Page 24 of A Secret Scottish Escape

“I was entitled to a proper relationship. I was entitled to the truth.”

We stopped and turned sharply away from one another. I drank in the moody vista. “We were engaged,” I said after a moment. “I was all set to marry him and yet I didn’t even know he had a heart complaint, let alone that he was sleeping with Hannah. What does that say about the relationship we had?”

Faith’s chest rose and fell under her denim jacket. “Look, I don’t know why Mac didn’t tell you about his condition. He must have had his reasons, stupid though they were.”

I shook my head in despair.

“But this money he’s left for you; if you don’t take it, Hannah will try to get her hands on it.”

“She’s welcome to it.”

“But in the future, you might not feel like that, and then it could be too late.” Her voice softened. “Once you’ve come to terms with all of this, you might well regret not taking it and doing something positive with it.”

“Like what?”

Faith flapped her baby-pink nails in the air. “I don’t know. Maybe a lap-dancing club for the Loch Harris pensioners?”

I made a squeaking sound and she laughed.

We moved on again, the shale path opening out onto mounds of grassy hillocks.

“Don’t let Mac rob you of your future,” advised Faith. “You were not responsible for his behaviour.”

“No,” I faltered, “that’s true. But I am responsible for my own life.” I pushed my hands into my trouser pockets. “And that’s why leaving Loch Harris and not taking that money is so important. It would be a fresh start for me on all fronts.”

Faith’s mouth flatlined.

“Now, let me buy you a drink.”

She struggled to smile, her shoulders slumping. “Go on then.”

We were rounding the loch shore, its rhythmical waves caressing the shingly stones, when Faith shot out a hand and clutched at my arm. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“A banging noise.”

We paused and I cocked my head. There was a rhythmic hammering and it was growing louder, echoing through the trees.

“I hope it’s not someone burying a body,” muttered Faith. Then she coloured up. “Oh shit! Sorry, Layla. Me and my size sevens.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

We trampled along the path that trickled by the loch. Birds were still zinging about in the branches overhead and there was the odd rustle of disturbed leaves.

“I’ve got my nail file, so we could manicure him to death,” joked Faith half-heartedly.

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Lara Croft.”

The swathe of woodland opened out to reveal the old boathouse, where Norrie Erskine, an elderly stalwart of the Loch Harris community, had his angling business.

It was a stunning location, with the Loch Harris waters rippling at the end of the jetty and billowing trees, looking like they were perched on top of lollipop sticks, peppered across the skyline.

We discovered that the enthusiastic hammering was coming from Victor Prentice, the local estate agent, who was hammering a For Sale sign into the grass beside the boathouse steps.

He heard us approaching and beamed. “Evening ladies. Good one for it.”

“Evening Victor,” said Faith, pointing at the blue and white sale sign. “What’s all this?”