‘No problem with that. We’ll get you up there on a chopper.’

‘What’s the good news?’

‘Good news is, I’ve arranged for you to take another chopper out to Bannock to talk to Willie Ford. And as it’s a day-trip, you won’t need any survival training. Believe me, that’s good news. Part of the training, they belt you into a simulator and tip you into a swimming pool.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Oh, yes. Anyone making more than ten day-trips a year has to. Scared the hell out of me.’

‘But the helicopters are safe enough?’

‘Don’t worry about that. And you’re lucky just now: a nice window.’ He saw Rebus’s blank look. ‘A window in the weather, no major storms brewing. See, oil is an all-year industry, but it’s also seasonal. We can’t always get to and from the platforms, it depends on the weather. If we want to tow a rig out to sea, we need to plot a window, then hope for the best. The weather out there …’ Minchell shook his head. ‘Sometimes it can make you believe in the Almighty.’

‘Old Testament variety?’ Rebus guessed. Minchell smiled and nodded, then made a call on his phone.

They came out of Dyce and into Bridge of Don, following signs to the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre. Rebus waited until Minchell had finished his call before asking a question.

‘Where was Major Weir headed?’

‘Same place we are. He’s got to make a speech.’

‘I thought you said he doesn’t speak.’

‘He doesn’t. That man with him was his PR guru, Hayden Fletcher. He’ll read the speech. The Major will sit beside him and listen.’

‘Does that count as eccentric?’

‘Not when you’re worth a hundred million dollars.’

13

The Conference Centre car park was full of upper-tier management models: Mercs, Beamers, Jags, the occasional Bentley or Roller. A huddle of chauffeurs smoked cigarettes and swapped anecdotes.

‘Might have been better PR if you’d all come on bikes,’ Rebus said, getting his first view of a demo outside the prism-shaped dome which marked the entrance to the Centre. Someone had unfurled a huge banner from the roof, painted green on white: DON’T KILL OUR OCEANS! Security personnel were up there, trying to haul it in while still retaining their balance and dignity. Someone with a megaphone was leading the chant. There were demonstrators in full combat kit and radiation hoods, and others dressed up as mermaids and mermen, plus an inflatable whale which, gusted by the wind, was in danger of snapping its moorings. Uniformed police patrolled the demo, speaking into their shoulder radios. Rebus guessed there’d be a wagon nearby with the heavier artillery: riot shields, visors, US-style defence batons … It didn’t look like that kind of demo, not yet.

‘We’re going to have to go through them,’ Minchell said. ‘I hate this. We’re spending millions on environmental protection. I’m even a member of Greenpeace, Oxfam, you name it. But every bloody year it’s the same.’ He grabbed his briefcase and cellphone, remote-locked the car and set its alarm, then headed for the doors.