Did Johnny Bible know Duthie Park?

Rebus could hear something approximating music, then silence, then applause. Yes: the protest concert. The Dancing Pigs and friends. Rebus went into the park, passed a children’s play area. Michelle and her beau had come this way. Her body had been found near here, not far from the Winter Gardens and the tea-room … There was a huge open space at the heart of the park, and a stage had been erected. Several hundred kids comprised the audience. Bootleggers had spread out their merchandise on the grass, alongside tarot readers, hairbraiders, and herbalists. Rebus forced a smile: it was the Ingliston concert in miniature. People were passing through the crowd, rattling collecting tins. The banner which had adorned the roof of the Conference Centre – DON’T KILL OUR OCEANS! – was now flapping atop the stage. Even the inflatable whale was there. A girl in her mid-teens approached Rebus.

‘Souvenir T-shirts? Programmes?’

Rebus shook his head, then changed his mind. ‘Give me a programme.’

‘Three pounds.’

It was a stapled Xerox with a colour cover. The paper was recycled, and so was the text. Rebus flicked through it. Right at the back there was a list of Thank Yous. His eye caught a name a third of the way down: Mitch, ‘with love and gratitude’. Allan Mitchison had played his part organising the gig, and here was his reward – and memorial.

‘I’ll see if I can do better,’ Rebus said, rolling the programme into his pocket.

He made for the area behind the stage, which had been cordoned off by means of arranging lorries and vans into a semi-circle, inside which the bands and their entourages moved like zoo exhibits. His warrant card got him where he wanted to be, as well as a few dirty looks.

‘You in charge?’ he asked the overweight man in front of him. The man was in his fifties, Jerry Garcia with red hair and a kilt, sweat showing through a stained white vest. Beads of perspiration dripped from his overhanging brow.

‘Nobody’s in charge,’ he told Rebus.

‘But you helped organise —’

‘Look, what’s your problem, man? The concert’s licensed, the last thing we need is grief.’

‘I’m not giving any. I just have a question about the organisation.’

‘What about it?’

‘Allan Mitchison – Mitch.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you know him?’

‘No.’

‘I hear he was responsible for getting the Dancing Pigs to play.’

The man thought about it, nodded. ‘Mitch, right. I don’t know him, I mean, I’ve seen him around.’

‘Anyone I could ask about him?’

‘Why, man, what’s he done?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Bad number.’ He shrugged. ‘Wish I could help.’

Rebus made his way back to front-of-stage. The sound system was the usual travesty, and the band didn’t sound nearly as good as on their studio album. Notch one up for the producer. The music stopped suddenly, the momentary silence sweeter than any tune. The singer stepped up to the mike.

‘We’ve got some friends we’d like to bring on. A few hours back they were fighting the good fight, trying to save our seas. Put your hands together for them.’