‘John Rebus,’ he said, shaking Slocum’s hand.

‘John Rebus,’ Slocum said, nodding. ‘No business card, John?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

Slocum’s eyes widened. ‘Did I say anything incriminating?’

‘Wouldn’t bother me if you did. I’m based in Edinburgh.’

‘A long way from home. Is it Johnny Bible?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He’s killed in both cities, hasn’t he?’

Rebus nodded. ‘No, it’s not Johnny Bible. Take care, Ryan.’

‘You too. It’s a mad bad world out there.’

‘Isn’t it just?’

Stuart Minchell was waiting for him at the doors. ‘Anything else you’d like to see, or shall we head back?’

‘Let’s go.’

Lumsden called up to his room, and Rebus came downstairs to meet him. Lumsden was well-dressed, but casual – the blazer swapped for a cream jacket, yellow shirt open at the neck.

‘So,’ Rebus said, ‘do I call you Lumsden all night?’

‘First name’s Ludovic.’

‘Ludovic Lumsden?’

‘My parents had a sense of humour. Friends call me Ludo.’

The evening was warm and still light. Birds were noisy in the gardens, and fat seagulls were picking their way along the pavements.

‘It’ll stay light till ten, maybe eleven,’ Lumsden explained.

‘Those are the fattest seagulls I’ve ever seen.’

‘I hate them. Look at the state of the pavements.’

It was true, the slabs underfoot were speckled with birdshit. ‘Where are we going?’ Rebus asked.

‘Call it a mystery tour. It’s all within walking distance. You like mystery tours?’

‘I like having a guide.’

Their first stop was an Italian restaurant, where Lumsden was well known. Everyone seemed to want to shake his hand, and the proprietor took him aside for a quiet word, apologising to Rebus beforehand.

‘The Italians up here are docile,’ Lumsden explained later. ‘They never quite managed to run the town.’

‘So who does?’

Lumsden considered the question. ‘A mixture.’

‘Any Americans?’

Lumsden looked at him, nodded. ‘They run a lot of the clubs and some of the newer hotels. Service industry stuff. They arrived in the seventies, never moved away. Do you want to go to a club later?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It sounds almost respectable.’

Lumsden laughed. ‘Oh, you want sleaze? That’s supposed to be what Aberdeen’s about, right? You’ve got the wrong idea. The city is strictly corporate. Later on, if you really want, I’ll take you down by the docks: strippers and hard drinkers, but a tiny minority.’

‘Living down south, you hear stories.’

‘Of course you do: high-class brothels, dope and porn, gambling and alcohol. We hear the stories, too. But as for seeing the stuff …’ Lumsden shook his head. ‘The oil industry’s pretty tame really. The roughnecks have all but disappeared. Oil’s gone legit.’

Rebus was almost convinced, but Lumsden was trying too hard. He kept talking, and the more he talked the less Rebus believed. The owner came over for another word, drew Lumsden away to a corner of the restaurant. Lumsden kept a hand on the man’s back, patting it. He flattened his tie as he sat down again.