Two minutes later, armed with a fresh pack of cigarettes, he was back in the Saab and driving a further couple of miles, following her precise—almost too precise—instructions. But as he neared the site, he knew it was wrong. Not all wrong; just wrong enough. Gusts snapped at him as he gazed down towards the Kyle of Durness, then up the slope towards the bare hillside beyond a row of embattled trees, some of which looked permanently stooped.

“No,” he said. The hillside was too steep.

But then he’d known that all along, and even more so since Edderton. He drove slowly up and down the road, just in case he was missing something, but the shopkeeper in Durness had sent him to the right place.

It just wasn’t the right place.

He consulted his map again. He could go back the way he’d come or keep going. The road made a circuit of sorts before joining the A836 again. Rebus had never been one to retrace his steps, so headed southwest towards Laxford Bridge. The route was still narrow, dotted with passing places, but there was no traffic. Rebus reckoned he’d come a hundred miles or more since leaving Dornoch and not once had he been stuck behind a vehicle of any kind. There was sporadic tourist traffic, along with a few delivery vans. But everyone was very polite, flashing their headlights to let him know they had pulled over and he didn’t need to, or acknowledging him with a wave whenever the roles were reversed. Having crossed to the west coast, he found himself heading inland again, south and east past miles and miles of nothing but scenery and sheep. Twice he had to stop for ewes on the road, and once he caught sight of a large bird of prey gliding over one of the distant summits. There were patches of snow up there, and a huge greasy sky. He passed lochs with wildfowl resting on the glassy surface, and his tires pressed ancient roadkill further into the tarmac. He had just reached a narrow, dogleg-shaped loch when his phone sounded. He had one missed call. He pulled over and returned it. The signal was fine.

“Dad?” It was Samantha’s voice. “Where are you? I got back and saw your note…”

Rebus had got out of the car. The air was clear and sharp as he inhaled. “Would you believe I was just passing?”

“No.” She was stifling a laugh.

“Happens to be the truth. There was something I had to check in Durness.”

“How did you find the right house?”

“That picture you sent.” He held it up. Samantha was standing in front of her bungalow, arm around the waist of the tall young man next to her.

“So where are you now?” she asked.