On his way to the sink, Rebus passed the coffee table. A pile of mail sat there, a larger envelope at the bottom. He could make out the words MGC Lettings on its corner. He angled his head towards Cafferty, but the man was still reading – or putting up a decent pretence. Rebus filled the bowl from the tap, placing it on the floor next to the coffee table. The slurps that started coming from Brillo covered any sound as he lifted the letters above the larger envelope. Its contents had been removed – a single sheet of paper, a photocopy of a blurry photograph, no writing. The profile of a man in a living room, patterned wallpaper behind him, shot from the doorway, one edge of the door coming into frame.

‘Noisy little bastard,’ Cafferty grumbled, starting to turn his chair around. The trolley didn’t make it easy, and he had to reverse away from it, giving Rebus plenty of time to step away from the envelopes and gaze instead at Brillo.

‘So what’s next on the agenda?’ Cafferty asked.

Rebus gave a shrug. ‘If he’s gone, he’s gone.’

‘You said it yourself, though – the son works for the lettings agency. Good reason for his dad to go there, yet nobody seems to have seen him? Tell me you don’t think that’s a bit skew-whiff?’

‘You didn’t take me on to look at the lettings firm.’

‘The son must know more than he’s telling,’ Cafferty persisted.

‘I drove past the Gallery of Modern Art earlier. They’ve a huge neon sign outside –“There Will Be No Miracles Here”, it says.’ Might be art, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.’

‘I’m not asking for a miracle, just another day or two of your time. His old allies, his old haunts …’

‘I already tried the Potter’s Bar.’

‘And?’

‘Yet another dead loss. How much did he take from you anyway?’

‘Hard to say. Fifteen, maybe twenty grand.’

Rebus had crouched down to give Brillo a pat.

‘There’s something else bugging you,’ Cafferty said, edging his wheelchair closer. The movement spooked Brillo. Rebus scooped the dog up into his arms, cradling it. ‘You been painting?’ Cafferty had noticed the smears of blue on Rebus’s fingers.

‘Man needs a hobby,’ Rebus told him. ‘And yes, something else is bugging me – it’s called Tynecastle.’

‘Cop shop rather than stadium, I’m guessing.’

‘Skeletons are about to come tumbling out of closets.’

‘Unfortunate for some.’

‘Present company included.’

‘We’re old men. We’ll be well down the list, no?’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Malcolm Fox is in town.’

‘Never liked that man.’

‘Didn’t stop you trying to tuck him into your pocket.’

‘I tried that with you too, if I remember correctly.’

‘Plenty still reckon you succeeded.’