Heading inside, she found the fire ablaze and the chill in the remainder of the cottage definitely diminished. She opened the stove and, laying on some peat blocks, turned the damper down, as she should have done overnight.

Pouring a cup of strong coffee brought a fleeting image of DS Michael McNab, her colleague, friend and, briefly, former lover. With that came the memory of the moment McNab had turned his Harley-Davidson Street Glide into the rough track that led to the cottage, with her riding pillion.

The trip itself by motorbike had been an eye-opener for Rhona. She’d travelled the same route before, many times, by car. On a bike it had been totally different. Surprisingly so. Still traumatized by her recent experience, she’d found herself able to smile again as she observed the Highlands with new eyes.

McNab had been quick to note the change, and had suggested she might like to embrace freedom and buy a bike of her own.

By the time they’d reached Skye, Rhona was beginning to consider doing just that.

McNab might have opened her eyes to a new way of travelling through the Highlands. Rhona, on the other hand, hadn’t succeeded in opening McNab’s eyes to the pleasures of living there. His first words as he’d approached the cottage had in fact been, ‘You’re planning to stay . . . here?’

He’d tried, she remembered, not to sound too horrified at the thought.

McNab, as an urban warrior, had no desire to be anywhere other than his beloved Glasgow and its ‘mean streets’, the countryside being anathema to him.

Yet he agreed to bring me here despite his misgivings.

‘You’ll lose the plot,’ he offered as he drew up outside. ‘No Chrissy, no Sean. No shops. No pubs.’

Rhona, choosing to ignore any reference to her mental state, however throwaway, said instead, ‘There’s a very nice pub not far from here. And I can have my food delivered just like in Glasgow.’

McNab hadn’t looked convinced by that.

‘Internet?’ he’d countered as she’d unlocked the blue, salt-streaked front door.

Rhona couldn’t lie. ‘I hear it’s better than it was.’

‘Better than on Sanday, I hope?’ He’d shaken his head, as though even the memory of their incarceration on that particular remote island still caused him pain.

‘I’ll adjust,’ Rhona had assured him, wondering if she would, or even could.

Still, anything was better than being in the Glasgow flat at the moment. Or maybe ever again.

McNab had checked out the tiny cottage as though it were a crime scene, before unlocking the back door and stepping outside.

‘Jeez,’ he’d said, noting how close they were to the water. ‘You’re nearly in the fucking sea.’

‘The tide doesn’t come past those rocks,’ Rhona had assured him. ‘Even when it’s stormy.’