This inner office was half the size of the outer one. Just a single desk, bare apart from a small notebook computer folded shut and unplugged. Behind it the narrow window had bars on the outside and offered a view of a patio enclosed by a high wooden fence. A drinks cabinet against the wall told Rebus that successful clients might be offered a glass to celebrate. The man sitting across the desk took a moment to realise a stranger was standing in front of him.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, not without reason.

‘My name’s Rebus. I’m here on behalf of Jack Oram’s family.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

Rather than provide an immediate answer, Rebus sat on one of the two available chairs. The woman’s perfume was even stronger in this enclosed space. Mackenzie was probably much the same age as her. He wore a white shirt and blue silk tie. Gold cufflinks at his wrists and a heavy-looking gold watch. His blue pinstripe jacket had been draped over the back of his chair. His hair was tousled and silvered and probably hadn’t been restyled since he was a young man. It gave him a slightly unruly look, while taking years off him.

‘Who was it that just left?’ Rebus asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Thought I recognised her.’

Mackenzie glared at him. ‘My wife,’ he stated. ‘Elizabeth. Where do you know her from?’

‘It’ll come back to me,’ was all Rebus said. ‘Meantime, maybe you could look at this photo.’

Mackenzie took the photo from him and studied it.

‘He’s called Jack Oram,’ Rebus said. ‘Though he may be using another name. Went AWOL four years ago. His family think he’s reappeared, and he was seen leaving these premises.’

‘I don’t know the name and I don’t know the face. Besides, Marion deals with the majority of the clients.’ He gestured towards the front office. ‘And an assumed name wouldn’t get him very far – we require photo ID and bank statements.’

‘As is right and proper.’ Rebus took the sheet of paper back. ‘Do you mind me asking your first name, Mr Mackenzie?’

‘It’s Fraser. And yours?’

‘John.’

‘And you’re some sort of investigator? Paid a finder’s fee by the family, that sort of thing?’ Mackenzie’s accent, which had started out as refined Edinburgh, was coarsening slightly, as if it had decided that Rebus didn’t merit one of its performances. Rebus held up the photograph again.

‘It could be mistaken identity, I suppose. Someone in here recently who looks like him …’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Mackenzie made a show of opening his computer, as if readying to do some proper work. Then the phone in his pocket vibrated and he took it out, holding it away from him as he tried reading whatever was on the screen.