Page 101 of A Secret Scottish Escape

“There could be,” I admitted, sharing a glance with Tom.

Tom offered a slight smile. “May we come in, sir?”

Mask’s attention travelled between Tom and me for several more seconds before he took a step backwards. “All right. Please go into the sitting room.”

Mask was just closing the front door when there was a squealing of tyres from outside and a shrill voice erupted through the darkness.

“Murderer!” someone screamed. “You’re nothing but a murderer!”

Chapter Fifty

Mask barrelled out of his door and stopped on the top step.

His shoulders stiffened.

A woman dressed in a blue fleece and beige trousers and walking boots was jumping out of a revving white Ford Ka. She had bobbed red hair and her freckled face was contorted in fury.

Beside her in the passenger seat was another woman. She appeared entranced by the proceedings that were unfolding through the windscreen.

She clambered out. I could see that she was a few years younger than her companion. She was sporting a pink and yellow beret, which rested further back on top of straw-blonde choppy hair, and was dressed like a student in a pair of glossy black Doc Marten boots.

At first I struggled to comprehend the awful things that were being shouted. Then I noticed her delve into the rainbow bag over her shoulder and retrieve a notebook and pen. She must be a journalist.

My attention travelled back to the redhead.

She slammed shut her car door and jabbed an accusing finger at Mask. “That’s him! Go on, Shelley. Ask him!”

Shelley, the beret-wearing blonde, approached Mask. “Rafe?” she asked, excitement rising in her voice. “Are you Rafe Buchanan?”

Under the dark sky, Tom and I swivelled on the step to look at Mask but he didn’t reply. He just stood there like a mannequin.

The redheaded woman bared her teeth at him. “Of course it’s him! I told you it was. He’s nothing but a murderer!”

There was that word again. I flinched, trying to pretend I hadn’t heard it.

Tom marched down the granite steps towards her. “Excuse me, but you can’t go throwing accusations like that around.”

“Accusations? That’s a laugh. He’s guilty.” Her hard, ghostly eyes slid over Tom. “And who the hell are you anyway?”

“Police Constable Tom Bateman.”

Her white chin jutted forward. She glowered up at me. “And who is she?”

For a moment, I couldn’t articulate anything. My mind felt as though it were battling through a thick fog. Why was she saying these terrible things? And why was Mask not protesting? Why wasn’t he yelling at her to stop?

I willed Mask to look at me, to reassure me. But he didn’t. His hood remained pulled over his features. There was an air of defeat around him.

“I’m Layla Devlin,” I replied, gathering myself together. “And I take it you’re…” I paused for effect. “Belle Raven?”

She appeared thrown that I knew. She dashed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “The most important thing is that he knows who I am, don’t you, Rafe?”

Mask’s body language was stiff and he struggled to speak. “I want you to leave. Now.”

“I bet you do,” she scoffed. “Not nice when your past comes back to haunt you, is it?”

What past? What was she talking about?

Beside her, Shelley was scribbling something in her notebook. She fixed Rafe with a faux-conciliatory gaze. “I’m Shelley Fraser. Look, Mr Buchanan, why don’t you just agree to speak to me? It will be easier for everyone that way.”