Trask waited until she had the team’s full attention. ‘We have a name for at least one bar where Francis Haggard might have spent some time on the afternoon before he was killed. A regular saw his photo in the Evening News and called it in. We need to go talk to the staff and the witness. So far it’s an ID from a grainy newspaper photo, so I’m not pinning up any bunting, but it’s as good a lead as we have right now.’

‘What’s the name of the bar?’ Gamble asked.

‘Drifter’s. It’s on Great Junction Street – basically walking distance from here.’

‘And from his flat,’ Clarke added.

Trask nodded. ‘Take Christine with you. Let us know what you find.’

‘Will do.’

‘Colin and Jason, go see the caller. I’ve got his details here.’ She held out a slip of paper, which King took from her with the eagerness of a seagull snatching a chip.

They all grabbed their jackets, Clarke glancing in Fox’s direction to see if he felt snubbed. But he was at his desk, peering at the screen of his computer. Downstairs, the two uniforms from Tynecastle were still waiting, propped against a wall and passing the time on their phones. Recognising Clarke, they began to shift their feet. She shook her head.

‘Someone will be with you shortly,’ she said, opening the door and making her exit. Once outside, Esson turned to her.

‘That was a lie, wasn’t it?’ she asked.

‘Obviously,’ Clarke said with a thin smile.

King and Ritchie barrelled out through the door after them, Ritchie giving a thumbs-up.

‘They’ll learn,’ Esson smirked.

‘It’s still nice to see, though,’ Clarke mused.

The day wasn’t bad, and they knew they’d be quicker walking than taking a car. Drifter’s was trying to make itself look like a Hawaiian tiki bar, with fake straw on its facade and pedal steel guitar music playing over the speakers. There was just the one server, dressed in a loud shirt and with a pink plastic lei around his neck. The half-dozen drinkers seemed resistant to the theme and were sticking to pints of lager. Clarke showed the barman her warrant card and then a photo of Francis Haggard.

‘He was in here three days ago,’ she said.

‘Afternoon or evening?’

‘Afternoon, we think.’

‘Well, that was my shift.’ The man studied the photo again and nodded. ‘Think he’d had one or two before he arrived. Didn’t cause any trouble, but looked like he might.’ He glanced over to a table where two men sat talking. ‘Hey, Colin,’ he called out, ‘you spoke to him, didn’t you?’

The man called Colin, tall, skinny and probably retired, got up and walked over to join them.

‘Oh aye,’ he said, looking at the photo. ‘He’s the one that died, aye?’

‘That’s right.’