Page 110 of A Secret Scottish Escape

Either this was a different woman or she had assumed another false name. “And she was definitely interested in Mask?”

Clem sniffed. “Sophie said she was making snide comments about him and asking lots of questions.”

My growing pessimism faded. It must be her. This must be another pseudonym she was using. “Like what, Clem? What did she want to know?”

Clem elaborated that this Meredith Stone was keen to know if Mask had bought Coorie Cottage or whether he was renting it, if any locals knew his music management team, and even whether he had a girlfriend.

“She’s obsessed with him,” I muttered to myself.

I refocused on Clem. “Did Sophie describe what this Meredith Stone looks like?”

“She said she’s a short, stout redhead. Hair in a wavy bob, I think … Layla, where are you going?”

But I was already bolting back up the soggy lane towards Dad’s cottage. I would tell him and the guys I was going to have to go out for a bit longer than I thought. “Thanks ever so much,” I called, running backwards to give them a wave. “You’ve both been very helpful.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

I marched back down the lane after saying goodbye to the guys and promising to try and return to Dad’s later that evening to join them all for a Friday night takeaway.

Inwardly, I had decided that it would depend on what I could uncover about this Meredith Stone/Angela Burrows person.

I dumped my bag in my hallway and then moved through to my bedroom and bombed around, throwing off my damp socks and jeans.

Once I’d eased into a T-shirt and shorts, I sat at my desk in my sitting room.

How many aliases was this woman using? And why? What was so important to her that she was going to so much trouble to conceal her identity?

The dappled late afternoon sun wriggled its way through the clouds and into the sitting room as I entered in the name ‘Angela Burrows’ into the search engine.

My breathing lurched in my chest.

Images of many different Angela Burrows appeared, but, unsurprisingly, none of them was an Australian redhead. Furthermore, any that were listed were either elderly or deceased.

I frowned at the screen and typed in her latest moniker, Meredith Stone. That wasn’t her either. The name did, however, bring up a glossy picture of an older, glamorous woman. She was all carefully coiffed dark hair and adorned in eye-catching silver jewels.

I was preparing to move away from the photograph, which was taken from a Sunday newspaper gossip column, when I spotted a link to an article accompanying the picture.

I clicked on it and that led me to a piece written in April 2009:

Celebrated philanthropist Meredith Stone is pictured at her 60th birthday party at her luxury home on the Gold Coast, looking as immaculate as ever.

When asked about her stunning necklace and earrings she had chosen to wear for the evening, Meredith informed me that they were the work of a young Australian designer, Hazel Jennings…

I admired the glittering strand of snowflake-like jewels pressing against her neck and a pair of matching, angular earrings peeking out from behind her lion’s mane of black hair.

I was about to move the cursor away from the article when my attention zoomed in on a picture close to the reporter’s byline.

It was a small head and shoulders shot of a beaming, pale-skinned young woman with folds of red waves down to her shoulders.

Underneath the picture, it said:

Jewellery designer Hazel Jennings (23)

My fingers froze above my keyboard. It was her. There was no doubt.

With my heart hammering, I sat back in my swivel chair and studied her youthful exuberance as it shone out at me from the screen. It was a complete contrast to the snarling, accusatory version I’d witnessed up at Coorie Cottage.

I leaned forward again, fired up to see what else I could locate about her, but the information was sparse, with the rest of the article only mentioning that she was born in Melbourne, had a sister called Emily (a dancer), and that she had gained a scholarship to a prestigious fashion college based in Sydney.