‘Is that you wabbit already?’ Hood said, ten or so feet above her. She offered him the bottle, but he shook his head and started climbing again. She could see sweat shining in his hair.

‘It’s not a race, Grant,’ she called out. He didn’t reply. After another half-minute, she turned round and followed him. He was moving away from her. So much for team work, she thought. He was like a lot of men she’d known: driven, and yet probably unable to put the reasons into words. It was more in the way of an instinct, a basic need, going beyond the rational.

The climb was levelling off a little. Hood stood up, hands on his hips, admiring the view as he rested. Siobhan watched as he bent his head and tried to spit, but his saliva was too viscous. It hung in a strand from his mouth, refusing to drop. He got a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it away. Catching up with him, she handed him the bottle.

‘Here,’ she said. He looked like he might refuse, but eventually took a mouthful. ‘It’s clouding over.’ Siobhan was interested in the sky rather than the view. The clouds were thick and blackening. Funny how the weather could change so suddenly in Scotland. The temperature must have dropped three or four degrees, perhaps more. ‘Maybe a shower,’ she said. Hood just nodded, handing back the bottle.

She looked at her watch and saw that they’d been climbing for twenty minutes. That meant they were maybe fifteen from the car, reckoning the descent quicker than the climb. Peering upwards, she guessed they had another fifteen or twenty minutes to go. Hood expelled breath noisily.

‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘Good exercise,’ he said hoarsely. Then he began climbing again. There were damp patches on the back of his dark blue sweatshirt. Any minute now he’d probably take it off, and be clad only in a T-shirt as the weather turned. Sure enough, he paused to pull the sweatshirt over his head.

‘It’s getting cold,’ she warned him.

‘But I’m not.’ He tied the arms of the sweatshirt around his waist.

‘At least put your cagoule back on.’

‘I’ll bake.’

‘No you won’t.’

He seemed ready to argue, then changed his mind. Siobhan had already zipped up her Barbour again. The countryside around them was growing less visible, either low cloud or mist. Or maybe showers blowing in.

Five minutes on, the rain began. Drizzle at first, and then a smattering of big drops. Siobhan put her hat back on, and watched Grant pull his hood up. It was getting windy, too, gusts cutting across them. Grant lost his footing and went down on one knee, cursing. For the next few dozen steps he was limping, clutching at his leg with one hand.

‘Do you want to wait?’ she asked, knowing what his answer would be: silence.