IVF: she’d not mentioned it before, never really talked about kids. He wondered what the problem was. She’d been hit by a car a decade or so back—could that have caused complications? Or maybe it was Keith and his job. They’d already had a shot at IVF without telling him. Wanting to surprise him maybe? Or did he just not figure in their lives to that extent?

At Bonar Bridge, instead of taking a right and passing through Edderton again, he headed along the northern side of the Dornoch Firth, picking up the A9 at Clashmore.

“Hello again,” he told the road. He was driving south now, through Tain and Inverness and Aviemore and Pitlochry. No room in his stomach for a late lunch, but he refilled the Saab’s tank at a petrol station and bought a paper and a bottle of water. There was a veritable convoy on the opposite carriageway, led by a transporter with earth-moving equipment on its trailer. The traffic on Rebus’s side of the road was moving more freely, for which he was grateful. Just south of Aviemore, he pulled into a lay-by behind an articulated lorry and a delivery van, getting out for a stretch and a rolling of the shoulders. Busy as the route was, he got the feeling he could walk a few dozen yards into the hills and be stepping where no feet had ever passed. The wilderness remained wilderness precisely because nobody bothered to stop. He turned at the sound of the van’s door opening, the driver jumping down.

“Any chance of sparking me up?” the man said, waving a cigarette.

Rebus obliged.

“The dashboard lighter’s buggered,” the man explained, nodding his gratitude before inhaling greedily.

“What about the HGV?” Rebus asked.

“Driver’s dead to the world. Curtains shut and everything. We could be in the back, emptying the container, and he’d still be snoring.”

Rebus managed a smile. “Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.”

“Not really. Dutch number plate, meaning you’re more likely to get a few buckets of flowers than a flat-screen television.”

“You really have thought about it.”

The man laughed and took another drag on his cigarette.

“How do you know he’s all right?” Rebus asked, meaning the lorry driver.

“If he drives those things every day, he’s far from all right.” The man tapped a finger to his temple, then asked Rebus if he was in sales.

“Just had to go up north,” Rebus answered, keeping it vague.

“Inverness?”

“Further.”

“Wick?”

“Northwest, towards Cape Wrath.”

“I didn’t think there was anything up that way.”

“You’re well informed.” Rebus paused as an artic rattled by, followed by a stream of cars. There was a change in air pressure, as if some force were trying to suck him onto the carriageway.

“It’s worse on motorways,” the van driver said. “Try taking a piss on the M8 hard shoulder.”