Too much of anything is bad, too much good whisky is barely enough. –Mark Twain.
We set off for the Highland Inn Tavern late in the morning, the cheerful, spring sun casting glittering on the stone paved driveway as we pull out. The drive through the Scottish Highlands is nothing short of breathtaking. The road winds its way through vast stretches of moorland, golden brown and rust-coloured under the happy sunlight. Jagged hills rise on either side, their peaks dusted with mist, while narrow burns ran alongside the road, glinting silver in the light. Every so often, a flock of sheep slow us down, crossing casually as if they owned the place. There are almost no other cars—just miles of quiet, open road and the occasional distant silhouette of a stag standing on a ridge.
As we drive further north, the landscape grows more dramatic—steeper cliffs, darker woods, deeper silence. Small stone cottages appear every now and then, smoke curling from chimneys, and then disappear again behind bends in the road. It feels like driving through a postcard, each turn revealing another impossibly scenic view.
We reach the Highland Inn just before the lunchtime. The building is squat and sturdy, with a slate roof and stone walls that had clearly weathered decades of harsh Highland weather. Inside, the warmth hits us immediately—wood-panelled walls, a roaring fire in the hearth, and the comforting smell of stew and spiced cider.
A few broad-shouldered, jolly-looking middle-aged Scottish blokes are gathered round a central table, their conversation punctuated by sudden bursts of laughter.
Whisky glasses glint in their hands, and their cheeks are flushed from drink and the cold outside. A large dog—a Labrador or something close—doze peacefully under their table.
Apart from them, there are just a few others scattered about. A couple of hikers in weatherproof jackets, a young man tapping away at a laptop in a corner, and an elderly woman nursing a mug of tea by the fire. It isn’t packed, but one can tell from the vibe—the worn-in bar stools, the chalkboard listing live music nights, the faded dartboard in the corner—that the place comes alive in the evenings. There is a kind of lived-in ease to it. The kind of pub that doesn’t try too hard, because it doesn’t need to.
As soon as we walk in, a young waitress with a bright smile comes up and asks where we’d like to sit.
“Wherever you put me, gorgeous, that’ll be the paradise for me.”
Matt says, flashing that annoyingly perfect grin.
The waitress gigglw and pointw us toward a big table by the window.
“Already laying on the charm, are we?”I muttered as we sat down.
“That’s a skill, Sri. Comes in handy when you’re fishing for info. You should learn a bit—it’ll serve you well.”
“Oh, please. I’m not about to lie and flirt with strangers for no reason.”
“Says the pious saint herself, who never lies… so how’s the baby doing, Sri?”
Matt mocks me coldly.
“--The baby? You’re pregnant? Congratulations to the both of you!”
The waitress clearly overheard us.
“Oh, no, no, we’re not together. Sri’s a mate. Her boyfriend’s also a friend of mine.” Matt is quick to correct her.
“Oh, sorry! And what about your girlfriend then?” The waitress is chatty.
“Don’t have one! Not lucky like your boyfriend.” Matt flirts shamelessly.
“I don’t have one either,” She looks down shyly, a little blush on her cheeks.
“Really now? Then I might have to get to know you better, love. But before that—what would you recommend on the menu?”
“Freshly caught fried sturgeon and boiled potatoes. Our speciality!”
“Perfect. We’ll take two. And to drink?”
“Well, your friend’s pregnant, so I suppose no alcohol for her. Want a fresh orange juice? We’ve also got our special whisky—we have got our own brewery !” She sounds rather proud.
“Hmm… but I’m not really a whisky person.” Matt frowns.
“Seriously? You’re in Scotland—you’ve got to try Scotch!” The waitress is all smiles.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got vodka?”
“Shhh! Don’t say that too loud. You’ll offend the Scots.”
“As long as I haven’t offended you, love. But do you have any?”
“Well, you’re not the only one. We’ve got a regular who always asks for vodka. We tease him about it all the time!”
“Do you now? Sounds like my kind of guy. Russian tourist?”
“No idea, but he shows up twice a month, so can’t be a tourist. I think he lives
nearby—”
“Alright, alright. In honour of the lovely Scottish hostess, I’ll have a whisky then. Hit me with your best single malt!”
She laughs and heads off with our order.
“You really are good at the whole flirting thing, Matt.”
“You’ve seen nothing yet. I’m not leaving until I’ve got that vodka bloke’s name and address. But first—let’s see if this whisky’s actually any good.”
“And I’m stuck with orange juice. Fantastic.”
“Yep. But that’s good. Now she won’t think you’re my girlfriend anymore.
You’ve officially let that rumour float around long enough.”
After we finish the fish, Matt gets up and chats with the barman for a while.
Then I watch him slip an arm around our waitress’s waist, lean in, whisper something. I can’t hear a word—just a bit of low laughter. She looks totally into him.
About fifteen minutes later, Matt comes back and says, “Come on. Time to go.” Then he turns around and says to the waitress, “See you Thursday, love.”
And to the barman: “Later, mate!”
“Can you drive, Sri?” He asks as we walk towards our car.
“Yeah, why?” “Cos I’ve had whisky, and I’m not getting done for drink-driving. That’d ruin the whole investigation. Good thing you only had juice. Here, take the keys.” He tosses them over.
“So, what did Miss Smiley say?”
I ask, starting the car.
“Her name’s Liana. Sweet girl. There’s a festival here on Thursday. I promised to be her dance partner.”
“You’re actually going?”
“Come off it! I’ve got a million things to do. I have no time for dancing”
“That’s rude, Matt. Why promise then?” I feel genuinely bad for Liana.
“Turn right at the next junction.” Matt instructs me from the passenger seat.
“What? We’re not heading back to Glasgow?” I am surprised.
“Nope. Going the other way. To a village called Delny.”
“Let me guess—vodka guy lives there?”
“Yep. Name’s Jonathan Brown. Moved there about six months ago.”
“Bloody hell. You got all that already?”
“Miss Srija Ray, never underestimate the charm of Matthew Holmes,”
He says dramatically, putting on his sunglasses with a smirk.
The drive is lovely—never seen such smooth, open roads. Barely another car around, nothing but rolling green hills stretching for miles. After about fifteen minutes, we reached Delny, a beautiful village by Loch Lomond. You could see the castle on the hilltop.
The area was is, full of sheep grazing nearby.
“Alright, what now?” I ask.
“Let’s hit the village pub.” Matt replies.
“Again?”
“Where else do you get local gossip?”
“Are you going to promise another dance to get intel?”
“Please. One trick doesn’t work everywhere. Let’s see how this goes.”
This place isn’t quite the same vibe—more older men and stern-looking ladies here. Not ideal for the charm offensive. We sit down and decide to just order drinks—we are still full from lunch.
“Stick to juice, Sri.”
“Oh come on, I’m not actually—”
“I know, I know. Not for your fake pregnancy. But you’re driving, remember?”
The waitress looked almost offended when Matt asked, “Got any vodka?”
“Vodka?” she raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, preferably Polish. You know that one with the grass infusion? Tastes like apple pie when mixed with apple juice.”
“No vodka. Polish or Russian. Only whisky. Single malt, double, local or branded. Whatever you like. Not with apple juice. On the rocks.” She sounds like a stern headmistress.
“Are you related to Jonathan Brown or something?”
An older man at the next table chuckles.
“No? Who’s that?” Matt asks back.
“New chap in the village. Just like you—always asking for vodka!”
“Really? That must be borderline sacrilege round here.”
“Tell me about it! Asking for vodka in Scotland! The Scots will forgive a lot, but slating their whisky or tartan’s off limits… ha ha!”
Matt joins the hearty laughter.
“What about kilts?”
“That too!”
“Come join us at our table. My mum’s Russian, by the way—so I’ve got an excuse. This Jonathan guy…?” Matt invites the man to our table, while flatly lying about his parentage.
“Funny you say that—his mum’s Russian too. Said he spent his childhood in
Moscow. Still has a faint accent. Could be a long-lost cousin of yours!” Our new friend laughs and comes over to sit next to us.
I can’t help thinking of Matt’s mum. Suzy couldn’t look more typically English, even if she tried—and here he is spinning tales about her being Russian!
“So this Jonathan—lives alone?” Matt asks, sipping his drink.
“Yeah, keeps to himself mostly. Pops into the pub now and then. His daughter visits sometimes—Jennifer. Bit of a stunner, actually…” He winks.
“Single, is she?” Matt smirks.
The man glanced at me, then asked hesitantly, “And your girlfriend…?”
“Oh, we’re just friends. She’s got a boyfriend. I’m the sad single one.” Matt sighs dramatically.
“Sad? Sounds lucky to me! My missus of forty years still tries to boss me around every second. You think she’s gonna change now? Ha!”
Then he leans in and says, “Thing is though, I think the daughter’s seeing someone. Saw a young fella coming out of their place the other night—ginger, bit of a beard, decent looking chap. Except for this big mole on his cheek, spoiled the whole look.”
“Your place nearby then?”
“Not right next door, but five minutes’ walk. I’m on Queen Street. They live on Lavender Mews—last house on the road.”
“We’ll stop by on our way out. If he’s family on my mum’s side, I’m sure he won’t mind us knocking.”
“Go on, they’re not scary folks. Good luck!”
Matt was right. In these little English and Scottish villages, you get the most important information in pubs. I also realise hat I won’t be able to get people to talk by sitting around, frowning like a suspicious gargoyle. I got to be a bit charming. Like Matt.
“So what now? Heading to Lavender Mews?” I ask as we left the pub.
“Not going in. We’ll just wait in the car out front. Keep an eye out.” Matt explains.
“For how long?”
“Let’s see. It’s late afternoon. Might head to the pub again soon.”
Sure enough, about an hour and fifteen minutes later, a man stepped out of the house. Tall, slim build, thinning blond hair, sharp nose, thin lips, grey stubble, piercing eyes.
“That’s all I needed to see. Let’s go.” Matt says as the man disappear around the corner.
“You’re not going to talk to him?” I ask, surprised.
“Nope.”
“Then what the hell was the point of all this?”
“I’ve got a hunch, Sri. Let me confirm it first before I say anything.”
“What kind of hunch?”
“About who Jonathan Brown really is.”
He grinned.
“Oh brilliant. More bloody mystery. Go on then, keep spinning.” I grumble, turning the car around.
“Don’t be cross, love.” He smiles, patting my back.
“You’re still in flirty mode, aren’t you?”
“Me? Flirt with someone as grumpy as you?”
I shoot him a dirty look.
“Eyes on the road, Juliet. Or we’ll end up in a proper Romeo-and-Juliet tragedy.” Matt cautions me.
On the way back, we stop for petrol. A car in front of us fills up and drive off. I caught a glimpse of the driver—ginger hair, beard, and that mole on his cheek.
“Sri, quick! Follow that car. We can fuel up later. You good to drive for a while?” Matt suddenly sounds all alert.
“Yeah, let’s go.” I pull out and follow the car towards Glasgow, keeping a safe distance. Even let another car get between us to avoid suspicion.
About 20 minutes in, the car turn off the main road onto a dirt track. No idea where it leads—there wasn’t a single house in sight. Just hills, valleys, lochs.
“Keep heading towards Glasgow, Sri. No point following him now. Road’s empty—he’ll clock us straight away. We’ll come back later and see what we find.”
“What are you thinking, Matt? Jonathan Brown—a secret Russian spy? Tied to
Lucy’s disappearance?” I ask.
“He’s definitely got Russian ties. But doesn’t seem like an active spy. Too old.
Living in the middle of nowhere. My bet’s more on the ginger guy.”
“They’re clearly connected.”
“Yeah. The question is—how?”
“You don’t think it’s just a basic kidnapping?”
“Doesn’t add up. No love triangle, no drug ring, no ransom demand. Police haven’t found any accident or unclaimed body. But there are strangers hanging around these parts.”
Strange, really—part of me feels lighter thinking Lucy’s kidnapping might mean Neil’s still alive. Somewhere. But then I catch myself—God, how selfish. Poor Lucy…
We wait about an hour further up the road. Fill up the tank too. Then head back down the track we saw the ginger guy take. The tyre marks are clear. About half an hour in, we find a small wooden cottage. The same car is now parked out front. The place is stunning and eerily quiet—there was a loch nearby too.
“So, Matt, who do you reckon built this place?”
“Probably an old shepherd’s cottage. Like in Germany. Not always occupied.”
“Well, it’s occupied now. That ginger guy doesn’t exactly look like a shepherd.”
“No. Let’s knock.”
“What if he opens the door? What are we saying?”
“Tourists. Lost. You’ll ask to use the toilet.”
We walk up to the door—it doesn’t look like anyone is in. Matt knock twice.
No response. Then he pushes gently. The door creaks open.
He steps in first. I follow.
The room is a large sitting area. Burnt logs in the fireplace, sofa, chairs, a small kitchen in one corner. Bit dark inside. Only light coming from the front window and the porch.
Suddenly Matt yanks me back. His hand is in his coat pocket—where he keeps his revolver. Eyes fixed ahead.
Then I see it too.
Someone is sitting in the armchair by the fireplace. Facing away from us. Just the back of his head visible—red hair. Still as a statue.
So are we.
