‘Nothing to tell,’ Rebus argued. ‘Except this – word is, Tony El’s a free agent, working out of the north-east, so we need to contact Grampian CID and ask about him.’

‘I’ll fax them his details,’ Maclay said.

‘I take it there’s been no sign?’ Rebus asked.

Bain and Maclay shook their heads.

‘I’ll let you into the secret though,’ Bain said.

‘What?’

‘There are at least two Indians on Brougham Street with slatted blinds.’

Rebus watched them have a good laugh about that, then asked what the background check on the decedent had produced.

‘Not much,’ Bain said, leaning back in his chair and waving a sheet of paper. Rebus got up, took the paper from him.

Allan Mitchison. Only child. Born in Grangemouth. His mother died in childbirth; his father went into decline, followed her two years later. Infant Allan was taken into care – no other kin found. Children’s home, then a foster family. Put up for adoption, but was an unruly kid, a trouble-maker. Screaming fits, tantrums, then long sulks. He always ran away eventually, always found his way back to the children’s home. Grew up into a quiet teenager, still prone to black sulks, the occasional outburst, but talented in some school subjects – English, geography, art, music – and mostly docile. Still preferred the children’s home to foster life. Left school at seventeen. Having seen a documentary on life on a North Sea platform, decided he liked the look of it. Miles from anywhere, and an existence not unlike the children’s home – regimented. He liked group life, dormitories, shared rooms. Painter. His work pattern was uneven – he’d spent time onshore as well as off – a spell of training at RGIT-OSC …

‘What’s RGIT-OSC?’

Maclay had been waiting for the question. ‘Robert Gordon Institute of Technology’s Offshore Survival Centre.’

‘Is that the same as Robert Gordon’s University?’

Maclay and Bain looked at one another, shrugged.

‘Never mind,’ Rebus said, thinking: Johnny Bible’s first victim had attended RGU.

Mitchison had also worked at the Sullom Voe terminal on Shetland, a few other locations. Friends and workmates: plenty of the latter, precious few of the former. Edinburgh had proved a dead end: none of his neighbours had ever clapped eyes on him. And the word from Aberdeen and points north was only a little more encouraging. A couple of names: one on a production platform, one at Sullom Voe …

‘Are these two willing to be interviewed?’

Bain: ‘Christ, you’re not thinking of going up there? First Glasgow, now teuchter-land – didn’t you get a holiday this year?’

Maclay’s high-pitched laughter.

Rebus: ‘I seem to be a sitting target down here. I had a thought today – whoever picked out that flat knew the area. I’m thinking a local. Either of you have snitches in Niddrie?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then get talking to them, a man answering Tony El’s description, he might’ve been hanging around the pubs and clubs, looking for local talent. Is there anything on decedent’s employer?’