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“Right.” My heart sinks. So close. So bloody close…
“For sale sign went up a few weeks back, so I suppose she’ll no’ be back now. Pity. They were a nice lot.” The neighbour shrugs and disappears into her house.
I gaze up at the sign. The name of the estate agent is emblazoned across it, along with the phone number to contact for details of the property.
It’s all I have left to go on, so I key in the number. “Hello. I’m interested in the property in Berwick, the old builder’s yard.”
“Ah, yes,” comes the polished reply. “Very desirable business premises. Would you also be interested in the house that goes with it?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. Can I have the particulars, please? Do you have details of the vendor? I… I have some queries about the neighbourhood.”
“Well, we should be able to handle any queries, miss.”
I think fast. “Are there any dogs in the near vicinity? I’m allergic, you see.”
“Dogs, miss?”
“Yes. Dogs. Are there any?”
“Not that I know of.”
“It’s very important,” I insist. “So, you see, if I could have a quick word with the vendor…”
“Well, there are contact details in the particulars. You could follow those up if you like. I’m sure they’ll be able to help you.”
“Excellent. Yes, I’ll ask. Could you email the details to me?” I rattle off my email address, then go back and sit in my car to wait for the sales pack to arrive.
Ten minutes later, my phone pings to alert me to a new email. I open the attachment and scroll through until I find the vendor’s details.
Any further enquiries to be made care of Caernbro Ghyll, Kirkintilloch, Glasgow.
I gaze up at the formidable iron gates. At over twelve feet high and securely locked, they don’t exactly offer a warm welcome. There isn’t even a bell to ring.
This is definitely the place, though. The name of the house is carved into the stonework beside the gate.
I peer between the bars but can’t make out anything beyond a few yards of gravelled drive and some impenetrable shrubbery.
“Hello,” I call out. “Is anyone there?”
Silence.
I try again. “Hey. Hello. Can anyone hear me?”
Still no response. I rattle the gate with dwindling optimism. Surely I haven’t spent days tracking Beth Sampson to end up here, staring at a locked gate and shouting into silence.
No bloody way.
I eye the gates and wonder how much effort it would take to scale them. Not a lot, really. Then I could march up to the house and just knock. Maybe I could say the gates were open…
I grasp the bars and try to find some sort of foothold, but there’s nothing. I kick the iron in frustration and turn to get back in my car.
And, I see it.
Ivy. Thick, luxuriant ivy, trailing over the top of the wall and tumbling towards the ground. I rush over and grab a handful, give it a sharp tug. It holds.
Using the vegetation to hang on to, I walk up the wall. I reach the bulk of the ivy and start to climb. In moments I’m peering over the top of the wall at the lawned gardens beyond.
No one is in sight, but from here I can see the house clearly. The place is huge, sprawling. Four storeys, turrets around the roofline, the main façade punctuated by neat windows. The place is well-kept and is clearly lived in, going by the cars parked on the forecourt. I count four, and they do not look like cheap motors. I spot an Audi, a couple of Land Rover Discoveries, and a low-slung sports car.
