By the time he’d set off for the Commissariat de Polis on Lagårdsveien, the snow underfoot had already turned to slush, though the brightly lit giant winter cruise ship tied up in the harbour still glistened like a frosted, tiered Christmas cake.

His usual route took him from his apartment on Kirkegata through the park at Breiavatnet and along the western flank of its shallow lake, after which the pedestrian walkways gave way to cars as he crossed the road to Lagård Gravlund.

Just as every other day, Alvis entered the graveyard and, turning left, made his way to the quiet rear of the cemetery. Here the usual cypress trees and grey headstones had their own frosting of snow although underfoot the path was clear.

Reaching his wife’s grave, he sat down, ignoring the fact that the bench too had been exposed to the elements. Composing himself for what he wanted to say to Marita, he remained silent for a moment, wondering when or if the urge to speak to his dead wife would ever be satisfied. It was verging on three years now since she’d died in the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland.

Since that time he’d managed to revisit the place of her death, even made a sort of peace with it. In fact he’d planned to go back there today for a week of winter walking, had it not been for the phone call he’d made yesterday to Scotland.

Calm now, the words ready, Alvis explained why he wouldn’t be going where he had planned, but somewhere else entirely.

‘Remember how much you loved the Isle of Mists, Marita? Although in truth during our short time there we didn’t encounter mist. Rain, yes, and wind. Remember when we walked to the Coral Beach and you could hardly stand up against the wind?’

Alvis laughed, as though he were joining the tinkling laugh he had known so well.

Her silent why drove him on.

‘I called to tell Rhona I was headed back to Scotland and would likely visit Glasgow, but she wasn’t at the lab and apparently hasn’t been since her last case. Chrissy said she’s gone back to Skye.’ He halted, remembering Chrissy’s voice as she’d tried to explain why Rhona wasn’t at work. Why she hadn’t been at work for some time.

‘So I thought, rather than Cairngorm, I might head back to Skye, walk a bit there instead, say hello to the island for you. Check on Dr MacLeod.’

For a long time after Marita’s death on that mountain, he could hear her speaking to him, all the time wondering why no one else could. Now the voice had become internal, almost like a thought, but Alvis still knew what her message was.

He nodded, satisfied with her silent reply. ‘Of course,’ he answered in return. ‘Of course, I will.’