Page 104 of A Scottish Country Escape

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‘What do you think his reaction will be?’ asked Elsa a little later, shooting me a sideways glance. ‘Cameron Lomax.’

I watched her clamber into her car as the stars pricked the sky above Pebble Brook. ‘I honestly don’t know. I’m hoping he’ll be willing to speak to Linda Carlucci and that she will agree to see him. But that could be a long way off.’

‘Maybe if Cameron Lomax were to talk to her… apologise… explain what happened that night Ross died. It might do some good.’

I wasn’t sure about any of it right now. If Cameron Lomax did agree to talk to us, I wasn’t sure what our next course of action should be. Linda Carlucci seemed to be carrying around so much resentment and heartache, even after all these years, and seeing Dexter’s resemblance to Ross had brought it all hurtling back for her.

I had lived here for twenty-nine years and yet I had never heard stories about the Carlucci family. Was it because locals were embarrassed about how they had been treated? Was it down to their lives having been tangled up in some way with the Carlucci’s’?

Was regret and embarrassment a large part of it?

I munched on a white chocolate cookie and fired up my laptop.

Gran had gone to bed and Pebble Brook was surrounded by the blackcurrant darkness.

I dashed some cookie crumbs from my pyjama bottoms and leant forward. The neon glow from my laptop screen illuminated my face.

My fingers tapped Cameron Lomax into the search engine and I slumped back. I didn’t know what I expected to see or find, but what flickered up in front of me still came as a surprise.

I scrolled down, ignoring the images of a twenty-something Cameron Lomax on holiday in Ibiza and a forty-year-old Cameron Lomax who lived in New York and sold real estate. The Cameron Lomax I was searching for wasn’t either of them.

Then my attention flitted to a couple of photos of an intense-looking older man. He possessed a prominent forehead and an enviable sweep of salt-and-pepper, collar-length hair.

One photograph appeared to have been taken at a formal dinner. He was dressed in a penguin suit and had a rather starchy expression.

The other picture was of him seated on a varnished bench in what looked like an art gallery. There was a grand Cavalier-style painting behind him in a gilded frame.

I tapped on the link that accompanied the picture to discover it was a newspaper interview undertaken with him a year ago.

Was this him? My brows crawled upwards. This Cameron Lomax was a successful art dealer.

I began to read the article and within the first couple of paragraphs, it confirmed that he was originally from Fir Haven. It also stated that he was ‘a fit and energetic man in his seventies’.

It must be him. This must be the Cameron Lomax who had been involved in Ross Ronald’s death.

I greedily carried on reading. His responses to the journalist’s questions were considered and thoughtful, but he made no more reference to his home town, only that he was a great admirer of the late and local nineteenth-century artist, Stratford Miller, and that he and several other rival art collectors were hoping that his first work, Little Town, would be discovered one day.

I focused again on the interview, reading a few paragraphs about Cameron Lomax’s career and his particular passion for the Romantic period.

I bit my lip and snatched up my half-eaten cookie from its plate. My stomach swirled with anticipation. Something told me our conversation with him wasn’t going to be easy.

* * *

We parked a few feet away from Cameron Lomax’s address. It was a steel-grey apartment block, overlooking the extravagant shops and eateries of Merchant City. It appeared to have been a church at some point, before having been converted into swish apartments.

The windows were long and narrow, twinkling out of the grey brick.

A man walking his springer spaniel gave us a quizzical look as he marched past my stationary car.

Cate and Gran were taking care of Paper Roses, so at least I had no concerns about the shop. Right now, all I could think about on this dull Saturday afternoon in September was Linda Carlucci and Dexter.

The newsreader on the car radio finished talking about waiting times in the NHS. I was about to click it off when she moved on to the last item. ‘And, finally, there have been reports that the painting Little Town, by the Fir Haven artist Stratford Miller, has been discovered at a local residence in the Scottish town.

‘Details are sketchy, but the Glasgow Museum of Art have confirmed that the mysterious piece has been found, but no further information on its whereabouts, who came across the painting, or who owns it, have been released.’

I switched off the radio and widened my eyes at Elsa. ‘Wow. Someone will be very happy today after finding that. I bet whoever it is won’t be going in to work this morning.’