He checked Missed Calls and saw an unfamiliar Glasgow number. How had he got to the point where an unfamiliar number was a relief? The voice was female and infused with the same assured tones that dominated the university’s corridors and lecture halls. ‘Hello, I’m phoning with regard to your advert in the TLS. My late husband Alan Garrett did some research into Archie Lunan’s death.’ The woman stalled as if expecting someone to pick up, then continued less confidently, ‘Anyway, give me a call if you’re interested.’ A number and email address followed, succeeded by a click on the line as the widowed Mrs Garrett hung up. Rachel had suggested the advert to him on one of their early dates. She’d driven them swiftly along the unlit road, the dark nothingness of the reservoir below them, the lights of the city trembling in the beyond. Rachel had guided the car surely round the tricky bends and Murray had tried not to dwell on how well she knew the road.
