A noise brought him to the surface. He cleared his eyes, blinked, and saw that Mrs Wilkie was staring down at him, a dish towel in her hands.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry.’ And she retreated behind the door, calling through it: ‘I quite forgot you were here! I was just going to . . . well . . . never mind, it can wait.’

Rebus screwed shut his eyes and sank beneath the waves . . .

The meal was, to his surprise, good, if a bit odd. Cheese pudding, boiled potatoes, and carrots. Followed by tinned steamed pudding and packet custard.

‘So convenient,’ as Mrs Wilkie commented. The shock of seeing a naked man in her bathtub seemed to have brought her into the here and now, and they talked about the weather, the tourists and the government until the meal was over. Rebus asked if he could wash the dishes, and was told he could not – much to his relief. Instead, he asked Mrs Wilkie for a front-door key, then set off, stomach full, clean of body and underwear, for the Heather Hoose.

Not a name he would have chosen for his own pub. He entered by the lounge door, but, the place being dead, pushed through another door into the public bar. Two men and a woman stood at the bar and shared a joke, while a barman studiously filled glasses from a whisky optic. The group looked round at Rebus as he came and stood not too far from them.

‘Evening.’

They nodded back, almost without seeing him, and the barman returned the greeting, setting down three double measures of whisky on the bar.

‘And one for yourself,’ said one of the customers, handing across a ten-pound note.

‘Thanks,’ said the barman, ‘I’ll have a nip myself for later on.’

Behind the array of optics, bottles and glasses, the wall was mirrored, so Rebus was able to study the group without seeming to. The man who had spoken sounded English. There had been only two cars in the pub’s courtyard, a beaten-up Renault 5 and a Daimler. Rebus reckoned he knew who owned which . . .

‘Yes, sir?’ asked the barman and Renault 5 owner.

‘Pint of export, please.’

‘Certainly.’

The wonder of it was that three well-off English tourists would drink in the public bar. Maybe they just hadn’t noticed that the Heather Hoose possessed such an amenity as a lounge. All three looked a bit the worse for wear, mostly from drink. The woman had a formidable face, framed by dyed platinum hair. Her cheeks were too red and her eyelashes too black. When she sucked on her cigarette, she arched her head up to blow the smoke ceilingwards. Rebus tried counting the lines on her neck. Maybe it worked the way it did with tree-rings . . .

‘There you are.’ The pint glass was placed on a mat in front of him. He handed over a fiver.