Rebus opened his door and got out. He produced a copy of the photo from his pocket. The sky was darker now, but not too dark. Mellon was pointing out the direction to him. Rebus gazed, then held up the photo, his eyes moving between the image and the real thing.

“Could have been taken at any time, mind,” Mellon cautioned.

Rebus knew what the man meant: there was probably little in this landscape that had changed in a hundred years or more.

“The thing is,” Rebus said, “this time of day, she couldn’t have been much further north than Pitlochry. By the time she got here, it would have been pitch black.”

“Then the photo can’t have been taken here, can it?”

But Rebus wasn’t so sure. He got out his own phone and snapped the view. It wasn’t professional quality, but he started sending it to Clarke anyway. His phone, however, had other plans.

“No signal,” Rebus commented.

“It’s usually pretty good. You just have to find the right spot.”

“So even if the photo was taken here…”

“She might have had trouble sending it.” The farmer nodded his understanding. “Do you have other locations that could fit the bill?”

“One or two.”

“Any of them near where she was last seen?”

“They’re not as good a match as this.” Rebus was looking around. Some would call it a peaceful spot, others a lonely one. The wind was whistling around them. Rebus didn’t quite know what he was looking for, other than a sense of the why and the who: why here, and who had chosen it?

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything suspicious?” he asked Mellon. “Any strangers stopping for longer than usual?”

The farmer plunged his hands into the pockets of his Barbour. “Nothing like that. And I’ve asked around, everybody says the same.”

“Tire tracks where there shouldn’t be any?”

The farmer shook his head.

“And at the top of the road?”

“Left at the junction brings you back to Alness eventually.”

“And if you turn right?”

“You join the road to Bonar Bridge.”

“What are the chances of a stranger finding this road, Mr. Mellon?”

The man shrugged. “It’s on the maps. I dare say satnav has it too.”

Rebus was taking a couple more photos, but it was getting too dark for them to be of any use. He just felt he should be doing something.

“You’ve come a long way,” the farmer said. “There’s tea at the house if you want it.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a few miles ahead of me.”

“And have you seen enough?”

Rebus surveyed the horizon—as much of it as he could make out. “I think so.”

“You reckon the poor lassie’s out here somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” Rebus admitted.

Back at the Land Rover, the dog gave him what could have been taken for a sympathetic look.

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