Rebus had telephone calls to make. First: Pete Hewitt at Howdenhall.

‘Morning, Inspector, and isn’t she a beauty?’

Voice dripping irony. Rebus looked out at milky sunshine. ‘Rough night, Pete?’

‘Rough? You could shave a yak with it. I take it you got my message?’ Rebus had pen and paper ready. ‘I got a couple of decent prints off the whisky bottle: thumb and forefinger. Tried lifting from the polythene bag and the tape binding him to the chair, but only a few partials, nothing to build a case on.’

‘Come on, Pete, get to the ID.’

‘Well, all that money you complain we spend on computers … I got a match within quarter of an hour. The name is Anthony Ellis Kane. He has a police record for attempted murder, assault, reset. Ring any bells?’

‘Not a one.’

‘Well, he used to operate out of Glasgow. No convictions these past seven years.’

‘I’ll look him up when I get to the station. Thanks, Pete.’

Next call: the personnel office at T-Bird Oil. A long-distance call; he’d wait and make it from Fort Apache. A glance out of the window: no sign of the Redgauntlet crew. Rebus put his jacket on and made for the door.

He stopped in at the boss’s office. MacAskill was guzzling Irn-Bru.

‘We have a fingerprint ID, Anthony Ellis Kane, previous convictions for violence.’

MacAskill tossed the empty can into his waste-basket. His desk was stacked with old paperwork – drawer one of the filing cabinet. There was an empty packing case on the floor.

‘What about the decedent’s family, friends?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Deceased worked for T-Bird Oil. I’m going to call the personnel manager for details.’

‘Make that job one, John.’

‘Job one, sir.’

But when he got to the Shed and sat at his desk, he thought about phoning Gill Templer first, decided against it. Bain was at his desk; Rebus didn’t want an audience.

‘Dod,’ he said, ‘run a check on Anthony Ellis Kane. Howdenhall found his prints on the carry-out.’ Bain nodded and started typing. Rebus phoned Aberdeen, gave his name and asked to be put through to Stuart Minchell.

‘Good morning, Inspector.’

‘Thanks for leaving a message, Mr Minchell. Do you have Allan Mitchison’s employment details?’

‘Right in front of me. What do you want to know?’

‘A next of kin.’

Minchell shuffled paper. ‘There doesn’t appear to be one. Let me check his CV.’ A long pause, Rebus happy not to be making the call from home. ‘Inspector, it seems Allan Mitchison was an orphan. I have details of his education, and there’s a children’s home mentioned.’

‘No family?’

‘No mention of a family.’

Rebus had written Mitchison’s name on a sheet of paper. He underlined it now, the rest of the page a blank. ‘What was Mr Mitchison’s position within the company?’

‘He was … let’s see, he worked for Platform Maintenance, specifically as a painter. We have a base in Shetland, maybe he worked there.’ More paper shuffling. ‘No, Mr Mitchison worked on the platforms themselves.’