They headed into the larger of the two bedrooms. Drawers had been emptied here, too, and the bedding tossed into a pile on the floor, clothes dumped from the fitted wardrobe, and the contents of the bedside cabinets dispatched across the mattress. Clarke noted two passports and some pieces of female jewellery. Esson indicated the carpet they were standing on. It was streaked with white ­powder. Clarke dampened one finger of her right glove and dabbed at it, transferring it to her lips.

‘Not talc,’ she confirmed.

The second bedroom was being used as an office. The computer now lay on the floor, along with the printer. More powder was scattered across the floorboards. In the bathroom, the contents of the cabinet had been scooped into the sink. Two large pizza boxes lay in the bath. Clarke picked one up and opened it. It was empty and unused. She shared a look with Esson.

‘Talk to the concierge?’ Esson suggested. Clarke gave a slow nod. ‘Were they expecting to find anyone home? Got a bit fractious when the place was empty?’

‘Looks more like a message to me,’ Clarke replied. ‘And not a very subtle one, either.’

‘Tynecastle?’ Esson speculated.

‘Tynecastle,’ Clarke echoed.

High End Motors belied its name by consisting of a concrete-walled and corrugated-roofed warehouse behind a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire and motion-sensitive lights. The forecourt boasted so many potholes, Rebus wondered if the council’s roads department had been involved. As he got out of the Saab, a middle-aged man appeared, dressed in a three-quarter-length black woollen coat and red scarf.

‘Can’t do you part-exchange on that,’ he said, studying the car’s bodywork. ‘I’ve got the number for a good scrap dealer, though.’ He broke into a grin and held out his hand. ‘Good to see you, John. Or it would be, if I didn’t know why you’re here. Francis has gone and done it, has he? Always was a rash one …’

For as long as Rebus had known him, Alan Fleck had carried himself with the air of a confident salesman. He led the way inside the showroom, arms swinging as though leading a platoon. The flooring here was new and level, well-placed spotlights picking out the array of gleaming vehicles. Rebus identified a couple of Porsches, three BMWs, and something even lower-slung. Fleck tapped it with a finger as they passed.

‘Ferrari. Goes like the clappers, but you want to steer clear of speed bumps.’

An office had been built along the back wall of the showroom, glass-fronted so the stock was always in view. Halfway there, however, Fleck changed his mind and walked over to one of the cars instead, opening the driver’s side and gesturing for Rebus to join him. Fleck was caressing the steering wheel as Rebus closed the passenger door.