“What is it I can do for you?” Gavin Arnold asked.

“Do you remember me, Sergeant?”

“You’re the reason I spent almost half a day covered in the dust of ages while I hunted those damned files. Haven’t stopped sneezing yet.”

“I’m grateful to you.”

“So has there been some progress?”

“It’d be easier if I explained in person.”

“You’re planning to drive up?”

“I’m already here.”

“Man, you should have said—I’m at the Lochinver, just along from the railway station.”

“If it’s a pub, I think I passed it a couple of minutes ago.”

“I’m towards the back of the main room, next to the dartboard. Do you play?”

“Not really.”

“Pity. It’s a league night and we’re a man down…”

More double yellow lines outside the bar—every legal parking spot filled. Rebus left the sign on the dashboard, locked the Saab and pushed open the door of the Lochinver. Arnold waved to him from the bar. The two men shook hands.

“What’s your poison?” Arnold asked.

“Just a lemonade.”

“Got the car, eh?” Arnold looked sympathetic. He was in his mid forties, slim and tall. Dressed in dun-colored chinos and an open-necked white shirt. His cheeks glowed, but that could have been the result of one whisky too many.

“Your turn, Gavin!” came the call. Arnold gave Rebus an apologetic smile. “This takes precedence, I’m afraid.”

“Fine by me,” Rebus said. He rested his weight on a bar stool and watched the game. Arnold was good, but his opponent had the edge. The players’ teammates offered noisy encouragement from their tables. Arnold lost to a single eighteen/double-top out-shot and the two men shook on it.

This, it turned out, had been the fixture’s decider. After a bit of banter between the teams, Arnold slid onto the stool next to Rebus.

“Unlucky,” Rebus offered.

“I’ve never beaten the swine yet,” Arnold replied, his voice betraying his irritation. But he shrugged it off, ordered another whisky for himself and turned his attention to Rebus.

“What brings you all the way from Edinburgh?”

“What brought you all the way from Lancashire?”

Arnold grinned. “Yorkshire, actually. Some days you’d swear the English outnumber the Scots up here. Not that you can always tell by appearances.” He gestured towards the barmaid and she approached with a smile.

“Sue,” he said, “this is a friend of mine. His name’s John.”

“Nice to meet you, John.” She reached between the pumps to shake his hand. “Any friend of Gavin’s, as the saying goes.”

“Sue owns this place,” Arnold informed Rebus. Then, to Sue: “John here reckons he can place an accent.” He looked at Rebus. “Go on then—where was Sue born? I’ll even give you a clue—her surname’s Holloway.”