Читать книгу Secret Things and Highland Flings - Tracy Corbett - Страница 10

Saturday 2nd June

Lexi jolted when the train braked suddenly. Not that she’d been asleep. She rarely slept these days. Even if she hadn’t been lying in a cramped bunk inside a tiny cabin, she’d still be wide awake staring up at the ceiling. Or in this instance, the empty bunk above.

She pushed back the covers and eased herself out of the bunk bed, ducking her head so she didn’t bang it on the bed above. Talk about poky. She edged sideways past the ladder to reach the narrow door and escape into the corridor, which wasn’t much wider.

Maybe she should have put a jumper on; she felt somewhat exposed walking down a public corridor dressed only in a nightshirt. Not that there was anyone about. It was four a.m. Everyone else was fast asleep. Lucky them.

She used to sleep just fine, but everything had changed that fateful night eighteen months ago when her life had been upended. In hindsight, she should have seen it coming. The signs were all there. The secrecy. The excuses. The elaborate stories that didn’t quite ring true. Not to mention her sister’s concerns about Marcus’s erratic behaviour. Nonetheless, it had still come as a shock.

Marcus had been restless all evening, refusing to come to bed, claiming he was dealing with ‘important business stuff’. She should have realised he was up to something when he closed his laptop so she couldn’t see what he was typing. Instead, she’d shrugged it off and gone to bed, only to be woken in the early hours when a door slammed below.

Realising Marcus wasn’t in bed, she’d headed downstairs to find the house empty. And that’s when she’d found his note, propped against the coffee jar. A sense of foreboding had enveloped her. Tears had blurred her vision as she’d read about his affair with Cindy … the business going into receivership … the investigation by HMRC for tax avoidance.

There’d been no heartfelt apology for dropping her in it, or promises to make everything right, just a load of half-hearted excuses for his behaviour. There’d certainly been no mention of his gambling addiction, or emptying of their bank account. That information had only come to light in the days that followed.

Sleep had eluded her ever since.

She shook the memory away and continued down the corridor. A door slammed behind her. She turned sharply, falling against the window as the train rocked from side to side. But there was no one there – not that she could see without her lenses in. Just an empty corridor.

Her paranoia was increasing. Ever since her encounter with the blue-eyed thief, she’d sensed she was being followed. It was crazy, of course. Her imagination was working overtime. But thanks to Marcus, she could no longer trust her instincts.

She used the facilities and returned to her cabin, ignoring the sensation of someone peering out from behind a cabin door. She really needed to dial down her stress levels. It was probably another passenger waiting to use the facilities.

When she was safely back in her cabin, she bolted the door and checked the painting was still tucked under the sink. It was. See? No one was after her.

Shivering, she climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over her.

Feeling jittery was only to be expected. She was travelling with a potentially valuable Renaissance painting. Although whether it was genuine or not remained unknown.

After her encounter with the blue-eyed thief, she’d phoned Eleanor Wentworth’s daughter, who’d confirmed that she did have a brother called Oliver and yes, she’d like the painting returned. Louisa had apologised for any inconvenience caused and claimed she hadn’t realised the painting wasn’t one of her mother’s. However, she’d also sounded extremely confused and unsure as to why there was an issue, so it didn’t take a genius to work out the brother was up to something.

Tempting as it was to enlighten Louisa, she’d decided a better approach would be to wait until she was in Scotland. She didn’t want to badmouth the brother or ruin her chances of evaluating the rest of the family’s art collection. Plus, there was a reason why the brother didn’t want her looking too closely at the painting. Once she was in Scotland and away from the stresses of her life, she might be able to discover what that was.

Thinking about the blue-eyed thief made her agitated.

She rolled over, whacking her elbow on the ladder.

She still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened the other night. One minute she was in the storeroom cataloguing a new arrival, the next she was witnessing a man stealing the Woman at the Window. Or so she’d thought. Her assumption that Marcus had sent one of his idiot cronies to harass her into returning his money had been incorrect. Unfortunately, she hadn’t realised this before stabbing the man with a Stanley knife. Unintentionally, of course. Mortifying, nonetheless.

Just thinking about it made her shudder. She could have killed him. Well, maybe not killed, but seriously injured him. He could have reported her for ABH. In fact, why hadn’t he? If he was genuinely there on behalf of the family to collect one of their paintings and the gallery owner had randomly attacked him, why wouldn’t he have reported her to the police?

At the very least he’d have withdrawn the offer for her to evaluate the rest of the collection. She hadn’t exactly acted professionally. The fact that he hadn’t only added to her suspicions that something dodgy was going on.

And she’d had her fill of dodgy men. She wasn’t about to get involved with another one. No matter how blue those eyes were …

She rolled over, more awake than ever.

In among the panic she’d felt at seeing an unauthorised man in her basement, she’d also felt a frisson of heat, which wasn’t welcome.

She reasoned that it was her hormones having a laugh at her expense, throwing a tall, cute guy in her direction to mess with her instincts. But instead of making him trustworthy and decent, recompense for having been scammed by a cheating liar in the past, the gods had made him a carbon copy of her ex. A good-looking charmer, after whatever he could get, and doing whatever was necessary to ‘close the deal’.

Well, she hadn’t fallen for it. She’d confronted him. Challenged his motives. Resisted his attempts to charm her … and then stabbed him.

Oh, God. She buried her head under the pillow.

She’d been so mortified by her actions she hadn’t even told Tasha what had happened. By the time her sister had arrived home the blood had been mopped up, the Woman at the Window had been returned to the showroom and she was in bed pretending to be asleep. If she’d told Tasha, then her sister would have wanted to know why she hadn’t called the police. More significantly, why she’d gone on to invite the blue-eyed thief into their flat and fed him cake. As she didn’t know the answer herself, it’d seemed better to keep quiet.

Her alarm buzzed. It was six thirty a.m. and she hadn’t slept a wink. She sighed and blinked as the faint Scottish sunlight seeped through the small cabin window, obscured by a thick pleated curtain. She climbed out of bed and spent the next thirty minutes attempting to wash and dress in the cramped space.

A guard knocked on the door. He handed her a breakfast parcel and recommended she head to the lounge car to enjoy the views.

After thanking him, she locked the cabin door behind her and made her way down the corridor. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. A sensible person would have opted for glasses today instead of lenses, but they were packed at the bottom of her suitcase and she hadn’t fancied unearthing everything.

As she entered the lounge car, the sight that greeted her more than made up for a sleepless night. They were travelling through the Cairngorms.

She found a seat on a couch and took a moment to absorb the wash of purple heather speeding by. The early morning mist hadn’t quite lifted and in the distance she could see snow-capped mountains, at odds with the onset of summer.

She opened her breakfast parcel, delighting at the smell of hot porridge. The tightness in her chest momentarily eased. This was an adventure. She needed to stop focusing on life’s stresses and enjoy the experience. After all, where else could you look out of a window and see a stag standing proud just a few feet away, his antlers backlit in the morning sunlight. It was breathtaking.

Her elation briefly dipped when she sensed someone watching her. She turned to see a man disappearing into the corridor. Had he been watching her? She caught herself. It was much more likely he was returning to his cabin to fetch something. Yes, that was more plausible.

She resumed eating her porridge, followed by a banana and a hot cup of tea. She pocketed the mini shortbreads for later and settled in for the remainder of the journey.

The rocking train helped to relax her stiff muscles. She slid lower on the couch and rested her head against the window, admiring the views as they sped past. Green fields filled with sheep, cows and deer. The horizon dominated by huge mountains, the ground covered in dense yellow gorse and clusters of trees. Beautiful.

The train passed through numerous stations without stopping. She caught glimpses of signs in both Gaelic and English, the old station buildings built from grey slate. They travelled over the Glenfinnan Viaduct, the location for Harry Potter and his flying car. Her tummy flipped as the train climbed higher and the landscape disappeared below, almost as if they were airborne.

She was so mesmerised that she startled when the guard announced they were pulling into Inverness. She had to run back to her cabin to collect her things.

A few minutes later, she was ready to disembark. Lifting her suitcase onto the platform while trying not to drop the wrapped nineteen-inch painting tucked under arm proved harder than anticipated. She could have used a courier to return the painting to its rightful owners, but the cost of insuring a potentially valuable Renaissance painting would have been astronomical. Plus, there was no guarantee a courier would take proper care of it. It was safer this way.

Thankfully, she wasn’t trying to contend with heels. She’d opted for her 1940s blue-spotted sailor jumper, three-quarter-length jeans and red ballet pumps in an effort to appear ‘casual’. But she was still making a meal out of trying to unload her luggage. A friendly guard came to her rescue and wheeled her suitcase towards the exit.

Something made her glance back. Once again, she had the sensation of being followed, but there was no one there. She focused on finding the car hire place, which was situated inside the adjacent shopping precinct.

Having filled in the paperwork, she sent Tasha a quick ‘I’ve arrived’ message and made her way down to the car park.

When she spotted her ‘budget’ vehicle in the allotted space, she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It was a mint green Fiat 500. Would her luggage even fit inside? It was going to be a squeeze.

Her suitcase took up all the boot space, so the painting had to be tucked behind the driver’s seat. At least it was secured in a wooden case.

Fifteen minutes later, with her satnav programmed for Shieldaig, she was ready to head off.

Getting out of the car park was the first complication. She inadvertently took a wrong turn and had to double back on herself. Maybe if she hadn’t turned off the roundabout too soon she’d never have noticed the red car behind, but when the car did a U-turn so it could pull in behind, her suspicions grew. Another coincidence?

She put her foot down, using the busy dual carriageway to gain some distance from the car behind, driving more erratically than she would normally. It did the trick. As she headed away from Inverness, the red car was nowhere in sight. Good.

She settled back, put the radio on and concentrated on following the satnav’s directions. The first part of her journey took her through the city, but the landscape changed as she ventured further into the Highlands. It was hard to focus on driving when the sight of huge mountains and tranquil lochs kept diverting her attention. After an hour’s driving, she saw a sign for a photo spot by Glen Docherty and decided to stop.

She pulled into the gravel turn-off and got out. The first thing that struck her was the force of the wind. It whipped her hair around her face, tickling her nose. She breathed in. The air was cool and fresh and smelt of … nothing. Just air. Bliss.

The view ahead was stunning. A deep valley cut through the hills, their banks covered in grasses and heathers, the foliage bending in the breeze. The colours ranged from bright green to muted browns and coal greys. The sky looked alive, the clouds moving at such speed they cast shadows across the landscape, changing the colour palette.

She wanted to capture the moment in paint. Not that she could do it justice. She settled for taking a few photos, eager to send them to her sister.

Her equilibrium was interrupted by the sound of a car.

She glanced over. The red car from earlier was pulling into the car park.

Anger overrode any fear for her safety and she marched over, noticing the taxi licence displayed in the window. ‘Why are you following me?’ she yelled, shaking her fist at the driver, who was hidden behind tinted windows.

The car reversed at speed, skidded and turned back onto the road.

‘That’s right, run away!’ she shouted, secretly glad they hadn’t been up for a confrontation. ‘Coward!’

Shivering, she got back in the Fiat. It was official – she was being followed.

By whom? Had Marcus got wind of her trip to Scotland? Even if he had, he wouldn’t know her final destination. A detour was needed. She checked her map. The direct route to Shieldaig took her along the coastal road, but if she used the mountain road it might give her the opportunity to shake whoever it was off.

She reprogrammed the satnav and headed off, constantly checking her mirrors.

The road ahead narrowed and soon became a single lane. Thankfully, there weren’t many other cars on the road. There wasn’t enough room for two and she had to pull into the passing bays to allow any approaching vehicles past. What with that and checking she wasn’t being followed, it didn’t allow any time for sightseeing.

Consequently, she hadn’t realised the terrain had changed until she’d turned off the main road and began snaking her way up the mountain track. A series of twists and turns followed, the surface precarious and bumpy.

By the time she’d passed the road signs warning ‘Not for Learner Drivers’, ‘No Wide Vehicles’ and ‘No Caravans Past this Point’, it was too late to turn around. The lane was too narrow. Plus, there was a sheer drop to her right. Where the hell were the protective barriers?

A sign stating ‘You have Reached 3000 Feet’ didn’t help. Neither did the sight of a wreath perched against a tight bend. Had someone driven off? Oh, crumbs.

She slowed to a crawl. The early morning mist had morphed into thick damp fog, obscuring her view. She could barely see past the bonnet. And then a van appeared ahead. She squealed and braked. The van driver seemed unperturbed by the conditions and pulled into the layby so she could pass.

Thank God she was on the left – no way would she want to swerve to the right. Not with that sheer drop.

She edged past as slowly as she could, almost too afraid to look. The van sped off.

Far from feeling relieved, she had a hairpin bend to negotiate and visibility was even worse. Why had she taken the mountain road? What an idiot.

She blinked hard, trying to bring her surroundings into focus. Had her contact lens moved? She rubbed her eye. It made her vision worse … and then it dawned on her. She’d torn another lens. Blast it. And her glasses were squashed in the bottom of her suitcase. Could things get any worse?

Apparently so.

Headlights appeared behind. The red taxi. Oh, hell.

As much as she wanted to drive off, she couldn’t see clearly enough. She looked in her rear-view mirror and saw the blurred image of a man exiting the passenger side.

It wouldn’t have been a shock to see her ex-husband walking towards the Fiat. Or one of his hired goons. But the combination of thick fog and one contact lens meant it wasn’t until he’d reached the driver’s door that she realised it wasn’t Marcus. It was the blue-eyed thief.