His Saab was waiting outside. It was a wrench to leave the prime parking spot by his front door. More usually he had to trawl the area for a reasonable-sized gap. When he’d first moved to Marchmont, more than half a lifetime ago, there had been fewer students and fewer cars. Now, the students owned cars and thought nothing of paying for a parking permit. Rebus himself qualified for a disabled badge, but he’d baulked at the idea. He was conscious that his Saab – which started at the third time of asking – was the oldest car on his street and was edging towards ‘vintage’ territory. The council had plans to stop petrol and diesel cars using the city centre, but vintage cars would probably be exempt. ‘Just another year or two,’ he told the Saab. Always supposing the specialist garage in Wardie Bay could keep performing their regular miracles.

The drive to Lasswade Road didn’t take long. This time of day, traffic was mostly piling into town rather than out. Two-storey houses and single-storey bungalows lined the street, alongside a smattering of shops and businesses. Behind, only a short distance away, lay badlands not unknown to Rebus in his CID days. He parked outside a vet’s practice, through the window of which he could see anxious owners seated with pet carriers on their laps.

The windows of the lettings agency – one either side of its door – were covered by vertical slatted blinds and details of a few dozen properties, giving Rebus little inkling of what might be happening inside. The door itself was part wood and part frosted glass, with a metal gate (unlocked during working hours) providing added security. He took a step back and looked at the signage above the façade: QC Lettings Agency. So he already had one question in mind as he pushed open the door. It gave a little tinkle, courtesy of an old-fashioned bell attached by a spring on the inside.

‘Cute,’ Rebus said as he approached the receptionist. The room wasn’t large but there was a desk angled into one corner, a large plastic screen protecting the receptionist from visitors. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’ He dug in his pocket for the lanyard, which he slipped around his neck. A laminated card was clipped to it, giving notification that he was exempt from wearing a mask. ‘My lungs,’ he explained as he took in the rest of the room.

There was a two-seater sofa, a small occasional table, and a water cooler, plus an entire wall dedicated to more properties available to rent. The receptionist was a no-nonsense woman in her early fifties, hair tied back and glasses perched on her nose.

‘What does the QC stand for?’ Rebus asked.

‘Quality Counts, I’ve been told.’

‘Like the sherry?’

‘Like the sherry.’

‘Why do I get the feeling I’m not the first to have made the connection?’