“A pretty good game, she reckons. I mean, it’s far from definitive…” Rebus grunted a response and she changed the subject, asking him if he’d seen any dolphins: “There are supposed to be some up that way.”

“Bit dark now,” he replied. “Have you clocked off for the day?”

“More or less.”

“Lucky you.”

“I seem to remember the road trip was your choice.”

“It was.”

“And you wanted to do it alone.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Just wondering if you maybe had another navigator in mind.”

“Nina Hazlitt, you mean?”

“Did I say that?”

“Nice to be held in such low esteem.”

“You really are on your own there?”

Rebus looked up and down the empty street. “I really am,” he said.

“She mentioned you by name in one of the interviews she gave. Surprised your ears weren’t burning.”

“What did she say?”

“Apparently you’re one of the very few ‘persons in authority’ to take her seriously.”

“I’m a person in authority?”

“Don’t believe everything you hear. Besides, it’ll probably count against you with James.”

“Because he’s not the one getting the plaudits?”

“We’re all working hard, John. Nobody likes it when one figure gets picked out.”

“Understood.” He ended the call with a promise to send her his photos from Edderton. He did so while he still had a signal, noting that his phone’s battery was getting low. Back at the car he started the ignition and headed down a narrow lane, which widened as it passed a caravan site and a coastguard station. The wind off the firth buffeted the Saab, the track ahead covered in a shifting, swirling layer of sand. He found himself in an empty car park, a steep grassy slope behind him. There were steps down to the beach, and the moon revealed the tide line. From what little he could see, the beach stretched for hundreds of yards. Rocky outcrops jutted from the sand. The waves had that insistent pulse to them, never quite the same twice. He felt utterly alone in the world. No traffic sounds; no other humans; nothing but clouds visible in the sky overhead. Only his car to remind him what century this was—that and his phone, which rang obligingly. It was Nina Hazlitt.

“Hello?” he said, answering.

“Reception’s terrible.”

“It’s the wind, I think. I’m heading back to the car.”

“Are you on top of a mountain or something?”

“At the coast, actually.” He climbed the steps, opened the driver’s-side door and got in. “Is that better?” he asked.

“Weather sounds foul up there.”

“We’re used to it. What can I do for you, Nina?”

“Nothing, really. I just wanted a chat.”

“I’ll warn you—I’ve not much battery left.”

She paused, as if seeking the right gambit. “How are you getting on with the book?” she offered.

“Really interesting.”

“You’re just saying that…”