“Yeah, so, Monday, it was. But you knew that already, didn’t you? It was you what told me that,” the driver said, talking to Hamza via the rearview mirror.

He was in his late thirties, Hamza estimated, but had been cursed with early-onset male pattern baldness and had tried to disguise it by shaving his head almost all the way to the bone. He was in better shape than might be expected of someone who spent ten to twelve hours a day sitting down, and who subsisted on a diet that largely consisted of whatever the local petrol stations had left on their shelves at three o’clock in the morning.

His voice was unnecessarily loud, like it had adapted to having to be heard over the sound of an engine, and had never quite figured out how to reset itself.

“Monday. Evening, I think. Not sure of the time, exactly. They’ll have it written down at the office, I’m sure. Evening, though. Definitely evening, because I’d been home for a kip in the afternoon,” the driver explained. “Normally, I’d hang about here to see who wanted to go where, but I knew I had this job booked in, so I nipped home and put my feet up for a while.”

“Right, so—” Hamza began, but the driver interrupted him.

“Wait, wait, they were off the Mallaig train, weren’t they? So, they’d have been in about twenty to eight.” He nodded. “Yeah, yeah. That’s about right. I’m sure that’s when it was booked for. Think it was running a few minutes late, mind you—no bloody change there. But about twenty to eight. Monday. That’s it.”

The driver tapped both hands on his steering wheel like a little victory drum beat, then met Hamza’s eyes in the mirror and nodded for him to continue.

“OK, Mr… Sorry, I don’t think I got your name,” the DS said.

There was some grunting and wheezing as the driver turned himself around enough to offer up a handshake. “Sorry, yeah. Hill. Pete Hill,” he said. “I’ll give you a minute to get the jokes out of the way.”

Hamza blinked. “Jokes?”

“Yeah. Pete Hill. Peat hill. Like, as in… a hill of peat.”

“Oh.”

“Like peat the muck. The… soily stuff.”

“Right, aye,” Hamza said. Pete gazed back at him with such a look of expectation that Hamza felt compelled to give a little chuckle. “It’s good.”

“Easy for you to say,” Pete said, his expression becoming pained. “Try going through primary and secondary school with a name like Pete Hill. Relentless, those kids were.”

“I can imagine.”

“‘Check you oot, you fat fuck!’” Pete said, imitating the cry of some unnamed tormentor. “‘Your maw’s fanny smells like shite!’” He shook his head. “Vicious, they were.”

Hamza hesitated. “Right. I thought… I thought you meant they made fun of your name.”