Jeff and Tuesday took turns at the wheel speeding northwards. Their planned route was all motorway as far up as Glasgow, passing Liverpool and Manchester and hacking through the dreary north of England with nonstop drizzle keeping the wipers beating. The Transit had an aftermarket CD player with a non-functioning radio, and aside from a pair of compact binoculars the glove box contained only a single disc. There was a limit to the number of times a person could listen to The Ultimate Motown Dance Party without losing the will to live, so they ended up driving in silence.

Time passed. Both men were tired and hungry. The drizzle turned to hard rain and then to muted sunshine. Somewhere beyond Carlisle on the M6, they pulled in at a Roadchef services. While Tuesday attended to the refuelling Jeff went wandering and soon found a mobile phone store where he paid cash for a pair of cheap no-contract Samsungs, and had each of them pre-loaded with fifty pounds’ worth of credit. In a boutique next door, he bought sunglasses and a black baseball cap with a yellow smiley face on it. On his way back to the van he picked up two cheeseburger-and-fries meals and two large bottles of Coke.

When they’d finished gulping down their food he and Tuesday activated their new phones and entered each other’s numbers into their contacts lists. Tuesday eyed Jeff’s other purchases and said, ‘What’s that?’

‘My disguise.’

Tuesday looked hurt. ‘So where’s my disguise?’

Jeff stared at him. ‘What would be the point? You said so yourself, mate. Going to stick out like a sore thumb no matter what you do. Don’t look at me like it’s my fault.’

‘Brilliant. Guess I’ll just have to hide in the back of the van.’

They set off again, Tuesday taking over at the wheel. Jeff lounged back in the passenger seat with his feet up on the dash, and used his burner phone to run an online search. ‘What’s the cop shop in Fort-something Ben said Grace works at?’ he asked.

‘Fort William.’

‘Got it.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Finding out her schedule.’

Jeff found the page on the Police Scotland website, keyed in the phone number but didn’t press the dial button. He turned to Tuesday and said, ‘Hoots, Mon, Ah cannae wait tae get ma teeth sunk intae yon haggis, neeps an’ tatties.’ In his normal voice he asked, ‘How’d that sound?’

Tuesday shot him a strange look. ‘I truly have no idea what language you were speaking just now.’

‘It’s how they talk up there. Got to blend in with the locals.’

Tuesday made a big show of understanding. ‘Oh, I see. That was your hopeless rendition of a Scottish accent.’

‘I thought it was pretty believable.’

‘Maybe tone it down just a weeny bit?’ Tuesday suggested, as diplomatically as possible.