Perth, with its busy roundabouts, and then the end of the dual carriageway and the sense that time was working against each and every traveler on the road. Turbo-charged BMWs and Audis weaved in and out of the procession, driven by men in shirts and ties, any one of whom could have been the man he’d talked to at the petrol station in Pitlochry, the one with “solutions” to offer.

Pitlochry itself eventually arrived, bringing a welcome stretch of dual carriageway, though this was also when slow lorries decided to overtake other slow lorries, Rebus yelling curses at them as he was forced to brake. He studied the roadworks as he passed them. Men in high-vis jackets and hard hats were still busy with their tools and machines. He couldn’t make out Bill Soames or Stefan Skiladz. When the Michael Chapman CD finished, he swapped it for Spooky Tooth, and reached over to the passenger seat for a slug of water from the bottle he’d bought. Darkening skies and no sign of any hill-walkers today. No stopping at Bruar: on to Glen Truim and past Newtonmore. Aviemore to his right, where he prayed for more lorries to turn off than actually did, then Tomatin and another salute in the direction of its distillery. Evening now, the sky over Inverness illuminated by sodium, feeder roads still busy with the remnants of the homeward rush. It was only as he approached the city that he thought: I could have taken the train. But he liked his car too much, and patted the dashboard again to convey this feeling to it. Ten minutes later, he was in the car park at Whicher’s Hotel, rolling his shoulders and clicking his spine back into place while listening to the Saab’s engine start to cool.

He paused long enough for a cigarette, taking in his surroundings. There was a new-looking shopping mall within walking distance, plus business units, some of them not yet leased. This was an area of the city for sales reps rather than tourists. When he eventually headed indoors to reception, he noted that the carpet was tartan and there was a stag’s head on the wall. Plenty of wood paneling and piped music. A man in a pinstripe suit was checking in.

“Your usual room, Mr. Frazer,” the receptionist was assuring him.

The receptionist was young—early twenties, maybe even late teens. Curly blond hair and lashings of aquamarine eyeshadow. Behind her, a man much the same age was busy with paperwork. When Rebus’s time came, she had the same smile as for Mr. Frazer. It faltered only when he showed her his ID and the e-fit of Sally Hazlitt.

“Recognize her?” Rebus asked.

“Looks a bit like Susie,” the receptionist said. “What do you think, Roddy?”