“I think I’ve seen him before, too,” Rebus said, remembering the lay-by and the van driver with the busted cigarette lighter.

“First year or two in the job,” the salesman was saying, “I paid scant attention. In fact, probably no attention at all—far as I was concerned, it was all about me.” He sucked on his cigarette and exhaled. “But then I’d find myself in the same cafés and petrol stops as people I’d seen before.”

“And you’d strike up conversations?”

The salesman nodded. “Lonely old life otherwise, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“And you get to know spots, like the snack van parked next to the sign saying ‘Welcome to the Highlands’…”

“The Slochd Summit,” Rebus chipped in.

“One thousand three hundred and twenty-eight feet above sea level,” the rep recited.

“Dewar’s World of Whisky…”

“Ten miles off the A9.”

The two men shared a smile.

“I have to admit, though, I do like it. Not that I’d tell my wife that. Never feel quite at home when I’m stuck in an office, or even with my feet up in front of the telly.” He looked at Rebus. “That probably sounds crazy.”

“Not really. When you’re on the road, there’s always a destination, and you know you’re going to reach it one way or another.”

The salesman nodded. “That’s exactly right.”

They smoked in silence for a few moments, until the man coughed and cleared his throat.

“That girl who got murdered near here…”

“Annette McKie?”

He nodded again, more solemnly. “Is that why you were here last time? I seem to remember your colleague asking questions in the kiosk.” He watched as Rebus gave a twitch of agreement. “I’ve picked up hitchhikers in the past, always warned them about the dangers of traveling on their own. You used to see more of them, but they’re still out there. I’ve made Laurie promise she won’t ever do it.” He glanced up at Rebus. “I know what you’re thinking: we wrap them in cotton wool these days. I used to hitch lifts myself, back in the day—so did the missus—but it’s all different now.”

“I suppose it is.”

“You reckon you’ll ever catch the bastard?”

“Hard to say.”

“Even if you do, it’s kid gloves in jails these days, isn’t it?” He had finished his cigarette and began to stub it out under the toe of his shoe. Rebus had been considering possible answers to the question, but the salesman didn’t seem to need one. “Better hit the trail,” he was explaining. “Job like mine, if you’re not moving, you’re not earning.” He gave a grin full of professionally whitened teeth. “And those solutions won’t sell themselves.”

The two men shook hands and returned to their vehicles. Rebus watched as the salesman drove off with a wave from his open window. He was heading north. Six- and seven-day weeks spent in a world that for him was permanent, for others fleeting, a place of lay-by sandwiches and pit stops for fuel, getting to know each road intimately, memorizing short cuts, computing routes around snarl-ups, bumping into others whose routine was similar to his own, trading tips with them about the best fast food, the cheapest petrol, the cleanest facilities. Rebus had always thought of roads as simple, mute entities, but he knew differently now—they had individual identities and foibles. They pulsed with life. He stayed on the forecourt and pulled out his phone, punching in Samantha’s number.