‘She’s my granddaughter. Don’t hold it against her that she didn’t say anything. All sorts come round here. Usually there’s money owed and a beating in the offing.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘You got a phone on you?’ He proceeded to recite his own number while the man dabbed it in. ‘If you think of anything else or you see him, it’ll be worth your while.’

It was Ralph’s turn to nod, after which he pocketed his phone and headed back indoors. Rebus had no memory of him, but that was hardly surprising. Hot night-time rolls would have been two or three decades back, and he’d have been well refreshed, as the saying went. Speaking of which, there was a bar waiting for him. A half couldn’t do any harm before home.

The Moorfoot comprised a long, narrow room. Rebus could just about imagine a couple of pool tables fitting in. The bar itself took up almost no space at all, and across from it sat two betting terminals and what looked like a quiz machine. In place of piped music, there was a venerable Dansette record player behind the bar along with a selection of LPs and singles.

‘Nice touch,’ Rebus said, pointing towards it.

‘A blast of Mott the Hoople helps clear the place at closing time,’ the barman explained. He was tall and barrel-chested, and Rebus doubted he’d have too many problems with unruly clients, Mott or no Mott.

Rebus ordered a half of IPA, and the man turned to retrieve a clean glass. Rebus noticed that his belt had been tightened a couple of notches too far, which only served to highlight the flab around his middle. His polo shirt had a vodka manufacturer’s branding on it, and there were a couple of faded tattoos on his arms. They looked home-made, probably stretching back to teenage years. There were only three other customers: a young couple glued to one of the machines, and an older man at a corner table, seemingly hypnotised by the near-empty glass in front of him.

Rebus had brought out a debit card, but the barman shook his head. ‘Cash only.’

‘Card reader broken?’

‘What card reader?’

So it wasn’t only the music that was vintage. He handed the man a ten. ‘You been here long?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Are you Mr Crosbie?’ He had registered the name of the licensee on a small noticeboard outside.

‘I just work for him.’ The barman handed Rebus his change – a good amount of it. When Rebus took a sip, he realised why. They should have been paying him to drink the stuff.

‘Beer okay?’ the barman enquired.

‘Nectar. Have you happened to see this guy in here?’ He was holding up the photo of Oram.

The barman’s small, deep-set eyes moved from Rebus to the photo and back again. ‘Can’t say I have. Who is he?’