‘Just for as long as the spirit is willing.’ She made to pass him. He followed her along the path to her front door, wondering how different her life would have turned out if her husband hadn’t been made to run. ‘It’s Tommy I was looking for,’ he said to her back.

‘He’s at work.’

‘What time does he finish?’

‘Can you not just leave us in peace?’

‘Jack’s been spotted, Mrs Oram. By more than one person. He was even seen on the pavement here. You’re telling me you don’t know anything about that?’

‘I’m telling you you’re wrong. And if I see you here again, I’ll toss a coin. Heads I call the polis, tails I grab a hammer from the kitchen drawer – is that clear enough for you?’

‘Why would he be watching the house but not come in?’

She had found her keys and unlocked the door. She closed it after her without saying anything. Rebus took out his phone and called QC Lettings. Eventually, Marion answered.

‘Marion, it’s John Rebus again. You mentioned a lock-up where Tommy keeps his bits and bobs. If I absolutely promise this is the last time you’ll hear from me, any chance you could save me some time and give me the address?’

It was in Burnhill, a few turnings off Calder Road into a maze of low-quality housing, mostly of 1960s and ’70s vintage. Three-storey blocks, the palette drab, the roadway spattered with litter mulched by car tyres. Rebus knew this area from the day job. It was a place where residents, whatever their hardships, closed ranks, protecting their own. If you lived in Burnhill or the neighbouring estates, you were part of an ever-evolving tribe with its own unwritten rules, rules you were best advised to learn and abide by.

The row of six lock-up garages was down a dead-end street. Rebus didn’t like his chances so sat in his car for ten or so minutes, just getting a feel for the terrain. He wished he’d brought Brillo with him, not as a deterrent but because no one really thought twice about a dog-walker.

‘You’re an old geezer,’ he told himself. ‘Nobody looks twice at you anyway.’

But he locked the Saab when he got out.

One of the lock-ups belied its name, having lost both lock and whatever door was attached to it. It had become an open-sided skip, doubling as a lavatory judging by the aroma. The other garages boasted a serious array of padlocks. Even then, dents and scrapes showed where attempts had been made to breach their defences. Rebus had no way of knowing which belonged to Tommy Oram, so retreated to the car and, for want of anything else to do, sent Clarke another text:

Nothing?