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Sixteen steps from main door to landing. So far, he’d managed them twice.

‘He wasn’t really expecting you, was he?’ Marion said, having ended the call.

‘Guilty as charged. But he did say I should talk to you about your handyman, Tommy, surname Oram. Son of the man I’m looking for.’

‘I didn’t make the connection.’

‘You sure about that?’

Her face hardened. ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’

‘No,’ Rebus replied, without bothering whether he sounded sincere or not. ‘Your boss tells me Tommy is a friend of Gaby’s.’

‘I think that’s correct.’

‘How often is he in here?’

‘I’m not sure he’s ever crossed the threshold.’

‘Really?’

‘Why would he? He doesn’t keep any tools here.’

‘So if there’s a problem with one of your flats...’

‘The client lets us know and we message Tommy.’

‘And where are the tools kept?’

The sigh she gave could have graced a theatre stage. ‘In a lock-up.’

‘Any chance I could have his mobile number?’

‘Not the slightest.’ Marion sniffed and kept her eyes on her computer screen.

‘He still lives at home with his mum, doesn’t he? In Craigmillar?’ He didn’t expect her to answer, which was just as well. But he remembered Ishbel Oram’s words: What’s he done this time? He could hear close bonds in her tone and phrasing. Her son was someone she saw and spoke to every day.

‘Always a pleasure, Marion,’ he said, beginning to zip up his jacket. ‘Oh, one other thing Fraser told me to check with you — he can’t recall the precise date the previous owner of this place last paid a visit.’

She gave him a blank look.

‘Morris Gerald Cafferty? MGC Lettings?’ The prompt elicited nothing more than a shrug. ‘Fraser told me the pair of them were close,’ Rebus said, rubbing at his jaw.

‘Funny, I thought he told you the precise opposite.’ She paused, enjoying his reaction. ‘It’s not the most solid of doors, and Mr Mackenzie’s voice does tend to carry. Goodbye, Mr Rebus.’

Christine Esson had given the neighbours her number, so it was her they called. They were waiting in the corridor outside the Haggards’ flat when Esson and Clarke arrived. Their names were Anthony and Giselle Carrington, and they both worked in finance. Early thirties, casually but not cheaply dressed. Clarke could imagine them sharing yoga sessions and smoothies. They looked so similar, they could have passed for siblings. Giselle’s arms were folded and she shifted from one foot to the other, signs that the break-in had unnerved her. Anthony gestured towards their neighbours’ door. A tool of some kind had been used to prise it open.

‘Did either of you go in?’ Clarke asked. They both shook their heads.

‘Came back with the shopping, found it like this,’ Giselle said.

Clarke looked up and down the corridor. ‘Any CCTV?’

‘Just at the main entrance,’ Anthony answered. ‘We all have video monitors in our hallways. You can check who’s outside before you let them in.’

‘There’s a concierge,’ Giselle added. ‘They’re supposed to keep an eye open.’

Clarke nodded and looked at Esson.

‘Scene of crime are on their way,’ Esson confirmed, ‘but it’s a busy day.’

‘We could maybe risk it.’

Clarke dug out the disposable gloves Esson had given her in the car. Esson had a pair of her own. They slipped off their shoes and Clarke pushed the door all the way open. A vase on a hall stand had been toppled and lay in pieces on the varnished wooden floor. The glass in two paintings was cracked. She edged into the open-plan living area. The crockery in the kitchen area was untouched, but drawers had been opened and emptied, making the floor treacherous. A wooden coffee table had been upended. The blinds in front of the glass doors leading to the balcony had been hauled down, and out on the balcony itself, flowerpots had been upturned, strewing soil and bulbs everywhere. Clarke paused for a moment to take in the view across Newhaven harbour towards the Firth of Forth.

‘Cheryl doesn’t have a job, does she?’ she asked Esson.

‘I think she’d have liked one, but Haggard wanted her at home.’

‘Stephanie hinted that her husband gave them a good deal on the place. You knew this was one of his developments?’ She watched Esson nod. ‘Looks like she had a hand in the decor, too. Reckon anything’s been taken?’

‘Hard to say.’

They headed into the larger of the two bedrooms. Drawers had been emptied here, too, and the bedding tossed into a pile on the floor, clothes dumped from the fitted wardrobe, and the contents of the bedside cabinets dispatched across the mattress. Clarke noted two passports and some pieces of female jewellery. Esson indicated the carpet they were standing on. It was streaked with white powder. Clarke dampened one finger of her right glove and dabbed at it, transferring it to her lips.

‘Not talc,’ she confirmed.

The second bedroom was being used as an office. The computer now lay on the floor, along with the printer. More powder was scattered across the floorboards. In the bathroom, the contents of the cabinet had been scooped into the sink. Two large pizza boxes lay in the bath. Clarke picked one up and opened it. It was empty and unused. She shared a look with Esson.

‘Talk to the concierge?’ Esson suggested. Clarke gave a slow nod. ‘Were they expecting to find anyone home? Got a bit fractious when the place was empty?’

‘Looks more like a message to me,’ Clarke replied. ‘And not a very subtle one, either.’

‘Tynecastle?’ Esson speculated.

‘Tynecastle,’ Clarke echoed.

High End Motors belied its name by consisting of a concrete-walled and corrugated-roofed warehouse behind a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire and motion-sensitive lights. The forecourt boasted so many potholes, Rebus wondered if the council’s roads department had been involved. As he got out of the Saab, a middle-aged man appeared, dressed in a three-quarter-length black woollen coat and red scarf.

‘Can’t do you part-exchange on that,’ he said, studying the car’s bodywork. ‘I’ve got the number for a good scrap dealer, though.’ He broke into a grin and held out his hand. ‘Good to see you, John. Or it would be, if I didn’t know why you’re here. Francis has gone and done it, has he? Always was a rash one...’

For as long as Rebus had known him, Alan Fleck had carried himself with the air of a confident salesman. He led the way inside the showroom, arms swinging as though leading a platoon. The flooring here was new and level, well-placed spotlights picking out the array of gleaming vehicles. Rebus identified a couple of Porsches, three BMWs, and something even lower-slung. Fleck tapped it with a finger as they passed.

‘Ferrari. Goes like the clappers, but you want to steer clear of speed bumps.’

An office had been built along the back wall of the showroom, glass-fronted so the stock was always in view. Halfway there, however, Fleck changed his mind and walked over to one of the cars instead, opening the driver’s side and gesturing for Rebus to join him. Fleck was caressing the steering wheel as Rebus closed the passenger door.

‘This is a beauty. A decade old, but only six thousand miles on the clock. Being a Merc, it’s not even properly run in yet.’ He turned his head towards Rebus. ‘Can I tempt you?’

‘Who told you about Haggard?’

‘Well, number one, it’s all over the internet. And number two, the Crew keep me up to date. We even have regular meets. I thought you’d be on the invite list?’

Alan Fleck wasn’t yet sixty and looked even younger. Rebus wondered if he’d had some work done. Maybe a tuck or a weave. He’d always liked looking good; never one to walk past a mirror without checking. Designer clothes, too, and watches that were understated but top-of-the-range. Then there were the cars — two Audis (both limited editions) and an Aston Martin in the time Rebus had known him. It had surprised no one that in retirement he had started dealing in second-hand but upmarket vehicles.