The last item of information was, she knew, a jibe, but McNab didn’t rise to it, merely installing himself in the passenger seat without comment. The sky was clear of cloud, but after the snow there had been a sharp drop in the overnight temperature and in places frost glistened. McNab had been silent since their departure from Portree, and remained so, staring out of the window at what Rhona regarded as the magnificence of the Black Cuillin against a blue sky, but which she knew he definitely wasn’t admiring.

Rhona had seen him like this before. He was either deep in thought or nursing a grievance.

His silence, she now decided, was more unnerving than the expected interrogation.

Eventually he did speak, only to ask, ‘Who is this guy Chrissy’s hanging about with, anyway?’

Chrissy had been late arriving at the conference room and the strategy meeting had been in full swing. She’d managed a few words with McNab when they’d stopped for coffee, but her cheerful countenance had obviously perturbed or annoyed him.

‘Donald McKay,’ Rhona told him. ‘Owner of Blaze, my—’

He cut her off. ‘Okay, I know. Your new forensic assistant. Chrissy’s not thinking of staying on out here, is she?’

‘What a good idea,’ Rhona said to irritate him further, ‘I’ll have to suggest it.’

After the prolonged silence which followed her response, Rhona asked if McNab had a photograph of the medic Peter Galbraith.

‘I do. Plus the info that the MOD released, which isn’t much and probably not enough to make a formal identification.’ He looked at her. ‘That’s what you think, isn’t it? That the body is one of the medics and not some lone climber?’

‘I have no idea how many lone climbers are on the hills at present. I do know, however, that there are four male medics out there, according to Seven.’

‘Seven?’ McNab said.

‘She said the guys call her that. Maybe she’s their lucky mascot.’

McNab snorted. ‘Aye, right. More like her fuckable score when in the deserts of Afghanistan.’

‘They looked like a close-knit bunch,’ Rhona said, ignoring his remark. ‘According to reports from the Isles bar.’

‘When you’ve faced a whole pile of shit together . . .’ McNab threw Rhona a look she didn’t need to interpret.

They had reached the steep brae that curved down into Sligachan, the campsite at the head of the neighbouring loch still sporting a few big camper vans.

‘Jesus, some folk need their heads looked at, camping in Scotland in the winter.’

‘The vans are well equipped,’ Rhona countered. ‘Also the Sligachan Hotel’s a real draw. Donald says the beer’s good.’ She pointed at the road leading west. ‘That takes you to Glenbrittle and the Fairy Pools. A big attraction whatever the time of year. If you decide you want a look at the area they found him in, that’s the way we would go.’