‘There’s also the break-in at the victim’s home in Newhaven,’ Christine Esson added. ‘Our strong suspicion is that it was carried out by officers from Tynecastle in an attempt to warn him off talking to us.’

From the corner of her eye, Clarke sensed someone standing in the doorway. It was the officer from the front desk. He nodded in her direction.

‘Looks like the daughter’s on the premises,’ she announced to Trask. ‘If we can be excused, ma’am?’

Trask’s gesture left Clarke and Fox in no doubt that they could.

Both interview rooms were empty, so they opted for IV1.

‘Do I need a solicitor?’ were the first words out of Gaby Mackenzie’s mouth as she was ushered in by the desk officer.

‘We’re just gathering information,’ Clarke said. ‘You’re not in trouble or anything.’

‘Well,’ Fox interjected, ‘apart from the possible theft of a phone …’

She winced as she sat down. ‘I feel bad about that. If you have his details, I’ll get it back to him.’ She was indeed petite and slim, elbows and knees prominent. Her short tartan skirt led to fishnet tights and chunky-looking boots with extraneous straps and chrome buckles. Her eyebrows had been plucked to thin arcs, eyeshadow plentiful. The haircut was choppy and probably expensive. Clarke reckoned she was wearing the same zippered leather jacket Kenneth Lloyd had described.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t …’ She left the apology unfinished.

‘Why keep the call anonymous?’ Clarke asked.

‘Didn’t want it getting back to the ’rents.’

‘Your parents, you mean?’

‘Right.’

‘You didn’t want them knowing you sometimes used their empty flats to entertain friends?’

The young woman shrugged, the gesture made awkward by the large headphones clamped around her neck. ‘I don’t suppose they’d mind, really, except of course that it would indicate their daughter has a fuller sex life than they might wish.’

‘You work for the family firm?’ Fox asked.

‘Not really.’

‘But now and again,’ he went on, ‘you show someone round if nobody else is available?’

‘As a favour, yes. It’s not like I’m on the payroll.’

‘So what do you do at other times?’

‘I’m a DJ.’ If her chair had been of the swivel variety, she would have been rotating from side to side. She seemed to Clarke all barely contained energy and life force. A tattoo crept out from just below one cuff of her jacket. Clarke would take bets it didn’t feel lonely. ‘Ever go clubbing?’ the young woman asked.

‘Believe it or not, I sometimes do,’ Clarke answered. ‘I can’t speak for DI Fox here.’

‘Where do you go?’

‘Cowgate mostly.’

‘Might have danced to one of my sets, then. I call myself Gabz – with a z. DJ Gabz.’

‘I’ll look out for you next time.’

‘I’m doing a set tonight. The Elemental Club on Blair Street.’