Page 31 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Bronte sensed that something was afoot and came darting into the kitchen. ‘You’re not stupid, are you? You know I’ve bought you something.’

She let out a thrilled little yap.

I delved my hand into the second carrier bag and located the squeaky apple. I tugged off the price tag and she sat bolt upright, her tongue lolling with excitement. She hitched up one paw for good measure. ‘Here you are.’

She took it in her mouth and trotted off towards the sitting room with a series of frantic squeals coming from the latex toy.

I finished stashing the groceries in the fridge and reached for Grandma’s spotty little teapot resting on the window sill.

I was just about to fill the kettle, when there were a couple of loud knocks on the front door.

My hand stilled, the kettle poised under the tap.

Bronte had heard someone, abandoned her apple and was already at the door, barking her head off.

I dumped the kettle on the counter and made my way up the short hallway. There was an old umbrella of my grandfather’s propped up in the corner. I eyed it. That man at the window had made me jumpy, there was no denying it.

I grasped the wooden handle. I must’ve looked like Mary Poppins, but I was ready to give anyone a bloody good thump with it, if need be.

Bronte continued to bark and growl as though her life depended on it and I flexed the fingers of my other hand around the door handle.

I tugged the door open, half expecting to see the grey-haired mystery man standing there.

But it wasn’t him.

Instead, I was face to face with a tall, thinner, younger man, who reminded me of a matchstick.

He was wearing a rumpled, grey suit under a long, woollen coat that was flapping open. I reckoned he was in his late forties.

He was clasping his mobile phone and gazed expectantly up at me from the doorstep. ‘Sorry to disturb you, madam, but I’m looking for a Mr Mitch Carlisle.’

‘He doesn’t live here. Well, not in this cottage, He’s the local lighthouse keeper⁠—’

The man cut across what I was saying. ‘Aye. I know. But there’s no answer up there.’

I stared past him and up at the lighthouse. ‘Have you tried his accommodation at the rear of the lighthouse? He might be in there or in one of the store rooms?’

The man shook his head in an irritated manner. ‘Been round there. No sign of him.’

‘Ah. Oh. Well, he’s probably just popped out.’

Relieved that this stranger wasn’t a reporter looking for me or the prowler coming back, I felt my shoulders relax a little. ‘You can leave a message with me if you like and I can pass it on to him?’

The man pulled an anguished face. He bent down and gave Bronte a friendly stroke. ‘I really do need to speak to him.’

‘Well, I don’t know how you’re going to do that if he’s not around at the moment. Like I say, if you give me a message, I’ll be sure to pass it on.’ Blimey. This guy had no patience. What was so pressing that he had to speak to Mitch straight away?

The stranger’s long face broke into a gleaming, if somewhat intimidating, smile. It didn’t reach his eyes as he looked back up at me. ‘My name’s Harvey Flanagan. I’m a journalist with the Glasgow Mail. I really would appreciate a word or two with Mr Carlisle.’

At that moment, there was a bark to the left of the woodland and Mitch and Kane emerged. Mitch had overheard him. ‘Who wants to know?’ asked Mitch, giving the reporter a suspicious look. Mitch nodded at me. ‘Hi, Rosie. Everything okay?’

‘Er… Hi,’ I faltered. ‘This gentleman was looking for you.’

The journalist spun round to see who I was talking to. ‘Mitch Carlisle?’ he asked, his voice rising with hope.

Mitch’s sea-coloured eyes narrowed. ‘Yep.’

The reporter strode up to Mitch and introduced himself. ‘Good to meet you, sir. Harvey Flanagan. I’m with the Glasgow Mail.’ He extended one hand.