‘One of those?’ Rebus asked.

‘Pick either door.’

Rebus got out of the car, leaned back in. ‘Don’t you dare drive away.’ He slammed his door shut and walked up the cul-de-sac. He chose the left-hand of the two identical semi-detacheds. The door was opened from within, and an oversized man in a bulging T-shirt ushered him in.

‘You the rozzer?’ They were standing in a cramped hallway. Rebus nodded. ‘Through there.’

Rebus opened the door to the living room, and did a double-take. The connecting wall between the two semis had been knocked through, providing a double-sized living space, open plan. The room also went further back than should have been feasible. Rebus was reminded of Dr Who’s Tardis, and, alone in the room, walked towards the back of the house. A large extension had been added, including a sizeable conservatory. This should have minimised the space left for a garden, but the lawn outside was plentiful. There were playing-fields backing on to the house, and Rebus saw that Uncle Joe had taken a chunk out of these fields for his garden.

Planning permission, of course, was out of the question.

But then who needed planning permission?

‘I hope your ears don’t need cleaning,’ a voice said. Rebus turned and saw that a small, stooped man had entered the room. He held a cigarette in one hand, while his other was busy with a walking-stick. He shuffled in carpet slippers towards a well-used armchair and fell into it, hands gripping the greasy anti-macassars, walking-stick lying across his lap.

Rebus had seen photographs of the man, but they hadn’t prepared him for the reality. Joseph Toal really did look like someone’s uncle. He was in his seventies, stocky, with the hands and face of a one-time coalminer. His forehead was all rippled flesh, and his thin grey hair was swept back and Brylcreemed. His jaw was square, eyes watery, and his glasses hung from a string around his neck. When he raised the cigarette to his lips, Rebus saw nicotine fingers, bruised ingrown nails. He was wearing a shapeless cardigan over an equally shapeless sports shirt. The cardigan was patched, loose threads hanging from it. His trousers were brown and baggy, stained at the knees.

‘Nothing wrong with my ears,’ Rebus said, coming forward.

‘Good, because I’ll say it only once.’ He sniffed, controlling his breathing. ‘Anthony Kane worked for me twelve, thirteen years, not all the time – short-term contracts. But then a year ago, maybe a little over, he told me he was walking, wanted to be his own boss. We parted on amicable terms, I haven’t seen him since.’

Rebus gestured to a chair. Toal nodded to let him know he could sit. Rebus took his time getting comfortable.

‘Mr Toal –’

‘Everybody calls me Uncle Joe.’

‘As in Stalin?’

‘You think that’s a new joke, son? Ask your question.’

Go: ‘What was Tony planning to do when he left your employ?’

‘He didn’t go into specifics. Our parting conversation was … curt.’