opened drawers and the small built-in wardrobe, but eventually found what he wanted beneath Mitchison’s bed. A bin-bag and a series of carrier bags: the deceased’s worldly goods.

They didn’t amount to much. Maybe Mitchison’s background had something to do with it. If you didn’t burden yourself with stuff, you could high-tail it out of anywhere, any time. There were some clothes, some books – sci-fi, political economics, The Dancing Wu-Li Masters. The last one sounded to Rebus like a ballroom competition. He found a couple of envelopes of photographs, went through them. The platform. Workmates. The budgie and its crew. Other groups, onshore this time: trees in the background. Only these didn’t look like workmates – long hair, tie-dye T-shirts, reggae hats. Friends? Friends of the Earth? The second packet seemed light. Rebus counted the photos: fourteen. Then he pulled out the negatives: a count of twenty-five. Eleven short. He held the negs up to the light, but couldn’t make out much. The missing photos seemed more of the same; group portraits, a couple of them with only three or four figures. Rebus put the negs in his pocket, just as Willie Ford came back into the room.