‘Why do I still come to these things?’ the man growled. His accent was pitched somewhere in mid-Atlantic. He was tall and thin, his reddish hair thinning. The flesh around his neck was slack, putting him in his early fifties, though he could have passed for five years younger. Rebus didn’t have an answer for him, so said nothing. The drink arrived, and he downed it in one, then ordered another. ‘Want one?’ he asked.

‘No, thanks.’

The man noticed that Rebus’s photocard was missing. ‘Are you a delegate?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Observer.’

‘The newspaper?’

Rebus shook his head again.

‘Thought not. Oil’s only news when something goes wrong. It’s bigger than the nuclear industry, but gets half the coverage.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it, if the news they’re printing is all bad?’

The man thought about this, then laughed, showing perfect teeth. ‘You’ve got me there.’ He wiped his face again. ‘So what exactly are you observing?’

‘I’m off duty right now.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘So what do you do?’

‘I work my guts out. But I have to tell you, my company’s just about given up trying to sell to the oil industry. They’d rather buy Yank or Scandinavian. Well, fuck them. No wonder Scotland’s down the pan … and we want independence.’ The man shook his head, then leaned forwards over the bar. Rebus did likewise: co-conspirator. ‘Mostly what I do is, I attend boring conventions like this. And I go home at night and wonder what it’s all about. You sure about that drink?’

‘Go on then.’

So Rebus let the man buy him a drink. The way he had said ‘fuck them’ made Rebus think he didn’t swear that often. It was just something he did to break the ice, to show he was speaking man to man; off the record, as it were. Rebus offered a cigarette, but his friend shook his head.

‘Gave them up years ago. Don’t think I’m not still tempted.’ He paused, looked around the bar. ‘Know who I’d like to be?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Go on, guess.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Sean Connery.’ The man nodded. ‘Think about it, with what he earns per film, he could give a pound to every man, woman and child in this country, and still have a couple of mill left over. Isn’t that incredible?’

‘So if you were Sean Connery, you’d give everyone a pound?’

‘I’d be the world’s sexiest man, what would I need money for?’

It was a good point, so they drank to it. Only thing was, talking about Sean reminded Rebus of Ancram, Sean’s lookalike. He checked his watch, saw that he had to leave.

‘Can I buy you one before I go?’

The man shook his head, then produced his business card, doing so in a slick movement, like a magician. ‘In case you ever need it. My name’s Ryan, by the way.’ Rebus read the card: Ryan Slocum, Sales Manager, Engineering Division, and a company masthead: Eugene Construction.