‘Well, he still had the presence of mind to double-lock the door. So either he wasn’t that scared …’

‘Or whoever was with him double-locked the door, assuming that’s what McLure would normally do.’

Rebus nodded. ‘One more thing. Alarm system.’ He pointed to a box on the wall, its light a steady green. ‘It hasn’t been switched on. If he was in a flap, he might forget. If he thought he wasn’t coming back alive, he wouldn’t bother.’

‘He might not bother for a short stroll either though.’

Rebus conceded the point. ‘Final scenario: whoever double-locked the door forgot or plain didn’t know the alarm was there. See, door double-locked but alarm system off – it’s not consistent. And someone like Fergie, Volvo driver, my guess is he’d always be consistent.’

‘Well, let’s see if he had anything worth nicking.’

They walked into the living room. It was crammed to bursting with furniture and nick-nacks, some modern, a lot looking like they’d been handed down the generations. But though overfilled, the room was neat, dust-free, with expensive-looking rugs on the floor – far from fire-damaged stock.

‘Supposing someone did come to see him,’ Gill said. ‘Maybe we should dust for prints.’

‘Definitely maybe. Get forensics on to it first thing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Rebus smiled. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

They kept their hands in their pockets as they walked through the room: the reflex to touch things was always strong.

‘No signs of a struggle, and nothing looks like it’s been put back in the wrong place.’

‘Agreed.’

Past the living room there was another, shorter hallway, leading to a guest bedroom and what had probably once been the lounge: only used when visitors called. Fergus McLure had turned it into an office. There was paperwork everywhere, and on a fold-out dining table sat a new-looking computer.

‘I suppose someone’s going to have to go through this lot,’ Gill said, not relishing the task.

‘I hate computers,’ Rebus said. He had noticed a fat notepad beside the keyboard. He slipped a hand from his pocket and picked it up by its edges, angling it into the light. There were indents in the paper from the last written sheet. Gill came over to see.

‘Don’t tell me.’

‘Can’t make it out, and I don’t think the pencil trick would help.’

They looked at one another, spoke their thoughts together.

‘Howdenhall.’

‘Check the bins next?’ Gill said.

‘You do it, I’ll look upstairs.’

Rebus went back into the front hall, saw more doors, tried them: a small old-fashioned kitchen, family pictures on the walls; a toilet; a box room. He climbed the stairs, his feet sinking into deep-pile carpeting which muffled all sound. It was a quiet house; Rebus got the feeling it had been quiet even when McLure had been there. Another guest bedroom, large bathroom – unmodernised like the kitchen – and main bedroom. Rebus gave his attention to the usual places: beneath the bed, mattress and pillows; bedside cabinets, chest of drawers, wardrobe. Everything was obsessively arranged: cardigans folded just so and layered by colour; slippers and shoes in a row – all the browns together, then the blacks. There was a small bookcase boasting an uninspired collection: histories of carpets and Eastern art; a photographic tour of the vineyards of France.