‘I told them there’s no picture,’ Cafferty stated, his eyes on the view eastwards towards the university and the dark hump of Arthur’s Seat.

‘I was just telling Andrew how stupid that was.’

‘Maybe so, but I like my business to remain my business.’

‘So you’ve worked out what the photo means?’

‘Enquiries are ongoing, as you might say.’ Cafferty’s gaze drifted towards Andrew for a moment. Rebus looked too. Andrew had taken up position by the top of the stairs. He was a decent distance away, but Rebus reckoned he’d still be able to hear every word. Cafferty turned his attention back to Rebus. ‘So what’s got you so het up that we needed to meet?’

‘Apart from my annoyance at you saying I’ve got dementia?’

‘Ageing is a cruel process, no shame in starting to forget things.’

‘One thing I did forget – but it came back to me – is that you and Elizabeth Mackenzie used to be an item.’

‘For about five minutes.’

‘A bit longer than that, I think. Then along comes the bold Fraser and sweeps her off her feet.’

‘Water under the bridge.’

‘Twenty years’ worth of water.’

‘Are you coming to a point any time soon?’

‘You still sold the agency to him.’

‘I’ve never let the personal get in the way of business. And I still don’t see what it has to do with the little job I gave you.’

‘No? When the first thing you handed me was QC Lettings?’ Rebus made show of studying the vista again. ‘City like this,’ he said, ‘things tend to connect, visible or not. You connect to Elizabeth Mackenzie, her daughter knows Jack Oram’s son, Jack Oram connects back to you.’

Cafferty stared at him. ‘Are you going to find Jack Oram or not? Seems to me you’re sticking your nose into everything but.’

‘If he’s not done another runner, I’ll find him. His son seems to think that’s what happened.’ He paused. ‘But I’m not at all sure I’ll hand him over to you.’

Cafferty stretched out a hand, palm up. ‘Then give me back my money.’

‘Why were you sent that photograph, Cafferty? And what are you doing about it?’ He watched Cafferty shake his head. ‘A cop killed in cold blood in a flat you used to own – a photo of the victim sent to you, either to taunt you or to alert you to where you could find him. No details, but a patch of wallpaper they knew you’d recognise. You had dozens, maybe even hundreds of flats on your books. Unlikely you’d remember all of them. Somehow you were expected to recall that one, though. And how about Francis Haggard himself? Don’t tell me the two of you never met back in the days when you were passing weekly brown envelopes across to Tynecastle?’