Page 58 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I re-read the note twice more before yanking open my front door. I knew Mask wouldn’t still be there. It had sounded as though his truck had shot out of the drive and back up the lane, and yet I still hovered for a few moments in the doorway.

I clutched the CDs and glanced about before staring down at my watch. If I set off to Coorie Cottage now, I could still be back at The Merry Maid for 6.30 p.m. to meet Dad and the rest of the band.

I jumped into my car and set off, pausing at the end of my short drive to slide in the first CD that Mask had sent me.

Why did I feel compelled to go to his house? I looked down at the other CD lying on the passenger seat, sparkling silver.

I was surprised – shocked, but delighted.

OK, so he had made it clear that he wouldn’t take to the stage (which hadn’t come as any shock, if I was being honest), but the fact that he’d given me a whole raft of his exclusive new material was a real public relations coup for The Conch Club and I was determined to capitalise on it.

I fired the car into second gear as my CD player sprang to life.

While I drove past Loch Harris, which was like a glimmering glass table top, the haunting voice of Mask filled my car.

The timbre in his tone was smoky, as he sang about struggling to put the past behind him. Accompanying his vocals were a couple of guitars that seemed to be crying in unity.

His lyrics bled into my mind and sat there, making me wonder about Mask’s life and whether these words were autobiographical.

I wound my way past thrusting hedgerows and moss-peppered walls until Galen Waterfall gushed into view from the left-hand curve of the road.

Why I felt I had to come up to see Mask, I didn’t rightly understand.

The second track had drifted into the third, this one titled ‘Finding It’. Mask’s voice began softly at first, before it launched into a cacophony of drums and guitars. It was amazing.

I took my time parking the car just by the side of Coorie Cottage so I could listen to the song in its entirety. I admired his riot of garden as I let the engine fall silent and the track fizzled to an end.

I set my shoulders back and went up to the front door, knowing that a warm and appreciative thank you note on pretty stationery would have sufficed.

Yet, here I was.

I knocked several times but there was no answer. He wasn’t there, or he was pretending he wasn’t. Perhaps I could write him that thank you note after all and just post it?

I had only just eased the car door back open, when there was the sound of a spade striking something from further around the corner of the cottage.

I shut the car door again and paused. “Hello?”

Pushing my car keys into the back pocket of my jeans, I walked down past the side of the house.

Mask’s truck was stationed on the gravel, its black metallic paintwork glinting.

The sound of a ringing spade seemed to be coming from further up the paved path, past the herbaceous border.

“Hello?”

I steeled myself and tip-tapped along the stones in my boots.

Just ahead of me was a tall figure, shovelling mounds of dirt. Down by his feet was an assortment of new shrubs waiting to be planted.

He was dressed in a loose navy cotton shirt and dark combats.

I couldn’t make out his features from where I was, but his thick, collar-length dark hair furled upwards. He was focused on what he was doing and the spade glittered and flashed as he scooped out more earth and bent to pick up a fat, florally shrub.

I watched him snatch up a bottle of water from beside him and take a grateful gulp.

I waited until he had dumped the bottle back down beside his Timberland boots. “Mask? Sorry to disturb you, but I wondered—”

The figure swung round, alarm etched on his features. He had a strong jaw and deep, dark eyes that were framed with arched, black brows. He also possessed a vivid red scar that ran like a deep river down the right-hand side of his face.