Page 17 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Twelve

I ran to the end of the pavement. The stranger’s car vanished up the road, and it was only after he’d disappeared that it occurred to me that I should have taken a note of his car registration and gone to the Police, but what would I have said?

‘This man was looking into my cottage window.’ He could have a perfectly innocent explanation.

I was struggling to think of something plausible, though.

I returned to Bronte, who was stationed beside our two shopping bags outside the supermarket entrance.

I made my way back clutching the shopping with Bronte trotting beside me like a little pony, secured on her lead.

I peered up the road, in the same direction as the mysterious older man had headed in his car only moments ago.

Was he local? Did he live here in Rowan Bay?

Or was he a tourist? Or maybe he had a holiday home here?

Maybe Mitch had been right. Perhaps he’d simply been out for a stroll, taken a wrong turning and was going to ask for directions. But then, if he had, why not knock on the door, instead of peering in the sitting room and frightening me half to death and then running away.

I turned everything over in my head as I bumped my shopping along gripping Bronte’s lead at the same time; I wasn’t prepared to take any chances and let her off her lead again just yet.

I thought again about the older man I just saw.

What if Mitch had been right after all? What if I’d overreacted about the man at the window? What if my imagination had run away with me and the poor soul had just been lost or looking for someone? I was a writer, after all.

You were, reminded a dark voice in my subconscious. And my head wasn’t in a good place right now. In fact, I wondered if it would ever be again.

I glanced up at the marbled, miserable sky. The weather in Scotland round these parts could change in an instant.

It seemed like only yesterday that I’d arrived here, my face swollen with crying; the hundreds of miles between me and London a distant memory.

I completed the walk back to the cottage in a mental fog.

Would I ever be able to get my life back on an even keel? How could I move on from this? What had happened had delivered a severe kicking to my heart and splintered it into tiny pieces. How the hell could I manage to push everything into the past and pick my life back up?

Would I ever be able to do that?

The thought struck me like a huge, forked bolt of lightning.

I never, ever would’ve imagined me living my life without Joe by my side.

The very thought had seemed incomprehensible.

People say it takes time and you never learn to get over your grief.

You just learn how to deal with it from your own personal perspective.

But after all this– the revelations about him and Greta; me scrambling to face each day; struggling to put one foot in front of the other; abandoning London and our home and fleeing to Scotland with just a few belongings in the boot of the car– maybe I had to face up to the reality that this was my life now.

I didn’t know if I had the energy or the heart to try and start again. Everything seemed such a monumental effort and I didn’t have the passion.

How I hated it that he’d died and left all this car crash of emotions behind him.

I gave my head a mental jolt and crossed the road with Bronte and my groceries.

My grandparent’s cottage sat there, framed by the exploding clumps of heather in the garden and the bay water swishing about down below. Barclay had been tending to Grandma’s plants and mowing the lawn. It looked picture postcard pretty, even at this time of year.

Opposite and perched up on the cliff face was the lighthouse and its assorted, accompanying little outhouses. It fired upwards into the grey day in a solid white and blue statue.

Pictures of Barclay doffing his cap, shaking his white head of thick hair, and belting out that gusty laugh of his, skipped through my mind.

He’d been an excellent listener. He would have left me to sit there to wallow in my self-pity for a few minutes, before handing me a shot of his glistening, amber whiskey and instructing me to pour my heart out.

My downturned mouth trembled at the thought of the sweet, elderly man. I was delighted for him and Mags. They deserved to be together and live the rest of their lives as a happy, contented couple.

I wished he was still here, though. He and Mags had given me a call the other day and ordered me to visit them in Loch Lomond once they’d got their little cottage sorted, and I promised I would.

If Barclay could see me now, he’d have a few choice words to say to me about dusting myself down and taking each day as it came.

But I didn’t even feel capable of doing that.

Everything felt like a marathon that I had to limp through, and at night I’d fall into bed, dismissing visions of Joe spooned beside me.

Then I’d wake up with the sickening realisation of what had happened and the cold, brutal truth that I had to face another day in the knowledge that Joe had loved someone else.

It seemed like everything was happening at once– and not in a good way.

I eyed the lighthouse as I locked the garden gate behind me and negotiated my way up the path with my carrier bags. I let Bronte off the lead, and she pelted around the lawn for a few moments, then screeched up to the front door.

I opened it and allowed Bronte to skitter inside first, before I angled my way in with my shopping and locked the door behind me.

I began to deposit my spoils on top of the grey marble breakfast bar.

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.

Mitch stopped dead. His eyes turned to flint. He ignored the reporter’s outstretched hand. Mitch looked like a dark, avenging angel in his heavy, long coat. ‘How did you find out I was here?’

Harvey Flanagan dismissed the question. ‘We don’t reveal our sources, sir.’ He gave Mitch what he probably hoped was an endearing smile. ‘Now I won’t take up too much of your time.’

‘You won’t be taking up any of my time, I can assure you. I don’t speak to reporters.’

Unperturbed, the journalist continued. ‘If you could just spare a few minutes, Mr Carlisle, please? I’m writing a feature for the paper about civil action cases and the impact they have on business people like yourself. I’m sure many readers would be interested to hear what happened to you after?—’

Mitch didn’t give the journalist any more time. He pushed his chiselled, glowering face into the reporter’s. ‘Are you hard of hearing? I said I don’t speak to journalists. Now, sod off before I ask Kane here to see you off.’

Kane let out a low, menacing growl.

Staring down at the German Shepherd’s fixed attention on him, Harvey Flanagan took a few eager steps backwards. ‘There’s no need for threats, Mr Carlisle.’

‘Oh, they aren’t threats,’ clarified Mitch.

The journalist straightened his askew, navy and silver striped tie.

‘And don’t bother coming back here again.’

Kane took another deliberate step towards Harvey Flanagan.

The reporter took this as his cue to retreat to his car– a battered, tomato-red Kia– parked up further past the remote woodland. He wasted no time in jumping into his vehicle and speeding off.

Mitch stood there, his shoulders and back ramrod straight, watching the shabby car disappearing up the road. Bronte and Kane meanwhile were having a high old time chasing each other around the front of the cottage.

I eyed Mitch with confusion. What on earth was all that about? And what was it that reporter had started saying about the effect of civil court cases on business people like Mitch? Whatever it was he hadn’t wanted me to know.

Mitch flashed me a look from under his black beanie. He offered no explanation about why a reporter from a big newspaper like the Glasgow Mail wanted to talk to him. He cleared his throat. ‘I hope that character didn’t give you any grief?’

I eyed him. ‘No, not at all. I’m fine, thanks.’

There was an awkward silence, with just the water in the bay sloshing down below.

‘And your prowler?’

It was clear Mitch was keen to move the conversation on to another topic.

‘He hasn’t been back since, although I did see him in the high street, after I’d been shopping.’

Mitch’s thick, dark brows flexed under his hat. ‘What, just now?’

‘Yes. I spotted him across the road from the supermarket. He’d bought a newspaper and was going back to his car.’

Mitch digested what I’d just told him. ‘Well, any more issues, you know where I am. Where we both are.’ He gestured to Kane, whose tongue flapped. ‘I mean it, Rosie. You aren’t on your own.’

An odd flutter of gratitude took me by surprise.

Mitch gave Kane an affectionate scratch behind one ear. Then he turned and strode off back up the path towards the lighthouse, with no explanation offered about what had just happened– or why.