Page 61 of A Scottish Island Summer

Chapter Fourteen

Logan drove us to a sweet little café a few miles away from the echoes of the dinosaurs at An Corran.

It was all net curtains, and fresh heather and daffodils in dinky little vases on the tables.

We ordered a stonking great ceramic pot of tea for two and I couldn’t resist adding a sticky apple bun. Logan threw himself at a slice of cherry chocolate cake.

Once we’d warmed ourselves through after our fossil search and after being on the receiving end of the sharp mid-March sea breeze, Logan gestured to me to pull my chair closer to him in the café.

He scrolled through some images on his phone and took another grateful mouthful of his tea before setting his cup down on the saucer with a decisive rattle.

I angled my chair so I was sitting much closer to him. I found myself admiring how his crisp, brown hair carried shots of chestnut. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’ I asked, pushing my attention back to his mobile phone screen.

‘You mean who am I looking for.’ His fingers danced across his phone. ‘Campbell Adams.’

‘Who?’

Logan picked up his fork and scraped at the last few crumbs of his cake littered on his plate. ‘Campbell Adams was a celebrated archaeologist from Skye. He used to write books about the history of the island.’

‘What happened to him?’

Logan glanced up from his mobile screen. ‘I think it’s fair to say he developed an obsession with finding the Skye Lovers’ Cross.’ Logan pulled a sympathetic face. ‘I think some of the locals thought he’d lost the plot.’

As teacups clinked around us and soft pan pipe music wafted in the background, Logan turned his attention to his phone again. ‘After he and his wife divorced, Campbell Adams seemed to develop an even deeper fixation about finding it. He was convinced it did exist and that it was located here on the island somewhere.’

‘So, what was the issue?’

Logan sighed. ‘He was a member of the Skye Historical Society, but his preoccupation with finding the cross caused a lot of friction. Some of his compatriots said he was at risk of embarrassing Skye and everyone who lived here. Others were worried he’d bring the society into disrepute. In the end, he just upped and left the island.’

My eyes followed Logan’s fingers as he continued to tap at his phone. ‘So, are you looking him up?’

Logan scrolled through what looked like a series of old photographs of a sharply dressed man, with side-swept black hair and an inquiring gaze. In some, he was sporting longer hair and kipper ties; in others, he was pictured on a variety of crumbly excavation sites or stationed behind an untidy desk.

Logan squinted at the images. ‘This is him. This is Campbell Adams.’ He angled his phone round for me, so I had a clearer view.

I took in the assertive-looking man.

‘You think our bearded mystery man is him? That he’s this Campbell…?’

‘Campbell Adams,’ supplied Logan. ‘Aye. I do.’

I appreciated the images on Logan’s phone, before conjuring up pictures in my head of the man we’d seen. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. I mean, it could be the same guy.’

I jumped back in my chair in surprise as Logan shot up, produced a twenty-pound note from his wallet and tossed it onto a saucer on the table. ‘I’m certain it’s him. Come on.’

I sprang to my feet and threw my rucksack back over my shoulders again. ‘Where are we going now, Logan?’

But he was already clattering open the café door, sending the bell above it into a frenzy.

* * *

Logan insisted he’d explain more about Campbell Adams once we’d reached an area called Sligachan Old Bridge, which was about a fifteen-minute drive away.

We parked up and made our way to the centre of the bridge, which was like something out of The Three Billy Goats Gruff.

It was light grey stone and consisted of sweeping arches. A dainty river trickled below and the mountainous ranges of the Cuillins laced upwards around it.

‘He helped me,’ said Logan from out of nowhere, gazing down at the water rippling over the rocks.