‘A bit of everything. Now if you’ll excuse me … And best of luck with your search.’

A few moments later, Rebus was parked in front of the reception desk. Marion was taking down some details over the phone from a prospective client.

‘That’s a very popular area … you’ll need to be primed to make a decision … I’m talking hours rather than days … Not if that’s your upper limit, no. Piershill and Restalrig might be a better bet …’

Rebus had picked up a stapled printout of available properties. He’d heard that things were tough for renters, and looking at the monthly rates, he could believe it. People with deep pockets were buying as an investment, freezing out those with less in their war chest, who then ended up vying to rent in this heated market. His daughter, Samantha, had been lucky. He hadn’t had to help her too much when she’d moved into town. She was in a double-upper in Currie, just west of the city. Rebus had joked that she’d bought a place with stairs to deter him from visiting.

Sixteen steps from main door to landing. So far, he’d managed them twice.

‘He wasn’t really expecting you, was he?’ Marion said, having ended the call.

‘Guilty as charged. But he did say I should talk to you about your handyman, Tommy, surname Oram. Son of the man I’m looking for.’

‘I didn’t make the connection.’

‘You sure about that?’

Her face hardened. ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’

‘No,’ Rebus replied, without bothering whether he sounded sincere or not. ‘Your boss tells me Tommy is a friend of Gaby’s.’

‘I think that’s correct.’

‘How often is he in here?’

‘I’m not sure he’s ever crossed the threshold.’

‘Really?’

‘Why would he? He doesn’t keep any tools here.’

‘So if there’s a problem with one of your flats …’

‘The client lets us know and we message Tommy.’

‘And where are the tools kept?’

The sigh she gave could have graced a theatre stage. ‘In a lock-up.’

‘Any chance I could have his mobile number?’

‘Not the slightest.’ Marion sniffed and kept her eyes on her computer screen.

‘He still lives at home with his mum, doesn’t he? In Craigmillar?’ He didn’t expect her to answer, which was just as well. But he remembered Ishbel Oram’s words: What’s he done this time? He could hear close bonds in her tone and phrasing. Her son was someone she saw and spoke to every day.

‘Always a pleasure, Marion,’ he said, beginning to zip up his jacket. ‘Oh, one other thing Fraser told me to check with you – he can’t recall the precise date the previous owner of this place last paid a visit.’

She gave him a blank look.