‘And at some point he took one of those notes out to pay for something, found the receipt and got rid of it.’ Ritchie shrugged at the obviousness of the explanation and headed back to his desk.

Esson watched Siobhan Clarke come back in from the hallway, where she’d been taking a call.

‘Anything we should know about?’ she nudged.

‘Elizabeth Mackenzie,’ Clarke explained, ‘backing up the story about Cafferty and the photo of Francis Haggard.’

‘The photo he denied ever receiving?’

‘Looks like we’ve caught him being economical with the truth.’

‘And to a murder inquiry at that. I’d say that’s cause to bring him in.’

‘No wheelchair access, though – and I doubt his solicitor will want him being questioned in reception.’

‘I’ve always wanted to check out a gangster’s interior design.’

Clarke watched Fox enter the office. He kept his eyes front as he walked to Trask’s door, knocking and entering.

‘Brave man,’ Esson commented.

‘Take Jason with you,’ Clarke told her. Esson waited for enlightenment. ‘I’ve got stuff to do, and you know as much about the photo as I do.’

‘I know John Rebus’s version.’

‘Elizabeth Mackenzie took it and sent it to Cafferty.’

‘Did she tell you why?’

‘She said it would wind him up, seeing a cop in an old flat of his.’ Clarke saw the look Esson was giving her. ‘I know, doesn’t make sense to me either. There’s plenty she’s not telling us – maybe Mr Cafferty will be more forthcoming.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Just see what you can do.’

‘Fine, but while you’re here …’ Esson signalled for Clarke to look at the monitor. ‘The receipt that came with the withdrawal – no sign of it among Haggard’s possessions.’

‘And?’

‘And Jason thinks he probably threw it away. From the look on your face, I’m sensing you agree.’

‘Feel free to double-check – his belongings are in the evidence cupboard. But go talk to Cafferty first.’

Clarke turned and headed to Trask’s office, copying Fox by knocking and then going in without waiting. Trask was seated, popping ibuprofen tablets from a blister pack. She swallowed two with a mouthful of Fanta from a plastic bottle, then gave the bottle a little shake.

‘Cheaper than water, can you believe it?’

‘Journalists a bit gnarly?’ Clarke asked.

‘One of them knew about all the boxes we’ve been going through.’

‘And for once it can’t have been Laura Smith,’ Clarke said.

Trask stared at her. ‘And why is that?’

Clarke realised she’d said the wrong thing. ‘Because she’s currently in my flat, recuperating from a petrol bomb attack on her home.’

‘Sleeping with the enemy,’ Fox muttered.

‘It’s called helping a friend,’ Clarke snapped back. Then, to Trask, ‘So who was it knew about the Complaints trawl?’

‘Trainee from the Record. He looked about fifteen, dressed in a suit he might grow into.’