Traffic was bottle-necked heading into the centre, which was fine – it meant he had time to study both map and street names. He found Queen Street and parked, walked into Police HQ and told them who he was.

‘I spoke to someone on the phone earlier, a DC Shanks.’

‘I’ll try CID for you,’ the uniform on reception said. She told him to take a seat. He sat down and watched the movement of bodies in and out of the station. He could tell the plainclothes officers from ordinary punters – when you made eye contact, you knew. A couple of the men sported CID moustaches, bushy but neatly trimmed. They were young, trying to look older. Some kids were sitting across from him, looking subdued but with a gleam in their eyes. They were fresh-faced and freckly, with bloodless lips. Two of them were fair-haired, one red-headed.

‘Inspector Rebus?’

The man was standing over to his right, could have been there a couple of minutes or more. Rebus stood up and they shook hands.

‘I’m DS Lumsden, DC Shanks passed your message on. Something about an oil company?’

‘Based up here. One of their employees took a flight out of an Edinburgh tenement.’

‘Jumped?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘There were others on the scene, one of them’s a known villain called Anthony Ellis Kane. I’ve had word he’s working up here.’

Lumsden nodded. ‘Yes, I heard Edinburgh CID were asking about that name. Doesn’t mean a thing to me, sorry. Normally, we’d assign the Oil Liaison Officer to look after you, but he’s on holiday and I’m filling in, which makes me your guide for the duration.’ Lumsden smiled. ‘Welcome to Silver City.’

*

Silver for the River Dee which ran through it. Silver for the colour of the buildings in sunlight – grey granite transformed into shimmering light. Silver for the money the oil boom had brought. Lumsden explained as Rebus drove them back down on to Union Street.

‘Another myth about Aberdeen,’ he said, ‘is that the folk are mean. Wait till you see Union Street on a Saturday afternoon. It must be the busiest shopping street in Britain.’

Lumsden wore a blue blazer with shiny brass buttons, grey trousers, black slip-on shoes. His shirt was an elegant blue and white stripe, his tie salmon-pink. The clothes made him look like the secretary of some exclusive golf club, but the face and body told another story. He was six feet two, wiry, with cropped fair hair emphasising a widow’s peak. His eyes weren’t so much red-rimmed as chlorinated, the irises a piercing blue. No wedding ring. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty years old. Rebus couldn’t quite place the accent.

‘English?’ he asked.

‘From Gillingham originally,’ Lumsden acknowledged. ‘The family moved around a bit. My dad was in the forces. You did well to spot the accent, most people think I’m a Borderer.’

They were driving to a hotel, Rebus having declared that he’d probably be staying at least the one night, maybe more.