Page 105 of A Secret Scottish Escape

But that still didn’t answer the question of how he’d got his scar.

My mind was reeling with all sorts of questions and possibilities.

I flopped back in my chair and ran a hand down my face.

It was too late to call Wendy at her bed and breakfast now. But first thing tomorrow morning I would ring her. I had to speak to her again about that guest.

Chapter Fifty-Three

After finishing some business for The Conch Club opening, I rang Wendy.

Before I could give her a potted explanation of last night’s events, she burst my bubble of growing optimism. “She’s gone.”

“What?”

“Belle Raven – or whatever her real name is. She’s left. Checked out.”

I shoved my half-eaten bowl of cereal across the kitchen table. “You have got to be joking. When was this?”

“First thing this morning. She must have sneaked out while I was preparing breakfast.”

Wendy went on to explain that the woman had paid for her stay in full, in cash, and deposited her payment and her room key in an envelope behind the reception desk.

“Oh shit! Now what do I do?”

My mind fluttered back to last night and the so-called female reporter who had accompanied her. “You don’t know where she might have gone?”

“Nope, sorry. But I could ask around some of the other bed and breakfast owners in the area?”

“Thanks Wendy. That would be great.”

I hung up and began rifling through the contacts on my phone, searching for the telephone number of the local newspaper, only to be told when I rang that Shelley Fraser was not employed as a reporter there.

According to the paper’s editor, she kept pestering them for a job as a journalist and promising them exclusive scoops, which never materialised or had any substance.

I crossed my fingers that there was nothing in Mask’s history that would be of benefit to her.

I took a mouthful of soggy cereal and grimaced.

The remainder of Thursday saw me making a series of calls to suppliers, confirming the delivery of LED candles and jars for each table in The Conch Club, as well as alcohol, soft drinks, and snacks.

Faith took on the job of ensuring the local advertising was all in place and that fellow Loch Harris businesses were displaying the posters and handing out the fliers she had designed.

I also pitched a few freelance article ideas to some magazine editors I knew.

Who knows, I thought to myself, The Conch Club might become so successful, that I won’t have to continue with my freelance journalism. But when I considered this further, I knew that was impossible. I enjoyed writing far too much to abandon it.

Friday swung around, bringing with it frequent showers and damp leaves.

The late July rain hung like pearls suspended from the trees and knotted branches. The air was brisk, laced with the zinging scent of wet grass.

I bet the Battalion guys will be relieved they aren’t camping up by Galen Waterfall in this, I thought to myself with a brief smile.

My thoughts then zipped to Rafe – it was strange, referring to him like that…

Was it worth giving the local car hire company a ring, to see if they had any details about this Belle Raven woman?

Even though I felt guilty for abandoning a half-written email to a folk singer in Dundee who was enquiring about a future spot at the club, I looked up the number for the Loch Harris car rental company, Wheelie Good.