Page 104 of A Secret Scottish Escape

Chapter Fifty-Two

My eyes were met at first by a distinguished-looking elderly gent who had won some prestigious gardening competition in Canada, and another Rafe Buchanan who had lived in Ireland 200 years ago.

I tapped my mouse and scrolled down the page a little further.

An image made me shoot forward in my chair.

What was that?

It was a photograph of a handsome, dark-haired man holding a Rio Natural acoustic guitar. There was no scar running down the right side of his face.

I enlarged the photograph and leaned in closer to the screen. Oh, bloody hell! It was him! It was Mask.

I scanned the caption of the photograph.

Up and coming singer/songwriter Rafe Buchanan (34) pictured at his gig in The Roundhouse, Sydney on Saturday night.

The picture had appeared in The Sydney Enquirer newspaper on Monday 19 December 2016.

I was so preoccupied with the easy charm he was exuding, exacerbated by his white loose cotton shirt, tweed waistcoat, and faded jeans, I almost didn’t notice two women’s faces in the crowd behind him.

Then one sprang out at me.

I reached for my mug of tea and squinted at the picture again. There was something familiar about the pointed angle to her chin…

“Shit. It’s her!” I said aloud. “It’s the Australian woman from tonight.”

Her red hair was longer in the photo and not styled in the severe bob she favoured now, but it was definitely her.

As I examined the picture again, I could make out the recognisable, abrupt tilt to her nose. My attention swivelled from where she was positioned behind Rafe to another woman hovering in the crowd beside her. She was pretty, with an open expression and long, swishy brunette hair. She was gazing at Rafe with what could only be described as adoration.

I clicked away from the photograph and searched further down the page for more references to Rafe Buchanan.

My eyes were beginning to feel gritty and threatening to surrender to sleep, but I pushed on.

Next to appear was a review of his never released debut album Belle Raven, in a Melbourne-based independent music magazine called Making Waves.

The critic had described his music as “haunting, with lyrics that speak to the soul. A paradise for the senses”. He had gone on to award it a glowing five stars out of five. So why hadn’t it been released?

I frowned and moved the cursor further down the screen. There were more references to this eagerly anticipated album by the music press, as well as mentions of successful gigs in Australia and New Zealand.

There were also reports about how Rafe’s music videos were finding an audience on social media and the fact that this talented musician, who had played the grottiest pubs and busked on street corners, was finally on the threshold of something big.

And then nothing.

My eyebrows rocketed in disbelief at my computer screen. All the hype, all the acclaim, all the promise of a huge music career had vanished.

At one time lauded as the next Ed Sheeran, he’d simply disappeared. It was as though Rafe Buchanan had evaporated.

Frustrated, I clicked my mouse and slid through another series of pages. But there was nothing further, and definitely nothing pertaining to any crimes either.

There were no reports of his arrest. There were no fevered articles about court cases or tawdry accusations.

A kernel of worry insisted on pushing its way up. What if he had done something awful, but escaped from Australia to Scotland? I acknowledged it was possible, but refused to give it credence.

Perhaps Rafe had experienced some sort of mental breakdown and had chosen to avoid the limelight?

Or maybe this Belle Raven woman was a spurned lover after all, trying to get revenge on him by ruining his career?