Page 63 of A Secret Scottish Escape

Dad sank back against the bench, plastering a smile on as Mikey began telling him about a session musician they knew from years back who had treated himself to a flashy brand-new Mazda and a hair transplant.

I eased my way out from behind the table and negotiated my way to the bar with our scribbled food order.

I was finishing chatting to the friendly student behind the bar when Dad materialised at my shoulder.

“You OK?” he whispered.

“Yes, I guess so. It’s all so weird, though.”

Over the buzz of the jukebox, which saw a song from The Beatles fizzle to an end and another from The Rolling Stones take over, Dad threw a look over his shoulder at his cluster of bandmates.

Mikey was explaining something about his vocal range while Jack was pointing over at him and gleefully pointing out his greying haze of stubble.

“I don’t know what I’m going to say to Ed about all this,” admitted Dad after a lengthy pause. “But I know we can’t leave things as they are.”

I gave a resigned nod. “I know you’re right. And anyway, that would be far too risky a strategy with Cruella lurking around.”

“That’s your own mother you’re talking about.”

“Yes. And?”

Dad smiled briefly and then frowned. “I was kind of hoping she and Ramon would stay in Italy for a bit longer to give us a bit of breathing space.”

I thanked the bubbly girl behind the bar as she placed our drinks on a tray. “Yes, why is there never a volcanic eruption when you want one?”

Once the drinks had been received with a chorus of hearty noises and the piping hot array of soups and cod and fries were delivered to our table, we tucked in with gusto.

Well, the rest of them did.

Dad and I found ourselves jabbing our forks at our slices of breaded fish and chunky golden fries in nervous anticipation.

We had no idea how Ed would react to the news that I might be his daughter. Maybe he would simply attempt to laugh it off and deny ever having had a fling with my mother at all?

I managed to stomach a few more mouthfuls of food and then pushed my plate across the table. The other guys had already demolished their meals and were slumped back in their seats, patting their bellies and proclaiming that in their younger days they could eat a smorgasbord of calorie-laden delights and not put on an ounce.

“It was all that prancing about on stage we did,” mused Mikey with longing. “We would just sweat it off.”

“Prancing about?” echoed Stan. “Speak for yourself, mate. You lead singers might prance, but us rhythm guitarists don’t.”

There was a series of guffaws and protests from Mikey, but my attention was drawn to Norrie and Clem who were clattering in through the pub door. “It’s all happening round here tonight,” exclaimed Norrie, surveying the crowded pub and shuffling through the throng towards us.

“Aye, it’s a busy Friday night,” agreed Dad, taking a gulp from his pint glass.

“Oh, I’m not talking about in here,” said Norrie with importance. “I’m talking about all that carry-on up at old Tavish’s place, Coorie Cottage.”

My head snapped round. “What do you mean?”

Norrie smoothed his wisps of grey hair over his crown. “I was only talking to young Tom and that police sidekick of his in the car park a few minutes ago. Apparently, there’s some sort of commotion and they’ve been summoned up there now.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I swung round in my seat and the conversation at our table lulled. “The police have gone up to Coorie Cottage?”

Dad frowned as he took a considered gulp of his beer. “A break-in?”

Clem, who was standing beside Norrie, slid out of her aubergine cardigan and draped it over one arm. “All Tom would say was that it sounded like some sort of disturbance.”

At this point, my imagination decided to go full throttle. Images of Mask struck over the head by some opportunist thief flooded screaming into my head.