He had brought the misper case notes with him and reached under the passenger seat to retrieve them. There had been interviews with friends and associates of Oram’s. Rebus knew he could try questioning them himself, but he got no sense that the man had a close confidant or best pal. According to his wife’s statement, he’d been regular in his habits – at the Potter’s Bar from midday until nine or ten, five or six days a week, leaving his staff of four to make up the other hours. The staff had been questioned and had proved as forthcoming as any breeze-block wall.

He turned the radio on while he read, but couldn’t find anything he wanted to listen to. He slid a CD into the player instead. It had been playing up recently, skipping or refusing to work altogether, but today it seemed in a more generous mood. Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac, which would do Rebus just fine. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, eyes on the outside world. There were days in winter when the sun barely seemed to rise above the rooftops before running out of juice. On those days, the lights stayed on in his flat from when he woke up until he retired for the night – same went for the heating. They were saying on the news that bills were about to shoot up. Rebus reckoned he would be okay, but others wouldn’t. Politicians would say the usual things while wringing their hands. Whole bloody country seemed to be fraying, and its inhabitants along with it. He wondered where Jack Oram had spent the last four years.

Wondered, too, why he’d bothered coming back.

A black van, maybe a Citroën Berlingo, was crawling towards the lane. Rebus had parked a few yards along from the entrance. His was still the only vehicle in the vicinity, and he could feel the driver’s gaze on him. But eventually the van trundled down the lane and stopped. Rebus was just out of its eyeline, but he heard the handbrake being applied. He got out of the Saab again and closed the door as quietly as he could. A young man had emerged from the van and was standing in front of one of the garages, a set of keys in his hand but eyes peering up the lane to the figure sauntering towards him.

‘Not opening up?’ Rebus asked.

‘Who are you?’

‘Name’s Rebus. Your mum might have mentioned me.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Probably doesn’t want to stir up memories.’

‘Memories?’

‘Of your dad. He’s who I’m looking for.’