‘It’ll still be there.’

Rebus turned and leaned in towards the seated figure. ‘Whatever happened to Oram, I’m not to blame – you are. You’d have found out eventually, one way or another. Plenty chancers out there who’d be happy to track him down for you.’

‘I don’t want just any chancer, though – I want the biggest.’

Rebus gave a thin smile, almost despite himself. ‘So what have you got, apart from his name?’

‘Could be he’s using an alias – I would, in his shoes. Last sighting was near Gracemount a few weeks back.’

‘A lovely spot for an ex-cop to go walkabout. Is this you trying to get me bushwhacked?’

‘He was coming out of a lettings agency on Lasswade Road.’

‘Didn’t you used to own a lettings agency?’

Cafferty nodded. ‘It changed hands a few years back.’

‘And that’s his last sighting – a lettings office that used to be in your name?’

Cafferty offered a slow shrug. ‘I know you’d rather it was a Hollywood mogul’s house, but that’s all I can offer.’

Rebus leaned down further, his hands gripping the arms of the wheelchair. The two men fixed eyes, the silence lengthening. Then he pushed himself upright and shook his head slowly.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, walking towards the door.

Cafferty stayed facing the window. In around five minutes, he could place his eye to the telescope and watch Rebus heading back across the Meadows. He heard the front door close and sensed Andrew behind him, awaiting instructions.

‘Tea, I think,’ he said. ‘Builder’s strength.’

‘I didn’t like him,’ Andrew commented.

‘You’re a good judge of character. But then you probably wouldn’t like me either if I wasn’t paying for the privilege. Though with what you’re learning, maybe I should be charging tuition fees.’

Cafferty manoeuvred his wheelchair towards the wall unit. Rebus had taken the envelope, of course he had. Satisfied, he moved to the coffee table, reaching forward to sift through the mail. There was an A4-sized envelope with familiar lettering in the top left corner: MGC Lettings. The cheapskate bastards were still using his personalised stationery.

‘Hell is this?’ he muttered, opening the flap. There was a single sheet of paper inside, a printout of a grainy photograph. The profile of a man, taken through the doorway of a living room. Cafferty checked. Nothing on the back of the photo and nothing else in the envelope.

Andrew was standing behind him. ‘Who’s that?’ he enquired.

‘Not the faintest fucking idea,’ Cafferty said. And he meant it. He didn’t recognise the man at all.

The living room, though … Well, that was another matter entirely.

2

Detective Inspector Siobhan Clarke was in the CID office at Gayfield Square police station. She had been staring at her computer for almost five minutes, a mug of tea grown tepid beside her.