“You’re on free drinks for life?”

“I pay my way.”

She overtook a Tesco delivery van. There were three articulated lorries at the very front of the queue, slowing inexorably as the road hit an incline. A sign they’d just passed suggested that sluggish vehicles should pull over to allow overtaking, but that wasn’t happening.

“There’s some dual carriageway coming up,” Clarke said.

“We’re almost at Pitlochry anyway,” Rebus countered. Then, lowering his voice a little, “And thanks for the warning.”

She nodded, staring straight ahead, hands tensed against the steering wheel. “Just make sure there’s no ammo Fox can use, eh?”

“From the look of him, I’d say he’s got a history of firing blanks. Any chance of another cigarette break?”

“You said it yourself: we’re nearly there.”

“Aye, but they don’t let you smoke in petrol stations.” Which was why he’d headed for the car park at Kinross, while Clarke filled the fuel tank and bought drinks at the shop.

“Five more minutes,” she told him. “Just five more minutes…”

Ten minutes later—not that Rebus was counting—they turned off the A9 and took the slip road into Pitlochry, passing the petrol station where Annette McKie’s bus had stopped to drop her off. Clarke drove through the town. There was just the one main street, with signs leading off to the Festival Theater, the hydroelectric dam, and Edradour and Bell’s distilleries.

“I went to the dam once when I was a kid,” Clarke commented. “Supposedly to see the salmon leap.”

“No salmon?” Rebus guessed.

“No salmon.”

“On the other hand, you have to love a town with two distilleries…”

It took only a couple of minutes for them to reach the far end of Pitlochry. She did a three-point turn and headed back the way they’d come. There was a small police station on the main road, but not continuously manned. For protocol’s sake, Clarke had phoned Tayside’s Divisional HQ in Perth before setting out, alerting a local inspector to their trip. She had stressed that a welcoming party would not be necessary.

“It’s really just a recce.”

She was signaling now to enter the petrol station’s forecourt. As soon as the car stopped, Rebus undid his seat belt and got out, making for the pavement, cigarette and lighter at the ready. He watched as Clarke went into the shop. There was a middle-aged woman behind the till, and Clarke showed her her warrant card, followed by two photos, one of Annette McKie and one a copy of the picture Annette had sent to Thomas Redfern. Directly across from the petrol station was the Bell’s distillery, and behind it the vast turrets of what Rebus guessed was a hotel. Another car had pulled into the forecourt. The man who got out looked like a salesman: white shirt, pale yellow tie. His jacket had been hanging from a hook inside the car, and he slipped back into it, warding off the cold air. He unlocked the car’s petrol cap, but then glanced towards the pavement and saw someone smoking there. Readjusting his priorities, he headed in Rebus’s direction, offering a nod of kinship before lighting up.