and to the River Almond.
There was little left here now of the Almond’s nineteenth-century past beyond the stone-built miller’s house and some old pilings. The garden was separated from the public footpath along the riverside by iron railings and a steep drop, thick with undergrowth. Fin had created a sort of belvedere there and she stood, looking over the railings towards the water far beneath. Behind her the wind was dancing across the flowerbeds and a shower of autumn leaves scattered round her on the grass. She was thinking again about Tom and the fact that she had dreamed about him in such detail and suddenly she shivered. It was as though he was looking over her shoulder.
Easing himself into his car, Finlay sat for a moment staring ahead through the windscreen, deep in thought. The meeting with his agent had gone well. He was planning a new TV series and full of excited enthusiasm for the project. It meant he would be away filming sooner than he had expected but Ruth did not seem worried about being in the house on her own and having her live there would be a relief. He would help her sort out her problems with this wretched man before he left, and when she had custody of her inheritance. The Old Mill House would give her somewhere as an alternative base while she decided what to do with it.
He reached into his pocket for a piece of paper he had put there as he left the house. It was Timothy’s address. He had noticed it as she laid out her papers on the table the night before. She had put the file of solicitors’ letters to one side and James Reid’s note had slipped out. Finlay glanced at it as she reached forward to push it back out of sight and remembered it long enough to make a note of it later. He sat looking down at it, then leaned forward and tapped the postcode into his satnav. It wouldn’t take long to drive there and there was no harm in sussing out the enemy’s lair. Pulling away from the parking meter he turned on some music. Dvořák seemed like a good accompaniment to a hunting expedition.
As it turned out Timothy Bradford lived on the edge of a run-down housing estate in the shadow of a high-rise block barely ten minutes’ drive from Cramond. Finlay slowed the car to walking pace, scanning the house fronts. The one he was looking for turned out to be the right-hand half of a stuccoed semi. The small front garden had been turned, by the destruction of the low front wall, into a parking space adorned by a selection of bins. Finlay recognised the car that was drawn up there, its nose almost pressed against the front wall of the house beneath what was, judging by the array of downpipes on the wall, almost certainly the kitchen window. He grabbed in his glove box for his dark glasses and slid them over his nose as he drove past.
‘April!’ Timothy was standing at the sink, filling the kettle. ‘Look at that! That fat bastard minder of Ruth Dunbar’s has just driven by.’
‘What?’ April had been standing at the cooker. She turned and elbowed her brother out of the way, staring out. ‘Where?’
‘There. He’s stopped to have a good look.’ Timothy drew back slightly.
April stared through the blind as the car came to a halt, the engine running. ‘I’ve seen that guy before,’ she said after a fraction of a second. ‘He looks like someone on the telly. That Scots cook, the one who tells people how to make scones!’
Brother and sister stood side by side, watching. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘It’s Finlay Macdermott.’
‘Don’t be daft, woman. How can you tell from so far away? Besides, what would he be doing here?’ Timothy had never watched Finlay’s programme. ‘He’s gone now.’
‘Get after him!’ April gave Timothy a shove. ‘Quickly! Now! Go after him. Whoever he is, find out where he lives!’
‘But supposing he’s not going home?’ Timothy hadn’t told her of his previous attempt to follow the man.
‘Then stay with him until he does.’
This was one of the few times he was pleased they had an ordinary old vehicle, unlike the one he was following which in daylight stood out a mile. His was dirty, mud-splashed with its number plate barely visible under the layers of crud. Finlay Macdermott. He murmured the name to himself resentfully. A TV chef! April was probably right. He had always been impressed by the way she recognised faces off the telly and she was never wrong. She would dig him in the ribs with her elbow as they walked down the streets and hiss a name at him and point, and he would stare, embarrassed. Luckily she didn’t go and ask people for autographs or selfies, but pointing was almost as bad.
Ahead of him, Finlay was signalling a left turn. The traffic was lighter here and it was growing dark. Timothy let himself drop back slightly and settled down to drive with exaggerated care.
Only five minutes later he was following Finlay down the road past Lauriston Castle, towards Cramond. He was much more cautious now. There was hardly any traffic here. He crawled up to the turning into a leafy lane and followed it slowly down towards the river. No cars here. The houses were tucked in amongst the trees with plenty of space to park. They had high walls and fences. There were several turnings and he approached each one slowly, until he arrived at the end. Ahead was a no-through-road sign.
And then he saw his quarry. Through the trees he caught glimpses of a stone house with a gravelled turning area in front of it and there was Finlay, climbing out of his car. Timothy watched intently for a couple of seconds as the man stooped to retrieve a bag of some sort and then locked the door. With a quiet exclamation of triumph he reversed away from the turning, swung backwards onto the muddy verge, then drove towards the main road. He was looking for somewhere unobtrusive to park.
Finlay had never once looked back.
‘I had a fruitful meeting this afternoon.’ Finlay was still thinking about the plans for the next series. ‘It calls for a bottle of bubbly, methinks!’
He found his ice bucket in a cupboard, brought a bag of ice cubes out of his freezer and emptied it into the container.
‘That sounds wonderful.’ Ruth smiled as she watched. ‘This is so refined! Rick and I didn’t own an ice bucket. If we needed champagne – or to be honest, more likely Prosecco – we stuck the bottle in the freezer for the shortest time possible!’
‘Vandals!’ Finlay placed the bucket on the table. ‘Well, you should be pleased I have standards. I have an image to protect, don’t forget.’ He glanced at her. ‘Which leads me to my news and a favour I need to ask.’
Ruth pulled up one of the high stools at the kitchen island and hauled herself onto it.
‘Name it.’
‘If all goes to plan, I’m going to have to be away for a time, filming in the Hebrides, far sooner than I expected. Would you be willing to stay here to keep an eye on the house? I know you said you would, but I genuinely envisaged being here to protect you from Timothy for a while at least. I quite fancied myself as Sir Lancelot. To leave you alone now seems churlish.’
‘Of course I’d be willing.’ Ruth was surprised at the sense of loss which swept over her at the thought of being without Fin, but she hoped it didn’t show. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘Not sure yet. We agreed a format this afternoon, one which I think will suit the producer, and the money men. Then the hard work will start.’ He gave her an impish grin, full of almost childlike excitement. ‘I’ve been
