‘And both Fraser and Marion told you you’ve been misinformed.’ She granted him a smile that had had all possible warmth removed from it. ‘Big Ger always called you thrawn. Said even when you were wrong about something, you just kept ploughing away.’

‘You’d be amazed at what even a rusty plough can turn up.’

The smile evaporated as she stubbed out the remains of her cigar­ette under the toe of her shoe. ‘Time for me to go get supple. People should look after themselves, don’t you think?’ Her eyes took him in, from top to bottom and back again. With her sunglasses back in place, she pushed open the door and went inside. Rebus caught the scent of eucalyptus as the door closed. He realised he’d been sucking in his gut throughout the meeting.

‘Really, John? At your age?’ he chided himself as he walked back to the car.

Having not yet given Brillo his promised walk, he took him to Bruntsfield Links before depositing him in the flat. Then it was back in the Saab and Lasswade Road. He parked close to the QC Lettings office and waited. At 12.30 on the dot, he watched Marion step out, locking the door after her. There was a row of shops across the street, and she headed in that direction. Some workmen were milling about on the pavement next to their van, eating hot pastries from paper bags. Marion squeezed between the van and a white car with tinted windows, emerging from the bakery a couple of minutes later clutching a beaker of soup and a white bag of her own. As she crossed the road, Rebus got out of the Saab. She saw him and her face tightened.

‘Just a quick question,’ he said to her back as she got the office keys out of her handbag.

‘You promised me I’d heard the last of you.’

‘Circumstances have changed.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘I promise I’ll do better in future.’

‘It’s my lunch break.’

‘Mine too, which is why I’ll be quick.’

She gave a theatrical sigh and turned sharply towards him. ‘Well?’ she snapped.

‘There’s a photocopier in the office, yes? I’m assuming it’s shared?’

‘It is.’

‘Do you remember your boss – or anyone else, for that matter – printing out a photo? A man in profile, standing in a living room?’

‘No. Now if you don’t mind …’ She had turned away from him again and was sliding the key into the lock.

‘The photo was of Francis Haggard. He had just started renting a flat on Constitution Street. He was murdered there a couple of nights back.’

‘I know. We’re all in shock.’

‘Someone took his photo and sent it out in an MGC Lettings envelope.’

‘We threw those away years back.’

‘All of them?’

‘All of them. I dare say the old owner might have kept some for himself …’ She was opening the door.