Flynn narrowed his eyes in concentration. “It must be about five years ago since I last came to this house. I think it was for his birthday. He didn’t want any fuss, but my parents insisted on getting caterers in.” A sardonic smile spread across his face. “He was too busy moving and shaking with his VIP friends and hangers-on to chat to his own family. My grandfather spent the evening complaining about the canapés.”

I fetched my bag from the back seat. “You came under duress?”

“In a word, yes.”

Flynn pressed the intercom and spoke to Mrs Oates, who came bustling out of the front entrance. There were silver Christmas lights framing the grand entrance and the huge fir tree in the front garden.

She took one look at Flynn, let out a gasp, and then bundled him into her arms. “Look at you! What a handsome young man you are. Oh, my word! I haven’t seen you for too long. Much too long!” She beamed up at him. “For a minute there, I thought Aidan Turner had rocked up and my luck was in!”

Flynn laughed. “You need new spectacles, Mary.”

Her warm, welcoming face then took on a melancholier edge. “We don’t see enough of you, Flynn.”

Flynn shrugged. “Well, my grandfather isn’t the most welcoming of people, is he?”

Mrs Oates hopped from foot to foot. She looked at me, recognition spreading over her face. “I know you from somewhere. Aren’t you the journalist who was here the other day?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

A cloud of concern took over her features. She turned back to Flynn. “Your grandfather isn’t going to like this, whatever it is.”

“We need to speak to him,” said Flynn. “It’s important.”

She let out a resigned sigh. “All right. Come with me, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. He’s working on a landscape of the Queensferry Crossing and is getting rather frustrated with it, so he’s not in the best of moods as it is.”

I threw an apprehensive glance up at Flynn as we followed Mrs Oates up the paved path and into the house.

The hallway was cool and airy, with a tiled coffee-and-cream floor and a burnished staircase any Hollywood actress would love to descend. A long length of ivy studded with white bows wound its way around the banister. A lavishly decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner, dripping with tear-shaped baubles.

A couple of abstract paintings of cubes and triangles hung from plain white walls.

I could smell the rich aroma of Christmas cake being baked.

“Mr Talbot,” called Mrs Oates up the vanishing staircase, offering us an anxious look over her shoulder. “There are a couple of visitors here to see you.”

A door handle rattled open somewhere at the top of the stairs. “Who is it? I’m in the middle of the Forth at the moment.”