Chapter Six

The Kingussie Fiddlers, Rosalie’s favourite ceilidh band, were in full flow, and like every Thursday night at the Four Winds, the music was loud, the dance floor packed and the bar heaving.

‘It’s a nice place,’ Marc remarked as they walked through the door.

Rosalie nodded, but her eyes scanned the crowd and her foot already tapped the floorboards to the fiddler’s lively tune. A young couple were dancing a little too energetically and bumped into her, almost knocking her over.

‘Careful!’ she warned.

‘Careful yourself, you silly tart,’ the young man spat. It was Kian Armitage, Niall’s apprentice at the garage.

Before she could say anything, Marc took hold of his arm, almost lifting him up from the floor. ‘I think you need to apologise, young man.’

‘Get off me.’ Kian shook him loose and tilted his chin up. ‘Apologise for what?’

He must have seen Marc’s icy glare, because he shrugged and turned to Rosalie. ‘All right, don’t fret. Sorry for bumping in to you.’ He glanced up at Marc again. ‘And for calling you … you know …’

She smiled. ‘Apology accepted, but in future, watch where you’re going.’

‘Right. Whatever.’ The teenager grabbed hold of his girlfriend’s hand and pulled her away.

Rosalie shook her head and leant towards Marc. ‘Kian is the youngest Armitage offspring, who also happens to be Niall’s apprentice.’

‘I recognise the girl,’ he said. ‘Isn’t she the doctor’s receptionist?’

‘Yes. I thought Stacey would know better than to hang about with Kian. He’s trouble.’

Spotting Niall and Alice in the crowd, she waved. Niall’s face lit up when he saw her. He yanked Alice away from the dance floor.

Rosalie felt a twinge of envy as her friend, stunning in a flirty red dress and black tights, tottered on her high heels towards her. How plain she must look in comparison, with her black top and her jeans tucked into boots. As usual, however, Niall seemed oblivious to Alice’s efforts to attract his attention. When would he realise that the young woman was crazy about him, and stop fantasising about rekindling his romance with Rosalie?

‘Hello again, handsome, will you buy me a drink?’ Alice fluttered her eyelashes at Marc and linked arms with him. Her fingers gripped his forearm, her bright red-painted nails a sharp contrast with the conservative blue of his shirt.

‘Sure. Would you like a drink too?’ he asked Rosalie, but she declined.

‘I didn’t realise they knew each other,’ Niall said as he watched the couple make their way across the dance floor. He turned to Rosalie. ‘You look worried. Is there anything wrong? Did you hear from the police about Duncan’s cab?’

She shook her head.

‘Is it Geoff?’

‘He’s still in hospital for observation, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. You know him, he’ll be enjoying being mollycoddled by the nurses.’

Niall narrowed his eyes and gestured towards Marc who stood head and shoulders above other patrons at the bar. ‘Is it him?’

She bit her lip and hesitated. It would be good to confide in her friend, but the time wasn’t right yet. She shook her head again. ‘No, of course not! Why do you say that?’

He shrugged, looking morose. ‘Any more problems or prank calls to report?’

There was no point telling him about the call at Loch Armathiel. He would only launch into another sermon about the dangers of being a woman taxi driver, then propose again.

‘No. Nothing.’

He frowned. ‘What were you doing on the Armathiel road earlier?’

‘I told you – taking Petersen on a scenic tour,’ she lied. Seeing that he was frowning again, she took his hand. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’

As always, the music cheered her up. She soon lost track of time as she performed the dance steps, and her heart beat to the wild rhythm of the drums. What she couldn’t forget however was Marc Petersen who stood at the bar with Alice glued to his side, and whose cool grey stare followed her every move.

‘What are you playing at?’ Rosalie asked Alice during the interval. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I would think that you’re flirting with the man.’ They found a free table while Marc and Niall went to the bar, and Rosalie fanned her flushed cheeks with a beer mat.

Alice shrugged. ‘So what if I am? Maybe it’s time I got over Niall. He’ll never give you up. Every time he opens his mouth it’s to talk about you. I’ve been in love with the man since primary school and he’s never even looked at me once, at least not the way he looks at you.’

She sighed and looked towards the bar where Petersen towered above everybody else. ‘To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind getting to know Marc better. He is a very attractive man and—’

‘You can’t!’ Rosalie cried out.

‘Why not?’ Alice frowned, and let out a long sigh. ‘Ah, I see. You want him for yourself, is that it?’

Rosalie put her hand to her heart. ‘Are you crazy? I can’t stand the man.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with him?’

‘He isn’t who you think he is, for a start.’

Alice burst out laughing. ‘You mean he isn’t really training to be a taxi driver? I could have gathered that much on my own. Did you know that his mother is a former French top model, and his father was a financial tycoon originally from Denmark? He died in a helicopter crash in Hong Kong recently. Marc had to relocate to London to take care of the business, but he usually lives in Paris.’

Rosalie let out a surprised breath. ‘I am impressed. You managed to extract all this information from him in a couple of hours.’

Alice’s lips stretched into a smug smile. ‘When you work in a café you develop certain people skills – a bit like a hairdresser, or a spy, I suppose.’ She leant forward in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Come on then, tell me the truth. What’s he really doing here?’

Rosalie slapped the beer mat on the table. ‘Why don’t you ask him, since you have such honed people skills? No, on reflection, don’t ask him. I’m sorry, Alice, but I can’t tell you anything just yet. All I can say is, be careful. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. Petersen is mean and ruthless, that’s all you need to know for now.’

Alice sighed. ‘You’re acting very mysterious all of sudden. Talking about mean and ruthless men, did you know that your arch-nemesis was back in town? I bumped into him and his floozy today. I bet Elaine had a fit when she saw the girl her darling Rupert dragged back to Irlwick all the way from London.’

Rosalie sighed. ‘Elaine told me he was back, but she didn’t say anything about a girlfriend.’

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her jeans. She pulled it out. Fiona had sent her a text. Duncan left for Edinburgh. His mother has had a heart attack. Gordon needs picking up from The Stag at 10:00. Can you do it?

Poor Duncan. First the attack on the cab, and now his mother …

Rosalie glanced towards the bar. Marc was still waiting to get served. Now was her chance to sneak out and prove that she was still in charge of her own business. What’s more, she couldn’t let Gordon Armstrong down. One of Love Taxis’ regulars, he might be a hardy eighty-year-old widower, but he lived in an isolated cottage on the edge of the Armathiel forest and would struggle to find a lift home.

She texted Fiona that she was on her way, grabbed her anorak and stood up. ‘I have to go,’ she told Alice. ‘I’ll be back before closing time to pick up Petersen and give you your usual lift home.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘The Stag’s Head. It’s darts night and Gordon Armstrong needs a lift. Duncan’s mother has had a heart attack and he had to leave for Edinburgh. Please don’t breathe a word to Marc. Tell him I am powdering my nose if he asks where I am.’

She almost ran out of the dance hall, bumping into Kian as she did so. As he carried a pint, some beer splashed onto his shirt. ‘What the hell,’ he snarled. ‘Look what you’ve made me do!’

‘Sorry, Kian.’ She pulled out a few tissues from her pocket and handed them to him.

‘And what do you want me to do with that, you bampot?’ If looks could kill, she’d be flat on her back on the tartan carpet right now.

‘You need to calm down, Kian. I said I was sorry, and it’s not that bad. It’ll dry soon.’

‘You’ve ruined my night out now.’ He carried on muttering that he’d soon ruin hers too, so she left him to his bad mood and wet shirt, and swung the front door open onto the car park.

What a lot of fuss for a bit of spilled beer … No doubt the incident would be blown out of all proportions by Kian’s parents, and revive the ever smouldering feud between the Armitages and the McBrides.

The wind had picked up and a drizzle as fine as mist left tiny pearls of moisture on her hair and face. She took a deep breath, licked her lips. Snow was on its way, she could taste it.

It wasn’t a long drive to Irlwick. She put Happy Baby Radio on and started to sing along but her heart wasn’t in it. Annoyed, she switched it off again, tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and let out a sigh.

She felt as guilty as a teenager climbing out of her bedroom window to sneak to a party her parents had forbidden her to go to. Marc would be angry, and she had to concede that he might have a point. Driving around at night on her own probably wasn’t a good idea after what had happened to Duncan. But this was her taxi, her town, her people – and her decision!

If only there was a way to pull Love Taxis out of his clutches. She could try asking her bank manager for a loan to pay Petersen back every penny she owed and be free of him. The problem was no bank manager would ever give her a loan. She had no assets to put up as security and her accounts didn’t make for very cheerful reading. The only reason she was still in business was that she didn’t pay any rent, ate for free at the castle most days and only paid a fraction of Geoff’s loan back every month.

A bright light filled the inside of the cab. She glanced in her rear-view mirror as the glare of high beam headlights blinded her. What was that idiot driver thinking of, having his full beam on with no care for others? The car was so close it would crash into her rear bumper should she have to brake suddenly.

She slowed down as she approached Irlwick’s town centre, and was relieved to see the car behind fall further back and its headlights disappear from her rear mirror. She parked in front of the Stag’s Head and got out to fetch Gordon. The old man enjoyed his whisky and would probably need a little convincing to leave.

Forty-five minutes later, she was on the road that wound its way through the forest after having dropped Gordon at home. The cab’s headlights swept over the empty road and the dark, rugged landscape at every turn. She had been right about the snow. Thick flakes danced and swirled in the headlights, already coating the road with a white blanket.

‘Where are you, Roz?’ Fiona’s voice came through the radio.

Rosalie lifted the mike to her lips. ‘I’ve just left Gordon at home and I’m heading back to the Four Winds to catch the last dance. Any news from Duncan?’

‘Yes. He called in to leave his cab at the office before setting off with Brenda and the boys for Edinburgh. He said to tell you he’s sorry but he’ll be away for a week at least. By the way, I’ve just had a very unpleasant call from a Marc Petersen who demanded to know where the hell you were – his words, not mine. I told him you were on a call. Who is this guy, Roz? He sounded as if he owned the place … and you.’

That’s because he does, Rosalie answered silently.

‘He is some kind of business associate of Geoff’s. I’ll introduce you to him tomorrow.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. She was getting deeper and deeper into lies. ‘I’m taking the forest road to go back to the Four Winds. If he calls again, tell him I won’t be long.’

A diffuse anxiety she couldn’t explain gnawed at her as she drove. It was snowing harder, making visibility difficult. Suddenly she wasn’t alone any longer. A car was coming at speed behind her, its full beam headlights dazzling in her rear mirror. Another idiot driver! Rosalie cursed and slowed right down. What was the matter with people tonight? She steered the cab to the side of the road to let the other car overtake.

The car came dangerously close and flashed his headlights, once, twice. Did he want her to stop? Maybe he was lost, or he needed help. Rosalie braked, and the car rammed into her rear bumper. She cried out in shock as her body jerked forward. She hadn’t recovered from the first impact when the car crashed into the taxi’s back bumper again.

This time the cab swerved across the road. The steering wheel spun in her hands, the taxi skidded, its tyres drew a half circle on the snow, and she ended up facing in the opposite direction.

Her heart thumped hard. A wave of nausea rose from her knotted stomach. The other vehicle – a black four-by-four with tinted windows –had come to a halt too and was facing her. With its engine roaring, it looked like a predator about to pounce.

All her instincts screamed at her to escape. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. She pressed hard on the accelerator and the cab lunged forward. By sheer luck she managed to avoid the four-wheel drive and started speeding back towards Gordon’s cottage and the main road.

She did not recognise the car and had no idea who the driver of the four-wheel drive was and what he wanted with her. All she knew was that he was playing some kind of sick game and she had to put as much distance as possible between herself and him. There was no time to call Fiona or the police. Her mouth dry, her chest tight, she could only clutch the wheel and focus on the road ahead.

A set of headlights soon appeared in her rear-view mirror once again. The four-wheel drive had turned round to chase after her. More powerful than the taxi, it would catch up before she even drove out of the forest.

Fear now made her shake all over. She glanced in the rear mirror. What if it crashed into her again when she was alone on the forest road? What if … She forced a few deep breaths down. Panicking was pointless. What she needed was a place to hide – somewhere secluded and safe.

Conjuring up a mental map of the forest trails and its dirt roads, she realised she wasn’t far from the bird watching huts scattered on the shore of Loch Armathiel. They stood at the end of an unmarked track that would be coming up after the next bend in the road. She could drive up to the loch, park near one of the huts and radio Fiona for help.

As soon as she spotted the gap in the fir trees that signalled the start of the track, she switched off her headlights and prepared for the sharp turn. She slowed down but didn’t brake as she veered abruptly to the right so that the four-by-four wouldn’t see the cab’s brake tail-lights.

The tyres skidded but she managed to straighten the cab before it lurched forward on the lane. It was so dark she couldn’t see anything. The cab bounced on the track, its underside scraping against stones and roots.

Suddenly a tall black shape rose in front of her. She slammed her foot on the brake but it was too late. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she braced herself for impact. The front of the cab hit the pine tree and the impact threw her against the steering wheel hard.

Her old Metrocab did not have airbags, but it was built like a tank and she bounced straight back as the engine coughed and died. Winded and shaken, but otherwise unhurt, she reclined against the headrest and breathed a sigh of relief. She would have aches and bruises the following day, but she wasn’t injured.

She took the mike, pressed the call button. ‘Fiona, it’s me. Please, Fiona. I’m in trouble. Fiona, answer please.’

There was no reply, only white noise. She tried a couple more times before putting the mike down. Damn, the radio was broken, just when she needed it most. She fumbled inside her anorak pocket, pulled her mobile out but as she feared, there was no signal in the forest.

Peering at the surrounding darkness, she listened to the sounds of the night. The wind howled in the depth of the forest, rattling tree branches and making the wood creak and groan. There was something else too. An engine noise. She glimpsed twin white lights come up at speed on the road and her blood froze. The four-by-four was coming after her.

Flinging the door open, she jumped out and started running up the loch trail as fast as she could.

Where the hell was she? Marc shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and let out an impatient sigh as he scanned the empty room again.

Alice hiccupped. Lipstick smudged the side of her mouth. Her hair stuck up on the top of her head.

‘Cheer up! At least we’re in a nice hotel. If Rosalie doesn’t come back, we can always spend the night here. It’s a bit pricey but the beds are very comfortable.’ Her voice turned husky, almost cajoling.

That’s all he needed. A drunken woman making a pass at him.

When he didn’t reply, she blew a sigh and shook her head. ‘Oh well, it was worth a try. Don’t look so grim, Petersen, the Fiddlers are driving back to Kingussie. We can probably hitch a lift with them. I’ll have a word.’

He watched her toddle on her high heels towards the stage where members of the band were putting their gear away. The bar had closed but Niall had managed to convince the barmaid to serve him yet another beer and whisky chaser, and he nursed his drinks, his elbows propped on the counter. Marc doubted the man could stand on his own, let alone walk.

His anger hadn’t abated. If anything it was even stronger now than when Alice had finally confessed Rosalie had left to pick up an elderly customer from the pub in Irlwick. How irresponsible could the woman be? She had blatantly disregarded his instructions. According to the information he’d managed to draw out of Fiona, Love Taxis’ recalcitrant switchboard operator, Rosalie was now on her way back to the hotel.

However, they’d been waiting for over an hour and he couldn’t help the feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that something was very wrong.

‘The Fiddlers have room at the back of the van for the three of us,’ Alice declared. ‘They’ll leave you near the old bridge, unless you want to come back to my place for a nightcap. You could teach me a bit of French … or Danish, I’m not picky.’

She lifted her hand, her index finger lingered along his jaw line. He took a step back. ‘The old bridge is fine.’

One of the band members announced they were ready to leave, adding that they would have to squeeze into the back of the van among the amps and musical instruments.

‘I’ll get him out,’ Marc said, gesturing towards Niall, who was leaning into his drink. ‘Come on, you’re going home, you’ve had enough,’ he said, slipping his arm around Niall’s waist.

Niall staggered and mumbled something about stuck up city boys who didn’t drink like real men – a reference to the two half-pints of ale Mark had drunk during the course of the evening, no doubt. Marc steadied him and together with Alice they managed to walk him outside where snow was falling in dense, fluffy flakes.

‘Will you be all right with him?’ he asked Alice as he pushed Niall into the back of a battered Transit van.

‘Aye, sure. I’ve looked after him for years. Not that he ever noticed.’ She climbed into the van and plumped herself down on a tarpaulin before cradling Niall’s head in her lap. She stroked his curly brown hair tenderly away from his face.

‘Rosalie and Niall are my oldest friends,’ she said in a slurred voice. ‘They’ll probably get married one of these days.’

‘Is that so?’ It wasn’t exactly news, since Elaine McBride had mentioned it earlier, but his bad mood cranked up a notch.

He had noticed how Rosalie swirled in Niall’s arms during the ceilidh, her eyes shiny with pleasure, her cheeks flushed. For some inexplicable reason, it had annoyed him. A lot.

‘Niall has been in love with Rosalie for as long as I can remember,’ Alice carried on. ‘They were together once, but she broke off with him, years ago. He keeps asking her to marry him, and she always turns him down, but I have the feeling she’ll give in eventually and the two of them will live happily ever after.’

Alice sounded so sad he looked at her more closely. She was still stroking the young man’s face as he lay there, curled up against her and snoring already. Marc shrugged. He would never understand women. Not five minutes before she had asked him back to her place and now she sat holding onto Niall as if he was the only man who mattered in the whole world.

He climbed into the van, found a space to sit and slammed the door shut. Three of the band members piled up at the front, another had squeezed in the back of the van with them, and they were off.

He was grateful for the noise from the engine and the jangling of the instruments that made any conversation impossible. After about twenty minutes, the van rattled to a stop, the driver turned round and shouted that they were at the old bridge near Raventhorn.

Marc shook hands with the musicians, bid Alice good night and got out. It was snowing heavily. He pulled the collar of his jacket up and watched the van drive away before starting along the dark track to the castle. He walked fast, lengthening his stride, not because he was cold but because he was anxious to check if Rosalie was back.

She wasn’t. Or at least her cab wasn’t in the courtyard. The whole stable block was in darkness. Maybe the other driver – Duncan – had dropped her off and she was already in bed? Even though it was unlikely, he knocked on the outside door to her flat. There was no answer. He walked across the courtyard, tried the door to Raventhorn’s service entrance. It was locked.

Now what? He didn’t have a key. He hadn’t thought about asking for one, and neither Rosalie nor Lorna had offered to give him one. Even though he was reluctant to walk to Lorna’s lodge and wake her up at this late hour, he could hardly stay out there all night. He pulled his phone out, and dialled the number for Love Taxis again.

‘I don’t know where Rosalie is,’ the receptionist said. She sounded as if she was about to cry. ‘She’s not answering my calls. The last I heard from her she was driving on the Armathiel forest road that snakes through the Cairngorms National Park.’

‘Call the police immediately,’ he ordered, his bad mood now tinged with concern. ‘Do you have another driver who could come to get me at Raventhorn?’

‘I’m afraid not. Duncan left for Edinburgh so there’s no one else. I suppose you could always take one of Geoff’s cars,’ Fiona suggested. ‘The car keys are in the desk drawer in his study.’

‘That’s all very well but Raventhorn is locked and I can’t get in.’

At the other end of the phone, Fiona let out a loud sigh. ‘The keys are in the planter on the right hand side of the front door. Didn’t Rosalie tell you?’

That was the craziest thing he had ever heard. How many people knew where to find the castle’s keys and could have access to its antiques, and to McBride’s cars? Considering there wasn’t even a burglar alarm fitted in the place, it was a miracle Raventhorn hadn’t been looted and McBride’s garage emptied.

He walked to the front of the castle where he found the keys in the planter as promised. After experimenting with a couple of them, he managed to unlock the service door. He ran up to the ground floor, opened a few doors and found McBride’s study in a corner of the vast, oak-panelled library.

A couple of armchairs stood in front of a fireplace, books were piled up all over the floor, papers and files littered the desk. Marc pulled the desk drawer open, rummaged among a stash of invoices and bank statements, pens and various items of stationery before finding what he was after.

Two sets of car keys, each on a ring bearing a different car manufacturer’s logo. A Jag and a Range Rover. He closed his fingers around the keys to the Range Rover, then looked around for a map of the area. Fiona said that Rosalie was driving back from a hamlet at the foot of the Cairngorms, on a country road off the B970. The car probably had a satnav, but he wanted to get his bearings before setting off.

He spotted half a dozen road maps on a bookshelf, pulled out one of the Cairngorms and grabbed the keys to the Range Rover. He locked the service door again but kept the keys to the castle in his pocket. The days of leaving them in the planter were well and truly over.

For someone who kept expensive cars, McBride was sloppy with security, Marc thought as he pulled open the unlocked garage door, another converted stable block opposite Rosalie’s flat and office. He flicked the electricity switch on the wall. The two cars were alongside one another. There were empty spaces where other cars must have been parked in the past, judging from tyre tracks and oil stains on the concrete flooring.

He unfolded the map on the bonnet of the Range Rover and focused on the unfamiliar names and markings to memorise the route to Armathiel forest. He then did a quick search of the car and found a torch in working order, a pair of leather gloves, and a silver flask, which upon inspection proved to be filled with whisky. There was also a pair of men’s wellingtons, a shovel and a thick blanket in the boot. McBride might be negligent with security but at least he was prepared for bad weather.

Marc programmed the destination in the satnav and drove out of the garage. The Range Rover bumped over the old bridge, and the tyres bit into the thick layer of snow that covered the main road. Flurries of snowflakes stuck to the windscreen and danced in the broad beam of the headlights, making it difficult to see where he was going. If Rosalie was stranded away from the road, he probably wouldn’t be able to see her.