Ben watched her tail-lights disappear up the empty street. Mrs Gunn’s curtains were shut, a chink of light peeking through the gap and the blare of the television audible outside. He locked up the cottage, slipped the massive key in his pocket and set off at a slow walk. The temperature had fallen to well below zero and the freezing air was turning the snow on the pavements to a slippery rime of ice. It was only just gone seven in the evening but the village was already settling in for the night, soft lights in the upstairs windows and the smell of woodsmoke on the breeze. He was the only one out walking. He enjoyed the solitude, as he relished the coldness of the night. Taking his time, he passed the old stone church and the graveyard where he supposed Ross Campbell must have been laid to rest not long ago; then a few hundred yards further on, across the street, he saw a pool of yellow light that was the village’s only shop, open late.

Ben hadn’t eaten since he’d landed in Scotland, and felt suddenly hollow with hunger. He crossed the street and walked into the shop. The sign above the door said KINLOCHARDAICH STORES. An old guy with a bushy white moustache, though probably only about half Mrs Gunn’s age, was tending the counter and greeted Ben with a friendly ‘Good evening’ as he entered.

It was the kind of village general store that sold everything from groceries to hardware and farm supplies. Ben perused the shelves, tossed a few tins of meat stew and a bag of rice into a basket along with a jar of instant coffee, the real thing being too much to hope for. Living in France had given him a taste for red wine, but he was also wary of the plonk on sale in Kinlochardaich Stores. The beer selection was more promising, if a little offbeat. The bottles of local ale were labelled with fetching names like Sheepshagger, Kilt Lifter and Skull Splitter. He took one of each, and a bottle of single malt whisky. Something to keep him warm on the cold nights to come. Hopefully not too many of them.

As he paid for his purchases he took out his phone and pulled up the photo of Boonzie to show the old guy. ‘This is a friend of mine. He’s visiting the area and might have been in here. Wondered if you’d seen him?’

The old guy gave Ben a curious look, then peered closely at the phone with narrowed eyes. After a long time he slowly nodded and said, ‘Aye, I think so. Couple days ago. I remember, ’cuz he wiz drivin’ Ewan McCulloch’s camper van.’