‘Sorry about that.’

‘My fault, Mr Ford. I spoke without thinking. You know earlier I asked you about porn?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about drugs?’

‘I don’t use them.’

‘But if you did …’

‘It’s a closed circle, Inspector. I don’t use, and no one’s offered me any. As far as I’m concerned, people could be shooting up round the corner and I’d never know, because I’m not in the loop.’

‘But there is a loop?’

Ford smiled. ‘Maybe. But on R&R time only. I’d know if I was working beside someone who was wired. They know better than to do that. Working on a platform, you need all the wits you’ve got and any you can borrow.’

‘Have there been accidents?’

‘One or two, but our safety record’s good. They weren’t drug-related.’

Rebus looked thoughtful. Ford seemed to remember something.

‘You should see what’s happening outside.’

‘What?’

‘They’re bringing the protesters aboard.’

So they were. Rebus and Ford went out to take a look. Ford donned his hard hat, but Rebus carried his: he couldn’t get it to sit right, and the only thing threatening to fall from the skies was rain. Lumsden and Eric were already there, along with a few other men. They watched the bedraggled figures climb the last few steps. Despite their oilskins, they looked soaked – courtesy of the power hoses. Rebus recognised one of them: it was braid-hair again. She looked glum verging on furious. He moved towards her, until she was looking at him.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said.

But she wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead, she yelled ‘NOW!’ and snaked to her right, bringing her hand out of her pocket. She already had one half of the handcuffs clamped around her wrist, and now attached the other firmly around the top rail. Two of her companions did likewise, and started yelling protests at the tops of their voices. Two others were hauled back before they could complete the process. The cuffs were snapped shut on themselves.

‘Who’s got the keys?’ an oil-worker was yelling.

‘We left them on the mainland!’

‘Christ.’ The oilman turned to a colleague. ‘Go fetch the oxy-acetylene.’ He turned to braid-hair. ‘Don’t worry, the sparks may burn, but we’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.’

She ignored him, kept on chanting with the others. Rebus smiled: you had to admire it. Trojan horse with knobs on.

The torch arrived. Rebus couldn’t believe they were really going to do it. He turned to Lumsden.

‘Don’t say a word,’ the policeman warned. ‘Remember what I said about frontier justice. We’re well out of it.’

The torch was lit, a little flare of its own. There was a helicopter overhead. Rebus had half a mind – maybe more than half – to throw the torch over the side.

‘Christ, it’s the telly!’

They all looked up. The helicopter was hovering low, a video camera pointed straight at them.

‘Fucking TV news.’

Oh great, Rebus thought. That’s just spot on. Really low-key, John. National television news. Maybe he should just send Ancram a postcard …