Page 50 of A Scottish Country Escape

Elsa led me away from the kitchen and through a heavy door – another oak-panelled affair. This led out into the grand hall, which was a mismatched combination of silver-grey tiled floor, a dark wood winding spiral staircase I could imagine Cinderella sweeping down, and two velvet chairs in olive green that were accompanied by a matching sofa.

Two large black and white prints of horses decorated the white walls.

I studied the proud stallions, who were staring down their nostrils at the camera. Their long tousled manes flapped in the wind. ‘Both those horses belonged to Mr Grayling,’ said Elsa, folding her arms. ‘That one is Byron and the other one is Wilde.’

Something made me conjure up an image of him riding along a windswept beach, his dark hair ruffled with salt. I pushed away the picture, realising my cheeks felt warm. ‘Does he still have the horses?’

‘His parents take care of them for him. They live in the Cotswolds.’

She beckoned me forward to another door to the right of the hall that was closed. ‘It’s Mr Grayling’s dream to use the rest of the land here to have his own stud farm.’

‘Hello.’

The door moved and we both jumped guiltily at the sight of Dexter standing there. He filled the doorway in a loose white cotton shirt and black jeans. His hair appeared to have been freshly washed and was falling back in damp layers from his face.

His attention travelled from my ponytail down to my jewelled ballet pumps. I realised I was staring back, equally as intensely as he was. I tilted my chin up. ‘Hi, Dexter.’

‘Thanks for coming. Please come in.’

He stepped to one side and I moved past him.

While he exchanged a few words with Elsa about what he fancied for breakfast the next day, I snatched the opportunity to take in the fluted blue drapes at the floor-to-ceiling window and his heavy polished writing desk.

It was positioned to the right of the window so that it took in the rear lawns and a burst of trees that fed down to some farmland.

The nature reserve was stippled beyond that, in amongst the army of forest and trickling streams. No wonder Dexter wanted to write in this room. The view was like a Constable painting.

‘This is where I find I’m at my most creative,’ he said from behind me. ‘Well, usually.’

I spun round, a pang of sympathy for him hitting me in the chest.

He pointed to a quilted high-backed chair on the other side of his desk and I sank down into it. He sat down too, the top of his desk an array of notebooks and scribbled-on sheets of paper. His flatscreen computer was switched off.

Frustration was etched into every sinew of his features.

‘Look,’ I blurted, keen to say something positive, ‘I don’t know if my idea will work, but we should at least give it ago. Someone might see our notice in the paper and respond.’

I refused to believe that there wasn’t someone somewhere who knew Linda Carlucci’s whereabouts. ‘And she can’t live that far away from here since she has started appearing again from time to time.’

Dexter’s lashes cast a shadow against his cheeks. ‘I’m getting desperate, Elle. I really am.’

My eyes were drawn to a shelf behind him. Running along the length of it, were paperback copies of his novels. His name ran down each spine in gold lettering. There must have been at least a dozen books there.

He followed my gaze.

I set my shoulders in what I hoped was a show of confidence. ‘Well then, let’s give it a try.’

I reached down to my feet and plucked a small notebook out of my bag, along with a pen. I flicked it open. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but I did also wonder about you hiring a private detective…’

His voice was cold and abrupt. ‘No.’ He rubbed at his chin. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Elle. It’s nothing to do with the cost. I have the money. It’s just…’

I waited.

‘It’s just, I hired one a few years ago on a personal matter. I thought I could trust him, but he ended up trying to sell a story about me to the press.’

‘OK. Then we do it our way. So I thought we could draft up an appeal for information.’

Something made me raise my eyes from where I had started scribbling on the lined paper. I could feel him watching me.