He gestured for Rebus to precede him down the hall. It was a farmhouse conversion just south of the bypass. The interior walls were painted a pale green and the furniture was fifties and sixties vintage. A wall had been knocked through so that the kitchen was separated from the living room only by a breakfast bar and dining area. The dining table gleamed. The kitchen’s work surfaces were similarly clean, and the hob was spotless, not a dish or dirty pot in sight.

‘Fancy a cuppa?’ the Farmer asked.

‘Some tea would go down.’

The Farmer chuckled. ‘My coffee always scared you off, didn’t it?’

‘You got better at it towards the end.’

‘Sit yourself down. I’ll not be long.’

But Rebus made a circuit of the living room. Glass-fronted cabinets with china and ornaments behind. Framed photos of family. Rebus recognised a couple which until recently had graced the Farmer’s office. The carpet had been vacuumed, the mirror and TV showed no signs of dust. Rebus walked over to the french doors and gazed out at a short expanse of garden which ended with a steep grassy bank.

‘Maid been in today, has she?’ he called.

The Farmer chuckled again, setting a tea-tray out on the worktop. ‘I enjoy a bit of housework,’ he called. ‘Ever since Arlene passed away.’

Rebus turned, looked back at the framed photos. The Farmer and his wife at someone’s wedding, and on some foreign beach, and with a gathering of grandchildren. The Farmer beaming, mouth always slightly open. His wife a little more reserved, maybe a foot shorter than him and half his weight. She’d died a few years back.

‘Maybe it’s my way of remembering her,’ the Farmer said.

Rebus nodded: not letting go. He wondered if her clothes were still in the wardrobe, her jewellery in a box on the dressing table …

‘How’s Gill settling in?’

Rebus moved towards the kitchen. ‘She’s off to a flyer,’ he said. ‘Ordered me to take a medical, and got on the wrong side of Ellen Wylie.’

‘I saw that news conference,’ the Farmer admitted, studying the tray to make sure he’d not forgotten anything. ‘Gill didn’t give Ellen time to find her feet.’

‘Purposely so,’ Rebus added.

‘Perhaps.’

‘It’s funny, not having you around, sir.’ Rebus laid stress on the last word. The Farmer smiled.

‘Thanks for that, John.’ He walked over to the kettle, which was beginning to boil. ‘All the same, I’m assuming this isn’t a purely sentimental visit.’

‘No. It’s about a case you worked on in Nairn.’

‘Nairn?’ The Farmer raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s twenty-odd years ago. I went up there from West Lothian. I was based in Inverness.’

‘Yes, but you went to Nairn to look into a drowning.’

The Farmer was thoughtful. ‘Oh yes,’ he said at last. ‘What was her name?’

‘Paula Gearing.’