‘No problem,’ Lumsden had said. ‘I know just the place.’

The hotel was on Union Terrace, overlooking the gardens, and Lumsden told him to park outside the entrance. He took a piece of card from his pocket and pressed it to the inside of the windscreen. It stated OFFICIAL GRAMPIAN POLICE BUSINESS. Rebus got his case out of the boot, but Lumsden insisted on carrying it. And Lumsden took care of the details at reception. A porter took the case upstairs, Rebus following.

‘Just make sure you like the room,’ Lumsden told him. ‘And I’ll see you in the bar.’

The room was on the first floor. It had the tallest windows Rebus had ever seen, and gave him a view down on to the gardens. The room was baking hot. The porter closed the curtains.

‘It’s always like this when we get the sun,’ he explained. Rebus gave the rest of the room a once-over. It was probably the fanciest hotel room he’d ever been in. The porter was watching him.

‘What, no champagne?’

The porter didn’t get the joke, so Rebus shook his head and handed him a pound note. The porter explained how the in-house movies worked, told him about room service, the restaurant, and other facilities, then handed Rebus his key. Rebus followed the man back downstairs.

The bar was quiet, the lunchtime crowd having disappeared back to work, leaving their plates, bowls and glasses behind. Lumsden was perched on a stool at the bar, munching peanuts and watching MTV. There was a pint of beer in front of him.

‘Forgot to ask your tipple,’ he said as Rebus sat down next to him.

‘A pint of the same,’ Rebus told the barman.

‘How’s the room?’

‘A bit rich for my taste, to be honest.’

‘Don’t worry, Grampian CID will pick up the tab.’ He winked. ‘It’s a courtesy thing.’

‘I must visit more often.’

Lumsden smiled. ‘So tell me what you want to do while you’re here.’

Rebus glanced at the TV screen, saw the Stones hamming it up in their latest production. Jesus, they looked old. Stonehenge with a blues riff.

‘Talk to the oil company, maybe see if I can track down a couple of the deceased’s friends. Find out if there’s any sign of Tony El.’

‘Tony El?’

‘Anthony Ellis Kane.’ Rebus reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’

Lumsden shook his head twice: once to say he didn’t mind, and again to refuse Rebus’s offer of one.

‘Cheers,’ Rebus said, taking a mouthful of beer. He smacked his lips, it was OK. Beer was fine. But the row of optics kept trying to attract his attention. ‘So how’s the Johnny Bible case going?’

Lumsden scooped more peanuts into his mouth. ‘It isn’t. Dead slow to stop. Are you attached to the Edinburgh side?’

‘Only by association. I’ve interviewed a few nutters.’

Lumsden nodded. ‘Me, too. I’d like to throttle some of them. I had to interview some of our RPOs, too.’ He made a face. RPOs: Registered Potential Offenders. These were the ‘usual suspects’, a list of known perverts, sex attackers, flashers and peepers. In a case like Johnny Bible, they all had to be interviewed, alibis provided and checked.