few cars had parked up, walkers and climbers prepping for the rigours ahead. He pulled over and sat for a few minutes with his windows down, overhearing snatches of conversation and watching as they set out for the day. Some had Ordnance Survey maps strung around their necks, protected from the elements by clear plastic pouches. Their backpacks bulged with provisions and waterproofs, and most carried a long pole — and sometimes two — to help take the strain. He waited until the last one had clambered over the stile and had their back to him before he lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the crisp, unpolluted air.
Half an hour later, he was driving into the village of Tongue, where he would join the road west along the coast to Durness. But he had one detour to make. There was a photograph in his jacket pocket. It had been sent to him a few years back, and he used it to find where he was looking for. The village itself was off to the left of the road, but Rebus headed for the causeway across the Kyle of Tongue. The bungalow was next door to a youth hostel. There were no names next to the doorbell. He pressed and waited, then pressed again. The view was breathtaking, but the house had been battered by the elements and would be again. He peered in through the living room window, then walked around to the back. No fence separated the property from the field behind it. The kitchen showed signs that someone had been home earlier: cereal packet next to the table, milk waiting to be returned to the fridge. Rebus went back to the Saab and sat there wondering what to do now. He could hear seabirds and gusts of wind, but nothing else. He tore a page from his notebook and jotted a message, returning to the front door to push it through the letter box.
He drove off again in silence, not in the mood for a CD or whatever radio reception could be mustered. Soon he was entering something calling itself ‘North-West Highland Geopark’. The landscape grew more alien, almost lunar, rocks barely covered by any form of vegetation. But now and then there would be a spectacular cove with pristine white sand and blue sea. Rebus began to wonder if he’d ever been further from a pub in his life. He checked petrol gauge and cigarette packet both. Durness was still some miles off, and he had no idea what he would find there. He skirted Loch Eriboll and headed north again. Durness wasn’t quite at the tip of Scotland — if you reckoned your vehicle up to the task, you could follow a track all the way to Cape Wrath. Rebus had a phone number for one of the locals, but no signal as yet. Durness itself, when he reached it, consisted of a few cottages and larger modern houses, plus a smattering of shops. There were even a couple of venerable petrol pumps. He stopped next to them and crossed the road to the Spar, where he asked the shopkeeper if she knew where Anthony Greenwood lived.
‘He went to Smoo this morning,’ she told him. ‘I’m not sure if he’s back.’
Rebus then showed her the photo.
‘You’re the police?’ she surmised. ‘From Edinburgh? Anthony told us all about it. The spot you’re looking for is just by Keoldale.’
Two minutes later, armed with a fresh pack of cigarettes, he was back in the Saab and driving a further couple of miles, following her precise — almost too precise — instructions. But as he neared the site, he knew it was wrong. Not
‘No,’ he said. The hillside was too steep.
But then he’d known that all along, and even more so since Edderton. He drove slowly up and down the road, just in case he was missing something, but the shopkeeper in Durness had sent him to the right place.
It just wasn’t the
He consulted his map again. He could go back the way he’d come or keep going. The road made a circuit of sorts before joining the A836 again. Rebus had never been one to retrace his steps, so headed south-west towards Laxford Bridge. The route was still narrow, dotted with passing places, but there was no traffic. Rebus reckoned he’d come a hundred miles or more since leaving Dornoch and not once had he been stuck behind a vehicle of any kind. There was sporadic tourist traffic, along with a few delivery vans. But everyone was very polite, flashing their headlights to let him know they had pulled over and he didn’t need to, or acknowledging him with a wave whenever the roles were reversed. Having crossed to the west coast, he found himself heading inland again, south and east past miles and miles of nothing but scenery and sheep. Twice he had to stop for ewes on the road, and once he caught sight of a large bird of prey gliding over one of the distant summits. There were patches of snow up there, and a huge greasy sky. He passed lochs with wildfowl resting on the glassy surface, and his tyres pressed ancient roadkill further into the tarmac. He had just reached a narrow, dogleg-shaped loch when his phone sounded. He had one missed call. He pulled over and returned it. The signal was fine.
‘Dad?’ It was Samantha’s voice. ‘Where are you? I got back and saw your note. .’
Rebus had got out of the car. The air was clear and sharp as he inhaled. ‘Would you believe I was just passing?’
‘No.’ She was stifling a laugh.
‘Happens to be the truth. There was something I had to check in Durness.’
‘How did you find the right house?’
‘That picture you sent.’ He held it up. Samantha was standing in front of her bungalow, arm around the waist of the tall young man next to her.
‘So where are you now?’ she asked.
‘Nowhere. Quite literally.’ He looked around him, saw the hillside reflected in the still surface of the loch. ‘If I remembered any of my geography classes, I might be able to describe it.’
‘Too far south to turn around?’
‘I’d say so. I think I’m about sixty miles from Tongue.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Next time, eh?’ he said, rubbing at his forehead with the meat of his thumb. ‘Or maybe if you’re ever in Edinburgh. How are things anyway? It’s a beautiful location. .’
‘You looked in the windows, didn’t you? Place is a right tip.’
‘No worse than mine. How’s Keith doing?’
‘He’s okay. Got some work on the decommissioning project at Dounreay.’
‘Do you check him for radioactivity?’
‘I don’t need a bedside light any more,’ she joked. Then: ‘You should have told me you were coming.’
‘It was more of an impulse thing,’ he lied. ‘Sorry I’ve not phoned for a while.’
‘You’re kept busy. I saw that woman mention you on the news.’ Meaning Nina Hazlitt. ‘Is that why you were in Durness?’
‘Sort of.’
‘So that means you might be back?’
‘I don’t think so. But everything’s all right with you and Keith?’
‘We. . we’re trying IVF.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘At the Raigmore Hospital. First one didn’t take.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘We’re not giving up — not yet.’
‘Good for you.’ He closed his eyes and opened them again. The scenery took its time coming back into focus.
‘I wish I’d been here. I was only out seeing a friend. Her baby’s nine months. .’
‘At least I know where you are now. When we’re on the phone like this in future, I can picture the view from your window.’
‘It’s a nice view.’
‘It really is.’ Rebus cleared his throat. ‘I’d better get going. This is supposed to be me working.’
‘Take care, Dad.’
‘You too, Samantha.’
‘I’m touched you came to visit. Really I am.’
He ended the call and stood there staring ahead of him without taking any of it in. Why hadn’t he told her he’d be dropping by? Did he want to see the look on her face so he could judge whether she was pleased or not? Probably. But then there was the other possibility: that he’d
