Page 46 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

I sat there, frozen in the driver’s seat, for what seemed like ten minutes before I reached across to the passenger side and double-checked in my bag that I had my big, Jackie Onassis style sunglasses and pink, pearly bobble hat with me. With my new hair colour, the little weight I’d gained and my change of style, I was unrecognisable to people who didn’t know me well, but I’d met Bernie McKew before and I wasn’t taking any chances.

So, taking a leaf out of Ezra’s disguise handbook, I thrust on my Jackie O sunglasses and my hat, pulling it low down over my ears. I also wrapped a scarf around my neck so that it almost covered my chin and fluffed out my loose hair at the ends. If I kept all this on in there, hopefully, Bernie McKew wouldn’t recognise me.

I’d only met Bernie once, at our engagement party a couple of years ago, at Bannock House. Declan had invited him to our wedding that never was and he’d accepted.

I jumped out of the van, locked it and examined the exterior of the pub. It was one of those old-fashioned, glass-bottled windowed affairs, with a brown and gold sign swinging above the heavy, double doors of a pirate with one leg raised and his foot resting on a barrel.

Inside, the atmosphere was laidback, with Sir Tom Jones belting out one of his classics from a nearby jukebox.

The bar was set in front of what looked like a collage of bright, stained-glass shapes of more pirates and barrels. A couple of older gents were stationed at one end of the bar, cradling pints and grumbling to one another about football results, and I was sure that was Bernie McKew stood behind the bar, with his stout frame and polished, balding head.

I approached and tried to make my voice sound a little hoarser. “Mr McKew?”

Bernie snapped his head up. “Aye. Can I help you?” He eyed me in my sunglasses and bobble hat.

“I’m looking for someone I think you might know. Declan Rooney?”

Bernie set down the tea towel he’d been fiddling with. “And you are?”

“Bailey McArthur.”

“Police?”

“Oh no,” I rushed, before realising that my voice was reverting back to a higher timbre. “No,” I went on, in the deeper lilt. “He owes a friend of mine money and we need to track him down.”

Bernie squinted over at the two customers perched at the end of the bar, then swivelled his attention back to me. “You and me both, lass,” he growled. “All the help I gave that lad and he goes and throws it back in my face.”

A sliver of relief shot through me. I felt empathy for Bernie, but was also a little relieved that I didn’t seem to be the only one who’d fallen for Declan’s lies. “How did he swindle you?”

“Told me he wanted to go into the pub trade and that he’d spotted these great little premises on the West Coast. Showed me photos, spec, took me to see the place, the whole kit and kaboodle.” Bernie shook his head. “Declan said he knew his music career, such as it was, wouldn’t last forever and going into the pub trade with me would be a cushion to fall back on.”

“But it was a scam?”

Bernie’s face stung at the memory. “Aye. It was. I agreed to go into partnership with him and was looking forward to the challenge of taking on another boozer.”

“What happened?” I asked, studying him through the lenses of my smoky sunglasses. “He did a runner with my investment. Just upped and vanished. We’d organised a wee party to celebrate going into business together at the new pub, but he never showed.” Bernie scratched at his clean-shaven chin. “I was left standing there in my best suit, clutching a pair of gold scissors to cut the ribbon across the door, surrounded by my family, friends, and folks I’ve known in the pub trade for over thirty years.” Bernie looked like he wanted the sticky wooden floor to swallow him up. “Talk about feeling a dick. Oh, excuse the language.”

“Don’t worry.”

Bernie eyed me across the bar. “So, are you saying he’s come back here? To Glasgow?”

I tried not to fidget on the spot. I was supposed to be a cool, calm, and collected shady character. “So I’ve heard. You haven’t seen him?”

“No, I haven’t,” he grunted. “He’d be eating hospital food through a straw if I had.” Then a wounded look shone out of his bull-like, pale eyes. “I lent him money when he was short, gave him and his band gigs in here; I even acted as his manager for a while. Then he got himself that poor Lady Whatsit. Look what he did to her. Heartless toerag!”

I swallowed. “Yes, it was awful what he put her through.”

Bernie wiped his hands on the tea towel. “Just goes to show how some of us can be such a poor judge of character.”

His beefy shoulders straightened and he turned round to give one of the glasses a polish with another tea towel. “I’ll get onto the cops and tell them he’s been spotted. He just disappeared with my cash and that Lady Whatsit’s money too.” He breathed hard through his nose. “Bet there’s been more folks conned by that little shit than we know about.” Bernie continued to give the wine glass a good buff. “In a way, I can’t believe he’s got the cheek to rock back up to this neck of the woods after what he did. Then again, he always was a confident bugger.” Bernie started to turn around. “Now, I’m going to call the cops, so if you could give me your details… Hey, miss! miss!”

But I’d left the pub, shot round the corner and phoned the police, before streaking off back to Heather Moore.

* * *

The following morning, November was bringing its usual concoction of weather so changeable, it made the heads of the Heather Moore locals spin. Sharp, sleeting showers were replaced by gunmetal-grey skies that delivered bursts of snow. It was only about five weeks now till Christmas, so it was to be expected.

The surrounding hills were sugar spun and the country lanes glistened with bursts of holly berries.