Gilbert drove his Mercedes uphill along an unmade road, cursing the dust making the shining grey bodywork opaque because he would have to take the vehicle to the car wash after encountering the hermit. By driving as far as a five-barred gate that prevented his going any farther, he had halved the uphill slog on foot. The barrier marked the confines of a hill farm owned by David Marshall, a ruddy-faced outdoor type to whom Gilbert had recently sold a Range Rover.
David might not have recognised the dapper salesman parking his car without his habitual three-piece pinstriped suit, given that today he wore a short-sleeved rugby shirt, jeans and stout walking boots that he was now lacing up, replacing the trainers that were more sensible for driving.
Gilbert passed through the wicket gate in
