Half an hour later, he was driving into the village of Tongue, where he would join the road west along the coast to Durness. But he had one detour to make. There was a photograph in his jacket pocket. It had been sent to him a few years back, and he used it to find where he was looking for. The village itself was off to the left of the road, but Rebus headed for the causeway across the Kyle of Tongue. The bungalow was next door to a youth hostel. There were no names next to the doorbell. He pressed and waited, then pressed again. The view was breathtaking, but the house had been battered by the elements and would be again. He peered in through the living room window, then walked around to the back. No fence separated the property from the field behind it. The kitchen showed signs that someone had been home earlier: cereal packet next to the table, milk waiting to be returned to the fridge. Rebus went back to the Saab and sat there wondering what to do now. He could hear seabirds and gusts of wind, but nothing else. He tore a page from his notebook and jotted a message, returning to the front door to push it through the letter box.

He drove off again in silence, not in the mood for a CD or whatever radio reception could be mustered. Soon he was entering something calling itself “North-West Highland Geopark.” The landscape grew more alien, almost lunar, rocks barely covered by any form of vegetation. But now and then there would be a spectacular cove with pristine white sand and blue sea. Rebus began to wonder if he’d ever been further from a pub in his life. He checked petrol gauge and cigarette packet both. Durness was still some miles off, and he had no idea what he would find there. He skirted Loch Eriboll and headed north again. Durness wasn’t quite at the tip of Scotland—if you reckoned your vehicle up to the task, you could follow a track all the way to Cape Wrath. Rebus had a phone number for one of the locals, but no signal as yet. Durness itself, when he reached it, consisted of a few cottages and larger modern houses, plus a smattering of shops. There were even a couple of venerable petrol pumps. He stopped next to them and crossed the road to the Spar, where he asked the shopkeeper if she knew where Anthony Greenwood lived.

“He went to Smoo this morning,” she told him. “I’m not sure if he’s back.”

Rebus then showed her the photo.

“You’re the police?” she surmised. “From Edinburgh? Anthony told us all about it. The spot you’re looking for is just by Keoldale.”