‘Big Ger? Not in years.’
‘So you’ve not been in contact with him? Sent him anything?’ Rebus watched as she shook her head. ‘Not even a Get Well Soon card after the shooting?’
She slid her sunglasses down her nose with her free hand and looked at him over the rims, her eyes vividly blue. ‘You think Jack Oram’s still alive?’ she asked.
‘Witnesses confirm it.’
‘I can see how that might make you want to talk to Tommy, but I don’t see what my family’s got to do with any of it.’
‘Jack was seen entering or leaving your office.’
‘And both Fraser and Marion told you you’ve been misinformed.’ She granted him a smile that had had all possible warmth removed from it. ‘Big Ger always called you thrawn. Said even when you were wrong about something, you just kept ploughing away.’
‘You’d be amazed at what even a rusty plough can turn up.’
The smile evaporated as she stubbed out the remains of her cigarette under the toe of her shoe. ‘Time for me to go get supple. People should look after themselves, don’t you think?’ Her eyes took him in, from top to bottom and back again. With her sunglasses back in place, she pushed open the door and went inside. Rebus caught the scent of eucalyptus as the door closed. He realised he’d been sucking in his gut throughout the meeting.
‘Really, John? At your age?’ he chided himself as he walked back to the car.
Having not yet given Brillo his promised walk, he took him to Bruntsfield Links before depositing him in the flat. Then it was back in the Saab and Lasswade Road. He parked close to the QC Lettings office and waited. At 12.30 on the dot, he watched Marion step out, locking the door after her. There was a row of shops across the street, and she headed in that direction. Some workmen were milling about on the pavement next to their van, eating hot pastries from paper bags. Marion squeezed between the van and a white car with tinted windows, emerging from the bakery a couple of minutes later clutching a beaker of soup and a white bag of her own. As she crossed the road, Rebus got out of the Saab. She saw him and her face tightened.
‘Just a quick question,’ he said to her back as she got the office keys out of her handbag.
‘You promised me I’d heard the last of you.’
‘Circumstances have changed.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘I promise I’ll do better in future.’
‘It’s my lunch break.’
‘Mine too, which is why I’ll be quick.’
She gave a theatrical sigh and turned sharply towards him. ‘Well?’ she snapped.
‘There’s a photocopier in the office, yes? I’m assuming it’s shared?’
‘It is.’
‘Do you remember your boss — or anyone else, for that matter — printing out a photo? A man in profile, standing in a living room?’
‘No. Now if you don’t mind...’ She had turned away from him again and was sliding the key into the lock.
‘The photo was of Francis Haggard. He had just started renting a flat on Constitution Street. He was murdered there a couple of nights back.’
‘I know. We’re all in shock.’
‘Someone took his photo and sent it out in an MGC Lettings envelope.’
‘We threw those away years back.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of them. I dare say the old owner might have kept some for himself...’ She was opening the door.
‘Francis Haggard must have come here, yes? You’ll vet every new client?’
She nodded.
‘So you met him?’
‘Just the once, very briefly.’
‘He was here to see Fraser Mackenzie?’ He watched her nod again.
‘One question, you said — my soup’s getting cold.’
‘Did Fraser take him to see the flat? Someone must have?’
‘I think it was Gaby. Gaby or Beth. Not for an inspection. He’d already made up his mind to take it, a month plus deposit paid up front. So it was just a courtesy really, a handing-over of the keys.’
‘Gaby works for the firm?’
‘If no one else is available to show a prospective client a property.’
‘Does Tommy ever fulfil that role?’
‘Tommy?’ She sounded almost aghast. ‘Repairs and maintenance are all he contributes.’
‘Did anything need doing at Constitution Street?’
‘Something always needs doing in that building. But this was a premium let, fixtures and fittings in perfect order. Now if you’ll excuse me...’ She pushed open the door and made sure it was locked behind her. Rebus tapped on the glass, gaining her unenthusiastic attention. But all he wanted to do was offer her a mouthed thank-you for taking the trouble. Then he crossed the street, reckoning he deserved a pie, or maybe a bridie, with an extra one as a treat for Brillo. The workmen and their van were still there, but the white car had gone.
17
The cordon was still being controlled by an officer in a high-vis jacket. He took Clarke’s name for his clipboard, but seemed to know Fox’s, the two men sharing a look that Clarke couldn’t quite read. Protective coverings were no longer needed, the scene-of-crime team having packed up and left. There’d been a stabbing in Gorgie, and Clarke reckoned that was where they’d be right now. She examined the key boxes fixed to the door jamb. Just the two of them, both locked tight. She unlocked the door using the key from the high-vis and started climbing, Fox right behind her. A postman passed them as he descended.
‘Nothing for the flat you’re interested in,’ he commented. Clarke reached out a hand to stop him.
‘Did you ever see the tenant?’
‘No.’
‘Did he get much mail?’
‘Bills and flyers, same as everyone else.’ He offered a shrug and continued on his way.
Rather than pause on the murder landing, Clarke and Fox hauled themselves up a further storey to the top floor. It was brighter up here, thanks to a large skylight. Just the two doors, one dark blue and the other yellow. Clarke rang the first bell, then crouched to peer through the letter box. From what she could see, the place was furnished, but without showing much sign that anyone actually lived there. The yellow door further along had no bell, just a traditional knocker. She tried it and stepped back. The door was opened by a woman in her seventies or eighties, a cat draped across her shoulders. A faint smell of litter box wafted out onto the landing. The cat’s owner hadn’t stinted with the make-up this morning — applied with more enthusiasm than skill — and was dressed in frilled, colourful layers.
‘I’ve already given a statement,’ she said in a refined Edinburgh accent. Clarke had a sudden image of girls’ schools and spinster teachers.
‘Just wanted to ask about next door,’ Clarke said. ‘It’s a rental, yes?’
‘I suppose so. Nobody seems to stay very long. Last couple of faces were tourists, I think.’
‘Have you ever seen a young woman use it?’
‘Not too tall,’ Fox added. ‘Slim, with dark spiky hair.’
‘Sounds like the daughter.’ She noted their lack of comprehension. ‘The owners’ daughter.’
‘The owners being...’
‘The Mackenzies — QC Lettings. Cheeky lot put a note through my door a while back asking if I was thinking of selling. But we like it here just fine, don’t we, Horatio?’ She gave the cat’s forehead a stroke. ‘Or we did until the tram works arrived.’
‘How do you know the Mackenzies’ daughter, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘She shows tenants around.’ She pursed her lips, and Clarke sensed there was more.
‘And?’ she prompted. It was all the encouragement the woman needed.
‘Well, I’m not one to talk, but she sometimes uses that flat,’ she nodded towards the door next to hers, ‘or the one downstairs — you know, where it happened — when she needs to... let her hair down, shall we say.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never complained, though Mr Arbuthnot on the first floor has. Mind you, he’s never not complaining about something.’