Rebus watched in the mirror, saw the elder man staring back at him. He had long yellow-silver hair swept back from his forehead and behind both ears. He rested his hands on a silver-topped cane and wore a baggy linen suit. He looked like a character out of Tennessee Williams, his face chiselled and frowning, gait only slightly stooped despite his years. Rebus looked down and noticed the man was wearing a pair of well-worn trainers. The man brought a notepad out of his pocket, scribbled something on it while still holding his cane, tore the sheet off and handed it to the second man, who read it and nodded.

The lift opened at the ground floor. Minchell physically held Rebus back until the other two had got out. Rebus watched them march to the front door of the building, the man with the note veering off to make a call at reception. There was a red Jaguar parked directly outside. A liveried chauffeur held the back door open for Big Daddy.

Minchell was rubbing his brow with the fingers of one hand.

‘Who was that?’ Rebus asked.

‘That was Major Weir.’

‘Wish I’d known, I’d’ve asked him why I can’t get Green Shield stamps with my petrol any more.’

Minchell wasn’t in the mood for a joke.

‘What was the note all about?’ Rebus asked.

‘The Major doesn’t say much. He communicates better on paper.’ Rebus laughed: communication breakdown. ‘I’m serious,’ Minchell said. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard him say more than a couple of dozen words all the time I’ve worked for him.’

‘Something wrong with his voice?’

‘No, he sounds fine, a little croaky, but that’s to be expected. Thing is, his accent is American.’

‘So?’

‘So he wishes it was Scottish.’

With the Jag gone, they walked out to the car park. ‘He’s got this obsession with Scotland,’ Minchell went on. ‘His parents were Scots migrants, used to tell him stories about the “old country”. He got hooked. He only spends maybe a third of the year here – T-Bird Oil stretches around the globe – but you can tell he hates to leave.’

‘Anything else I should know?’

‘He’s a strict teetotaller, one whiff of alcohol from an employee and they’re out.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Widower. His wife’s buried on Islay or somewhere like that. This is my car.’

It was a midnight-blue Mazda racing model, low-slung with just enough room for two bucket seats. Minchell’s briefcase all but filled the back. He hooked his phone up before turning the ignition.

‘He had a son,’ Minchell went on, ‘but I think he died, too, or was disinherited. The Major won’t talk about him. Do you want the good news or the bad?’

‘Let’s try the bad.’

‘Still no sign of Jake Harley, he hasn’t returned from his walking holiday. He’s due back in a couple of days.’

‘I’d like to head up to Sullom Voe anyway,’ Rebus said. Especially if Ancram were going to be able to track him to Aberdeen.