The windows of the lettings agency — one either side of its door — were covered by vertical slatted blinds and details of a few dozen properties, giving Rebus little inkling of what might be happening inside. The door itself was part wood and part frosted glass, with a metal gate (unlocked during working hours) providing added security. He took a step back and looked at the signage above the façade: QC Lettings Agency. So he already had one question in mind as he pushed open the door. It gave a little tinkle, courtesy of an old-fashioned bell attached by a spring on the inside.
‘Cute,’ Rebus said as he approached the receptionist. The room wasn’t large but there was a desk angled into one corner, a large plastic screen protecting the receptionist from visitors. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’ He dug in his pocket for the lanyard, which he slipped around his neck. A laminated card was clipped to it, giving notification that he was exempt from wearing a mask. ‘My lungs,’ he explained as he took in the rest of the room.
There was a two-seater sofa, a small occasional table, and a water cooler, plus an entire wall dedicated to more properties available to rent. The receptionist was a no-nonsense woman in her early fifties, hair tied back and glasses perched on her nose.
‘What does the QC stand for?’ Rebus asked.
‘Quality Counts, I’ve been told.’
‘Like the sherry?’
‘Like the sherry.’
‘Why do I get the feeling I’m not the first to have made the connection?’
She gifted him a cool smile and asked if he was looking to rent.
‘Not today,’ he apologised, bringing out the photo of Jack Oram. ‘But I think this man was. I’m not sure exactly how long back. A few weeks, I think. He’s called Jack Oram, though he might be using a different name.’
He was holding the photo for her to take, but she seemed reluctant.
‘What’s this in connection with?’
‘He was reported as missing four years back, but he’s been spotted coming out of this office.’
‘It’s not a very good photo, is it? When was it taken?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Rebus admitted.
‘I’ve not seen him,’ the receptionist concluded.
‘Could anyone else have dealt with him?’
‘There’s just me.’
‘I’m assuming you get a lunch break, though?’
‘Twelve thirty on the dot, but I just nip over the road to the baker’s.’
‘Maybe you could check all the same, just to put my mind at rest?’
She gave him a stare and a sniff, then got busy on her keyboard. ‘The name Oram isn’t coming up.’
‘Like I said, he might be using an alias.’
‘Why would he do that? And what’s it got to do with you anyway?’
‘His family haven’t given up hope. They asked me to do some digging. You can imagine how desperate they are.’
‘I suppose I can,’ she eventually admitted, half turning her head towards a closed door at the back of the room. ‘If I do need to step out for any reason — say a dental appointment — I either lock up or Mr Mackenzie keeps an eye on things.’
‘He’s the manager?’
‘He owns the firm, yes. Well, it’s a family business — something QC prides itself on.’
‘Do you think you could ask him?’
‘He’s in a meeting right this second. I’m not sure how long it’ll last. If you leave me a contact number...’
She was interrupted by the closed door suddenly opening. It stayed open as a woman strode out. She was a decade younger than the receptionist, her high heels clacking on the parquet floor. Knee-length red leather skirt and a waist-length jacket of the same vibrant hue. Rebus was enveloped in perfume as she passed. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Hers were a striking blue. Plenty of make-up and all topped by thick black hair. He was reminded of Elizabeth Taylor in what he would have called her prime. The bell attached to the door quivered as she made her exit. Without waiting to be asked, Rebus entered the office, cutting off the receptionist’s objection by closing the door once he was inside.
This inner office was half the size of the outer one. Just a single desk, bare apart from a small notebook computer folded shut and unplugged. Behind it the narrow window had bars on the outside and offered a view of a patio enclosed by a high wooden fence. A drinks cabinet against the wall told Rebus that successful clients might be offered a glass to celebrate. The man sitting across the desk took a moment to realise a stranger was standing in front of him.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, not without reason.
‘My name’s Rebus. I’m here on behalf of Jack Oram’s family.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
Rather than provide an immediate answer, Rebus sat on one of the two available chairs. The woman’s perfume was even stronger in this enclosed space. Mackenzie was probably much the same age as her. He wore a white shirt and blue silk tie. Gold cufflinks at his wrists and a heavy-looking gold watch. His blue pinstripe jacket had been draped over the back of his chair. His hair was tousled and silvered and probably hadn’t been restyled since he was a young man. It gave him a slightly unruly look, while taking years off him.
‘Who was it that just left?’ Rebus asked.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Thought I recognised her.’
Mackenzie glared at him. ‘My wife,’ he stated. ‘Elizabeth. Where do you know her from?’
‘It’ll come back to me,’ was all Rebus said. ‘Meantime, maybe you could look at this photo.’
Mackenzie took the photo from him and studied it.
‘He’s called Jack Oram,’ Rebus said. ‘Though he may be using another name. Went AWOL four years ago. His family think he’s reappeared, and he was seen leaving these premises.’
‘I don’t know the name and I don’t know the face. Besides, Marion deals with the majority of the clients.’ He gestured towards the front office. ‘And an assumed name wouldn’t get him very far — we require photo ID and bank statements.’
‘As is right and proper.’ Rebus took the sheet of paper back. ‘Do you mind me asking your first name, Mr Mackenzie?’
‘It’s Fraser. And yours?’
‘John.’
‘And you’re some sort of investigator? Paid a finder’s fee by the family, that sort of thing?’ Mackenzie’s accent, which had started out as refined Edinburgh, was coarsening slightly, as if it had decided that Rebus didn’t merit one of its performances. Rebus held up the photograph again.
‘It could be mistaken identity, I suppose. Someone in here recently who looks like him...’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Mackenzie made a show of opening his computer, as if readying to do some proper work. Then the phone in his pocket vibrated and he took it out, holding it away from him as he tried reading whatever was on the screen.
‘It’s vanity, you know,’ Rebus said, getting up from his chair.
‘What is?’
‘When you need glasses but refuse to wear them. I’m just guessing it’s down to vanity.’
‘Not the worst sin, is it, Mr Rebus?’ Mackenzie said with a smile.
‘Not by a long shot,’ Rebus was forced to agree.
He reckoned Brillo would be fine for another hour so drove from Lasswade Road to Craigmillar. He’d worked CID there for a spell, but the old police station on the main road had turned into some kind of Pentecostal church, albeit with metal shutters firmly closed. Its replacement was a short sprint away, a new-build reflecting changes in the area. Craigmillar and next-door Niddrie had kept the police busy in Rebus’s day, crumbling housing and endemic poverty proving fertile soil for crime and criminals. Much of that had now gone. The up-to-date low-rise blocks and buffed-up facilities had altered the face of Craigmillar utterly. Rebus passed a shiny library and a busy-looking Tesco Express. He turned off the main road into the estate where Jack Oram had lived, pulled to a stop kerbside and felt able to lock his car without fearing it would be vandalised in his absence.