“You being able to tell her you visited Aviemore as part of your mission.”

“Everything in its time.”

“After twelve years, though? You seriously think there’s anything to find there?”

“No,” Rebus was forced to admit, turning the Kate Bush CD back on. She seemed to be singing about her love for a snowman.

10

The moment they rejoined the A9, they hit roadworks, traffic down to a single lane and moving at a crawl. A barrier separated their northbound lane from the ones heading south, meaning no opportunity for a U-turn.

“We’re stuck,” Clarke commented.

“Major resurfacing,” Rebus explained, reading one of the signs. “Expect delays for four weeks.”

“We might still be here in four weeks.”

“Just as well we enjoy each other’s company.”

She gave a snort at this. “At least they are working.”

This was true. In the lane that had been blocked off, men in yellow reflective jackets were carrying tools or operating diggers. The sky was filled with a pulsing orange glow from the warning lights atop the various vehicles. The speed limit had been reduced to thirty.

“Thirty would be luxury,” Clarke complained. “Speedo says twenty.”

“Slow and steady wins the day,” Rebus recited.

“That’s always been your motto, has it?” She managed a thin smile. Rebus was studying the workmen.

“How about pulling over?” he suggested.

“What?”

“If she hitched along here, no way they wouldn’t have noticed.”

A line of cones separated inside and outside lanes, but they were well spaced and it was easy to negotiate the Audi between two of them. Clarke pulled the handbrake on.

“Not the worst idea I’ve ever had, then?” Rebus pretended to guess.

As they got out of the car, a man strode towards them. Clarke had her warrant card ready. The man stiffened.

“What’s happened?”

He was in his mid fifties, curls of gray hair escaping from the rim of his hard hat. Rebus got the feeling there were many layers of clothing beneath the high-visibility jacket and the fluorescent orange work trousers.

“Did you hear about the girl who’s gone missing?” Clarke asked.

The man looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again, then nodded.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Rebus added.

“Bill Soames.”

“You’re in charge of the crew, Mr. Soames?” Rebus looked over Soames’s shoulder towards the workmen. They had stopped what they were doing.

“They’re probably worried you’re Revenue or Immigration,” Soames explained.

“And why would either of those be a problem?” Clarke asked.

“They wouldn’t,” Soames stated, meeting her eyes. He half turned and gestured to the men that they should continue with their work. “Best if we talk in the office, though…”

He led them past the Audi, along a carriageway stripped of its tarmac, chunks of which were piled up next to the verge. Temporary overhead lights, powered by diesel generators, had been switched on, adding to the noise and fumes.

“You work nights?” Clarke asked.

“Twelve-hour shifts,” Soames confirmed. “The night crew are in there.” He pointed to a Portakabin they were just passing. “Six beds, one shower, plus a kitchen best avoided.” There was a row of three portable toilets, then another Portakabin, its windows covered with protective grilles. Soames opened its door and ushered them inside. He switched on a light and an electric heater. “I could probably rustle up some tea…”