Page 55 of The Cottage in the Highlands

Kerry blushed with gratitude to the roots of her shiny milk-chocolate hair. “I can’t thank you enough for your help, Leonie.”

I dismissed her thanks with an easy smile. “You can thank me when our investigation is mentioned on the national news.”

While Kerry was ringing Lulu’s PR people I contacted her agent, but smacked into a brick wall straight away. “Lulu is in the middle of rehearsals for her It’s Not All About Me tour,” snipped one of her management team. “I’ll be sure to pass on your interest.”

The remainder of the week was proving to be one of mixed fortunes.

Kerry told me she had managed to extract a couple of quotes from Lulu’s people about the products “tearing up the rules of skincare and starting a revolution reflecting the stringent research undertaken” and another from a poverty charity that had Lulu as its ambassador who expressed their surprise and concern that “Ms Stark was involved in such a costly enterprise”.

“Excellent!” I grinned at Kerry as we hovered by the stairwell. “I’m going to keep pestering Lulu’s management. They’ll probably resist us for another week or so and then realise they could be doing themselves more damage by not speaking to us.”

“And I’ll see if I can get anything else from a couple of the other charities Lulu Stark works with,” chimed in Kerry.

“Good.” I frowned. “It all seems rather odd, though. I’ve never met Lulu Stark, but she always came across as one of the genuine ones.”

“I know what you mean.” She swung around in her leather boots before turning back to me. “You know something, Leonie? I think I’m beginning to enjoy myself working here. That’s thanks to you.”

I pulled a playful face. “Yes, well don’t enjoy yourself too much, otherwise you really will give the game away!”

Apprehension began to crawl over me about the impending meeting with Flynn Talbot. I tried to dispel the doubts. Something told me I hadn’t thought this through as much as I should have done… That should be the inscription on my headstone, I thought to myself.

And so Friday rushed up to greet me and before I knew what I was doing, I was stationed at a table in the impressive surroundings of the Sycamore Tea Rooms, on Glasgow’s Buchanan Street.

The atmosphere was one of genteel decadence, emphasising the tea room’s stature as the oldest of its kind in the city.

I was sitting at a table across the room, nursing a pot of tea and trying not to look conspicuous – and failing.

I tried not to make it obvious I was staring at the entrance, waiting for Flynn Talbot to arrive. This in itself was crazy, as I didn’t even know what the man looked like. I had double and triple checked and there were no photographs of him on his Facebook account and he didn’t have a Twitter or Instagram account either.

I had estimated that he must be at least seventy years of age, but had no idea how I might recognise him. The only thing he had said in another Facebook message last night was that he would be wearing a white shirt and a navy waistcoat.

I concluded he might be a bit of a silver fox; one of those lounge lizard types still trying to cling on to the last vestiges of their youth.

The thought made me draw my mouth in with disapproval.

I fought the temptation to make assumptions as I sat there, waiting for Flynn Talbot to arrive. What sort of man was he? Everything pointed to him having upped and left to go to Africa with his wife all those years ago, but having failed to return after a year like he had promised. Is that what happened? Did he break his promise to Lily about coming back?

But he had obviously returned to Scotland at some point, though not to Merry Wood, and poor Lily had been pining for him ever since. In her mind, was Merry Wood like some sort of shrine to him? If so, I was beginning to decide he wasn’t worth it. I felt sorry for his wife and for Lily. They no doubt deserved so much better.

I took a sip of my breakfast tea and tried to stem my apprehension and annoyance by appreciating my surroundings.

The Sycamore Tea Rooms were inspired by Charles Rennie McIntosh and consisted of a mix of circular and square tables covered in snow-white table cloths and surrounded by walnut-brown high-backed chairs.

Christmas holly, ribbons, and a white and silver tree decorated with Rennie McIntosh coasters and pens instead of baubles adorned the tea room entrance.

The menus were black leather-clad affairs. Straight through from the tea room was a Charles Rennie McIntosh inspired giftshop decked out with white walls and silver cabinets and spotlights, boasting everything from scented candles to pictures, and clocks.

I glanced down at my watch. Flynn Talbot was five minutes late.

My stomach clenched as a couple of well-dressed women arrived and were escorted to their table.

Like composing photo-fit pictures in my head, I imagined him to be all craggy and distinguished, with a sun-kissed complexion and twinkly eyes.

Oh. Hang on! Was that him?

A tall, confident-looking older man with a generous head of silvery hair appeared and stared around himself.

That must be him.