Page 42 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I indicated left and took us past Loch Harris and out around the winding road that led up to Galen Waterfall.

The Saturday morning sky was now a duck-egg blue, making promises of a warmer and sunlit day to come.

Heather could barely contain herself. “What are we going to say to him, Layla? About your music venue I mean?”

I glanced in the rear-view mirror. “That’s assuming he’s at home, although I don’t think he could really wander around Mrs Fraser’s corner shop in a hoodie and masquerade mask, enquiring about the price of tea bags.”

Heather grinned at the image.

“I think I’m just going to try and point out to him the mutual benefits of him appearing. It would not only endear him to the community, but it would really benefit the area.”

“Have you chosen a name for the club yet?”

“No, but I’m working on it.”

Heather’s wide blue eyes took in the farmland, spread out like an olive and jade quilted duvet. Then her mouth turned down. “He’s not going to agree to appear, is he?”

I let out a sigh that verged on the pessimistic. “Probably not, if what I’ve read online is true.” We pulled up at a set of traffic lights. “But I think we should at least try.”

Heather was momentarily cheered again.

Galen Waterfall was spooling down the hillside as we eased around the bend. It reminded me of a shimmering silver dress, sliding its way down the slick rocks.

Heather and I exchanged charged glances as Tavish’s Victorian cottage appeared.

“Here goes nothing,” I breathed.

Chapter Twenty

The name that Tavish had given the cottage was barely visible beneath a tangle of ivy. On a faded white plaque, the word ‘Coorie’ was painted across it in black paint.

“Coorie,” repeated Heather, frowning.

“It means to cuddle or snuggle in old Scots,” I explained. “Don’t you youngsters know anything about your Scottish heritage?”

Heather grinned back. “Listen to you. Anyone would think you were ancient. You’re not that old, Layla.”

“Why, that’s very kind of you.”

The cottage was a concoction of grey and vanilla stone with angled white-framed windows and a sloping, ghost-grey slate roof. Three narrow steps led up to the matching, solid white door. Its panel of glass was frosted, rendering it impossible to see in. It looked as though it had recently undergone a makeover, with fresh paint.

Heather was fidgeting beside me. She was jumping from foot to foot so much, I wondered if she needed an urgent visit to the bathroom. “I’m so excited,” she squealed. “Do you think he’s in?”

I turned my attention to the sash windows, but it was impossible to tell if anyone was at home. The white Venetian blinds were pulled too far down to make out any moving shapes inside.

Heather moved to the side of the house and jabbed a frantic finger. “There’s a truck parked down there by the fence.”

I walked over and followed her flushed gaze. Sure enough, an inconspicuous black pick-up truck was sitting there, its bodywork gleaming and then fading again under the hide and seek rays of the sun.

“Mask must be in,” insisted Heather.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.”

We returned to the front of the cottage and made our way up the steps to the front door. I raised an apprehensive hand and rattled the brass letter box. There was silence.

“He’s not in, is he?” she sulked after a few moments of us hovering there.

I took a few steps backwards and took in the gleaming coats of snow-white paint on the door and window sills. “It doesn’t look like it, although if he’s as reclusive as people are saying he is…”