'That's us all right,' the barman agreed.

'Is it a payphone?'

'Not really.' He indicated the landline. It was between the gantry and the access hatch.

'It's for staff use only?'

The barman shrugged. 'Sometimes a regular will need a taxi or to place a bet. Usually they have their own phones, but if not...'

'And do they get calls too?'

'Wives looking for their husbands, you mean?' The barman smiled. 'It happens.'

'Three weeks back, a man called Hamish Wright phoned here. It was a Monday evening. Call lasted a couple of minutes.'

'I don't know anyone called Hamish Wright.'

'He lives in Inverness, runs a haulage company.'

'Still doesn't ring a bell.'

'Who else might have been on duty that night?'

'Sandra, maybe. Or Denise. Jeff's on holiday and Ben was sick around thenwinter flu, also known as skiving.'

'Could you maybe ask Sandra and Denise?'

The barman nodded.

'As innow,' Fox added.

Fox sipped his drink while the barman made the calls. The result was another shrug. 'Sandra remembers your lot phoning to ask. She told them it was probably a wrong number.'

'But she doesn't remember the call?'

'We do get more than a few phone calls, you know. When the bar's busy, you've got a lot going on...'

'Hamish Wright has never had a drink in here?'

'What does he look like?'

Fox took a moment on his phone to find an internet photo of Wright. It was from an Inverness newspaper and showed him in front of one of his lorries. The barman narrowed his eyes as he studied it.

'I'd have to say he seems familiar,' he admitted. 'But that's probably because he looks much the same as most of the men we get in here.'

'Take another look,' Fox urged. But the door was opening, an elderly man shuffling in carrying a folded newspaper.

'Morning, Arthur,' the barman called out. The customer nodded a reply. 'Cold one again, eh?'

'Bitter,' the regular agreed.

The barman was placing a glass under one of the whisky optics while the customer counted out coins on to the bar. Fox turned to the new arrival. 'Does the name Hamish Wright mean anything to you?'

'Does he have two legs?' the old man enquired.

'I think sowhy?'

'Because if he does, he could probably get a game for Rangers, the way they're playing.'

The barman gave a snort of laughter as he handed over the drink. Fox decided he was wasting his time. He drained his glass and headed to the Gents, passing a jukebox and a noticeboard. There was a cutting from the Evening News about money the bar had raised for charity, alongside cards from local businesses advertising their services. On his way back from the toilet, Fox paused again at the board and removed one of the cards. He showed it to the barman.

'CC Self Storage,' he commented.

'What of it?'

'Named after its owner, Chick Carpenter. Know him?'

'No.'

'It's in Broomhouse, not exactly on your doorstepso why the advert?'

The barman offered a non-committal shrug.

'Does Wee Anthony not work there?' the whisky drinker called out as he seated himself at what was presumably his customary table.

Fox stared at the barman. 'Did Wee Anthony put this card up?'

'Maybe.'

'He's a regular, I'm guessing?'

Another shrug.

'And do people ever phone for him?'

'I suppose so, on rare occasions.'

'Including three weeks ago?'

'That's something you'd have to ask him yourself.'

'Then that's what I'll do,' Fox said, tucking the card into his top pocket. He dug in his trousers for change, placing a couple of pound coins on the bar.

'The drink was on the house,' the barman reminded him.

'I'm choosy about who I take freebies from,' Fox retorted, turning to leave.

He called Siobhan Clarke from the car park and asked her what she thought.

'Whose case is it, Malcolm?' she asked.

'Somebody gunned down Dennis Stark.'

'And where's the connection?'

'Stark was looking for Hamish Wrightwhat if Wright or one of his friends decided to turn the tables?'

'Okay...'

'Wright phoned the Gifford, a guy who drinks there works for Chick Carpenter, Carpenter got a doing by Dennis Stark...'

'Any number of people held a grudge against the victim. But we're looking for someone who tried to make it appear like part of a pattern.'

'To throw us off the scent, yes. Last thing they'd want is Joe Stark coming after them.'

'That's a fair point.' Clarke thought for a moment. 'Where are you now?'

'Parked outside a pet shop.'

'Thinking of taking up John's offer of a free dog?'

'Perish the thought.'

'I thought you might be at the hospital.'

'I popped in first thing. Jude told me to swap with her later on.'

'Any news?'

'No change from last night.'

'You know, nobody would blame you for taking some time off...'

Fox ignored this. 'I'm considering dropping in on CC Self Storageunless you think I shouldn't.'

'There's not a whole lot you can be doing here,' she admitted. 'Though we're one down.'

'Oh?'

'Christine's gone off to the archive on an errand for John.'

'He's a one-man job-creation scheme.'

'Want to guess where he is right now?'

'Enlighten me.'

'Driving to Ullapool.'

'What's in Ullapool?'

'Last time I went, I remember fish and chips and a ferry.'

'And which of those is he interested in?'

'There's someone he needs to talk to.'

'You sound like you don't want to tell me much more.'

'One day soon, maybe.'

'But not now?' Fox was starting the ignition. 'Should I report back after the storage place?'

'Absolutely.'

'That's what I'll do then.'

32.

Ullapool nestled under thick banks of bruised cloud. Rebus drove slowly along the waterfront, then uphill from the harbour. Soon enough he reached a sign thanking him for having visited, so he did a U-turn. Rows of terraced houses hid a large Tesco store from general view. A tour bus had stopped outside a pub that seemed to be serving warming drinks and hot takeaway food. Rebus pulled into a parking place and got out, stretching his spine and rolling his shoulders. He had stopped for petrol at a retail park on the outskirts of Inverness and topped up his provisions with a microwaved bridie and a bottle of Irn-Bru. He wished now that he had waited and eaten in Ullapool. Instead, he lit a cigarette and headed to the harbour. Gulls were bobbing in the water, seemingly immune to the biting wind. Rebus buttoned his coat and finished his cigarette before heading into a shop. Its wares included shrimping nets and buckets and spadesdespite the season being a way offplus newspapers and groceries. The shopkeeper seemed to size him up, realising he wasn't in the market to buy.

'I'm looking for this address.' Rebus handed across the slip of paper Christine Esson had given him.

'Did you see the Tesco?' the shopkeeper enquired.

'I did.'

'Next road on the left.' The man handed back the piece of paper. Rebus waited for more, then managed a thin smile.

'You saw the name next to the address?'

'Aye.'

'So you know why I'm here.'

'I dare say you're some kind of policeman.'

'Mr Ratner's got a bit of a rep?'

'He likes the drink more than it seems to like him.'