‘I’d say the body was in the water not less than eight hours and not more than twenty-four. As to when death occurred, well, some time before that, obviously, but not too long, a matter of hours . . .’

‘And cause of death?’

Dr Curt smiled. ‘The photographs of the skull show a clear fracture to the right-hand side of the head. She was hit very hard from behind, gentlemen. I’d say death was almost instantaneous . . .’

There was more, but not much more. And much mumbling between officers. Rebus knew what they were thinking and saying: it was the same M.O. as the Dean Bridge killing. But it wasn’t. The woman found at Dean Bridge had been murdered at that spot, not transported there, and she had been murdered on a riverside path in the middle of a city, not . . . well, where had Liz Jack died? Anywhere. It could be anywhere. While people were muttering that William Glass had to be found, Rebus was thinking in a different direction: Mrs Jack’s BMW had to be found, and found quickly. Well, he was already packed, and he’d okayed the trip with Lauderdale. Constable Moffat would be there to meet him, and Gregor Jack had provided the keys.

‘So there it is, ladies and gentlemen.’ Curt was saying. ‘Murder would be my opinion. Yes, murder. The rest is down to your forensic scientists and yourselves.’

‘Off are you?’ Lauderdale commented, seeing Rebus toting his bag.

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Good hunting, Inspector.’ Lauderdale paused. ‘What’s the name of the place again?’

‘Where is it expensive to be a Mason, sir?’

‘I don’t follow . . . ah, right, a dear lodge.’

Rebus winked at his superior and made his way out towards his car.

It was very pleasing the way Scotland changed every thirty miles or so – changed in landscape, in character, and in dialect. Mind you, stick in a car and you’d hardly guess. The roads all seemed much the same. So did the roadside petrol stations. Even the towns, long, straight main streets with their supermarkets and shoe shops and wool shops and chip shops . . . even these seemed to blur one into the other. But it was possible to look beyond them; possible, too, to look further into them. A small country, thought Rebus, yet so various. At school, his geography teacher had taught that Scotland could be divided into three distinct regions: Southern Uplands, Lowlands, and Highlands . . . something like that. Geography didn’t begin to tell the story. Well, maybe it did actually. He was heading due north, towards a people very different to those found in the southern cities or the coastal towns.

He stopped in Perth and bought some supplies – apples, chocolate, a half bottle of whisky, chewing gum, a box of dates, a pint of milk . . . You never knew what might not be available further north. It was all very well on the tourist trail, but if he stepped off that trail . . .