The four p.m. news was on the car radio as Rebus entered Inverness. Traffic here was more congested still, and he made no friends by getting himself into the wrong lane then trying to get out of it again so he wasn’t forced into the city center. He crossed the Kessock Bridge onto the Black Isle, then another bridge across the Cromarty Firth, where he had to salute another distillery—Glen Ord. He knew this route from the foldout map, but had bought another map before leaving Edinburgh. There seemed to be four huge construction platforms in the water to the right. Rain was falling, and the windscreen wipers provided a hypnotic rhythm. It took a moment for him to realize what the sound reminded him of: waking up to the stylus still plying its course around an album’s run-out groove. Alness was fourteen miles south of Tain and boasted Dalmore distillery, while Tain itself had Glenmorangie. At the next roundabout he left the A9 for the A836, signposted towards Bonar Bridge, Ardgay and Edderton. He had a phone number for a local farmer and punched it into his mobile.

“Five or ten minutes,” he told the man, ending the call.

And five or ten minutes was all it took. The farmer’s name was Jim Mellon, and he was waiting with his venerable Land Rover. He signaled for Rebus to park by the side of the road.

“We’ll take mine,” he called out, having decided that the Saab might not be up to the task.

Rebus got out and locked the car, the farmer smiling at what he probably saw as a “townie precaution.” He was younger than Rebus had expected—clean-shaven, fair-haired and handsome.

“I appreciate you doing this,” Rebus said. “And thanks for taking the trouble to get in touch in the first place.”

“You said on the phone I wasn’t alone?”

Rebus nodded his agreement. “A few others are of the same mind as you.”

“Well, let’s see what you think.” Mellon gestured towards the Land Rover. “Not allergic to dogs, are you?”

In the back of the vehicle sat a collie—Rebus guessed a sheep dog. Intelligent eyes, and not about to demean itself by looking for a pat from a stranger. The engine started with a roar and they headed up the narrow muddy road, past a sign warning them that if its lights were flashing, the snow gates ahead were closed.

“How often do vehicles use this route?” Rebus asked.

“A few times a day,” Mellon speculated. “Not much up here.”

“It’s signposted to Aultnamain.”

“Not much there either—but we’re not headed that far.” He was turning onto a single-track road, punctuated by passing places. It was tarmacked, but with grass sprouting through cracks in the surface. Only a minute or two later, he brought them to a juddering stop and pulled on the handbrake. “I’d say this is it.”