Rebus didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d heard it all before. She was tiny, with a tiny voice. Between his first visit and his second, she had dressed in her best B&B-keeper’s clothes and tied some pearls around her neck. He reckoned her to be in her late seventies. She was a widow, her husband Andrew having died in 1982, and she did the B&B ‘as much for the company as the money’. She always seemed to get nice guests, interesting people like the German jam-buyer who had stayed for a few nights last autumn . . .

‘And here’s your bedroom. I’ve given it a bit of an airing and –’

‘It’s very nice, thank you.’ Rebus put his bag on the bed, saw her ominous look, and shifted it off the bed and on to the floor.

‘I made the bedspread myself,’ she said with a smile. ‘I was once advised to go professional, selling my bedspreads. But at my age . . .’ She gave a chuckle. ‘It was a German gentleman told me that. He was in Scotland to buy jam. Would you credit it? He stayed here a few nights . . .’

Eventually, she recalled her duties. She’d just go and make them a spot of supper. Supper. Rebus glanced at his watch. Unless it had stopped, it was not yet five thirty. But then, he’d booked bed and breakfast, and any hot meal tonight would be a bonus. Moffat had given him directions to the closest pub – ‘tourist place, tourist prices’ – before leaving him for the undoubted delights of Dufftown. The fear of God . . .

He had just slipped off his trousers when the door opened and Mrs Wilkie stood there.

‘Is that you, Andrew? I thought I heard a noise.’ Her eyes had a glassy, faraway look. Rebus stood there, frozen, then swallowed.

‘Go and make us some supper,’ he said quietly.

‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Wilkie said. ‘You must be hungry. You’ve been gone such a long time . . .’

Then, the idea of a quick bath appealed. He looked into the kitchen first, and saw that Mrs Wilkie was busy at the stove, humming to herself. So he headed for the bathroom. There was no lock on the door. Or rather, there was a lock, but half of it was hanging loose. He looked around him, but saw nothing he could wedge against the door. He decided to take his chance and started both taps running. There was a furious pressure to the water, and the bath filled quickly and hotly. Rebus undressed and sank beneath the surface. His shoulders were stiff from the drive, and he massaged them as best he could. Then he lifted his knees so that his shoulders, neck and head slid into the water. Immersion. He thought of Dr Curt, of drowning and immersion. Skin wrinkling . . . hair and nails shedding . . . silt in the bronchial . . .