Rebus had made sure his Saab was parked in a conspicuous spot. He didn’t walk down the lane to Tommy Oram’s lock-up straight away, but lingered by the car, not really doing anything, just standing there. Eventually he approached the lock-up, rattling the handle. The large metal door shook slightly without giving any indication that it would yield without a good deal more force than Rebus could apply. A couple of bikes passed the top of the lane. Two minutes later, they passed again. Rebus knew eyes were on him. After a few more minutes, two different bikes arrived. He recognised both faces from his last visit. Though not yet in their teens, they had learned to act older and meaner.

‘You need to beat it,’ the leader said, feet on the ground, hands wrapped around the handlebars of his bike.

‘Dog not with you today?’ Rebus said. Then, ‘You don’t remember me? Tommy will be disappointed – he pays you to be sharp.’

‘You were here a couple of days back,’ the second kid said.

‘Seeing my old pal Tommy.’ Rebus lifted his foot and gave the door of the lock-up a kick. ‘You know Tommy’s dad was sleeping here until recently?’ The kids stared at him without answering. Rebus brought a twenty-pound note from his pocket and held it up, taking a step closer to the obvious leader. The note was snatched and trousered. ‘You knew it was his dad?’ he asked again.

‘Aye.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘He got us to fetch stuff from the shop,’ the second kid said.

‘That was good of you, Tommy must have been pleased.’ Rebus paused. ‘Any idea why his dad left?’ He watched them shake their heads. ‘And he’s not been back since?’

‘We’d know,’ the leader stated.

‘I don’t doubt that.’ He almost asked why they weren’t in school, but it would have been a stupid question. Either they’d given up on education or education had given up on them. ‘Tommy been around today?’ More head-shakes. ‘Did he seem to get on okay with his dad?’ The head-shakes switched to shrugs. Neither boy looked especially warm, despite their thick black hoodies. Their bony ­fingers had turned a raw-looking pink. Their denims were cheap and ill-fitting, their trainers well worn. Heads shorn sides and back, left longer at the front. There were hundreds if not thousands just like them spread across the city. Rebus nodded towards the graffiti on every available surface.

‘Which tags are yours?’ But they weren’t about to answer that. ‘Twenty doesn’t buy much around here, does it?’

‘Your car’s not been touched,’ the leader corrected him.

‘There is that, I suppose.’