by Marie Laval
Copyright © 2018 Marie Laval
Published 2018 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choc-lit.com
The right of Marie Laval to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Barnards Inn, 86 Fetter Lane, London EC4A 1EN
EPUB: 978-1-78189-399-9
Contents
Title page
Copyright information
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thank You
About the Author
Introducing Choc Lit
More from Choc Lit
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my family for their support, and my lovely daughter in particular, for her patience and encouragements as I mulled over the plot for Little Pink Taxi in our favourite local café over too many cups of black coffee (for me) and glasses of apple juice (for her). She may not be old enough to read the story yet, but just by listening to my ramblings she helped me see things more clearly.
I would also like to thank Choc Lit for believing in Little Pink Taxi and my brilliant editor for her wonderful advice and suggestions.
Thank you also to the Tasting Panel who read this book and passed it for publication: Elaina J, Sigi, Jo L, Hilary B, Margaret M, Isobel J, Jenny M, Jo O, Catherine L, Rachel D, Caroline U, Elaine R and Alma H.
Merci beaucoup!
Chapter One
‘I believe you’re waiting for me. I’m Petersen.’
Startled by the deep voice with the hint of a French accent, Rosalie spun round, and tilted her face up to meet a pair of serious grey eyes.
‘Welcome to Scotland, Monsieur Petersen.’ She gave him what she hoped was her most dazzling smile, but Petersen only looked down at her and said, ‘I was expecting McBride.’
Rosalie tucked the heart-shaped board on which she’d written Petersen’s name in pink under her arm. ‘I’m afraid Geoff was taken ill. I shall be driving you to Raventhorn.’
Petersen frowned. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing serious.’
It was nothing that a cup of tea, a couple of headache tablets and a few days away from the malt whisky wouldn’t cure, but Rosalie couldn’t tell him that.
‘A head cold, that’s all. He will have recovered by this evening, I’m sure.’ Her cheeks grew warm. Lying had never come easily to her, but it was even harder when a giant of a man with eyes as cool and uninviting as the winter sky stared down at her.
She pointed at his leather holdall and laptop case. ‘Would you like me to carry your bags to the cab?’
Arching his eyebrows, he gave her a sardonic stare, which made her feel even smaller than her five foot one. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Ah. Very well. Shall we go then? The weather is horrendous today. At least I found a space near the terminal so we won’t get too wet.’ Her last words were drowned in gusts of icy wind and rain as the terminal sliding doors opened. She pulled her key fob out of her pocket and strode towards the cab. ‘Here we are.’
‘Is this McBride’s idea of a joke?’ Droplets of rain clung to Petersen’s dark blond hair and the broad shoulders of his navy coat. He gestured to the bright pink metrocab on which Love Taxis was painted in large letters, then to her matching anorak.
‘I hope you’re not planning to take your clothes off and squirt whipped cream all over me.’ Although his voice was quiet, there was a steely edge to it that made his French accent more pronounced.
She started to laugh. ‘Take my clothes off, in this weather? No thank you! You don’t seriously think I am one of those strip-o-grams people hire to embarrass their colleagues at birthday parties, do you?’
He didn’t smile. No spark of humour lit his eyes. He’d meant what he’d said. The laughter died on her lips, and she pulled the zip of her pink anorak right up to her chin.
‘You have the wrong idea about me. I’m your taxi driver, nothing else. And for the record, the only way I like my whipped cream is on a chocolate brownie or a very large ice-cream.’
Although she tried to sound blasé, her face felt like it was on fire and she stumbled over the last words. ‘Now I suggest you put your bags in the boot and get in before we both get soaked. You’ll have to sit in the front.’ She gestured towards the boxes piled up in the back. They were filled with bottles of Geoff’s favourite whisky, which she had just picked up from a distillery on the outskirts of Inverness – not that Geoff would get to sample any soon, if she had any say in the matter. He had drunk more than enough whisky the night before.
Without giving Petersen the chance to reply, she opened the door of the taxi and slid behind the wheel. How dare the unpleasant man mistake her for a strip-o-gram! She glanced in the rear-view mirror. In his conservative coat and suit, his laptop case in one hand, the leather holdall in the other, he looked every inch the stuck-up, pompous businessman as he put his bags in the boot. What could he possibly be coming to Raventhorn for?
He opened the passenger door and sat next to her, and immediately the cab felt small and crowded. Sliding the car park ticket between her teeth, Rosalie started the engine, but as she pulled the handbrake down, her hand brushed against his leg and the contact gave her such a jolt she took her foot off the accelerator pedal. The cab stalled, they jerked backwards and the whisky bottles rattled in the boxes at the back.
Flustered, she turned the key in the ignition to start the engine again. She was still in reverse gear and the taxi shot out of the parking space, narrowly missing a Mercedes coupé behind them. There was the screeching noise of tyres as the Mercedes braked, followed by loud, insistent beeping, and the cab stalled once more.
Petersen stared at her. Rosalie opened her mouth to apologise. The parking ticket dropped to the floor and landed near the gearbox. Both she and Petersen leaned forward to pick it up and banged their heads together.
‘Ouch. Sorry.’ She rubbed her forehead and forced a giggle even though she felt so mortified she could cry. ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you. People do say I’m hard-headed.’
He handed her the ticket. �
��I played scrumhalf for my school rugby team and have worked in finance for the past twelve years. I am used to bumping into much harder heads than yours, Miss … ahem …’
‘Heart … Rosalie Heart.’
He pointed to the gearbox. ‘It’s not your head I’m bothered about. It’s your driving.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my driving!’
He arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. Much as she hated to admit it, he had a point. Stalling the cab – twice – and narrowly avoiding a crash before even getting out of the car park didn’t exactly show off her driving skills. It was all his fault, of course. If he wasn’t so unpleasant, she wouldn’t have got so flustered.
Swallowing her hurt pride, she started the engine again, and this time they left the airport car park without incident. Heavy rain drummed down on the roof and bounced off the bonnet. Even though they swished at full speed, the wipers couldn’t clear the windscreen fast enough. It was only mid-afternoon, but already the sky was darkening and Rosalie had to focus hard on the grey ribbon of the road.
As they drove south towards Aviemore and the ominous outline of the Cairngorms, Rosalie cast sidelong glances towards her passenger, and wondered, once again, who he was and what he was coming to Raventhorn for. Geoff had never mentioned him, so he couldn’t be a friend. He didn’t look like one of his eccentric academic contacts either, and even less like a nature lover coming to hike in the mountains. That left business … Her chest tightened. What was Geoff up to this time? Would she have to rescue him from yet another of his far-fetched schemes? She’d better find out, and fast.
‘What brings you to Raventhorn, Monsieur Petersen?’
‘Your very pink taxi,’ he answered, concentrating on the road ahead.
‘Yes. Of course.’ She took a deep breath. She would not admit defeat so quickly. ‘Is it your first time in the Scottish Highlands?’
He nodded, but remained silent.
‘And how was your flight?’
‘Fine.’
She shuddered. ‘Personally, being stuck in some tin machine high up in the clouds is my idea of a nightmare. I have never, and never will, travel in an aeroplane.’
This time he did turn to look at her. ‘What if you had to travel long distance – to the States or Australia, for example?’
‘I have no desire to go that far away, ever. Anyway, how did you meet Geoff? The only place he travelled to recently was Orkney, and I’m quite sure he has never mentioned your name before.’
‘I haven’t actually met him yet.’
‘Really? But …’ She frowned. ‘You said you worked in finance?’
Perhaps Geoff was considering investing on the stock market. The only problem was that there was no money to invest. Even paying Raventhorn’s utility bills was a struggle these days.
Petersen’s eyes turned even more frosty. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Heart, but I make it a rule never to discuss my personal affairs with bar attendants or taxi drivers.’
She tilted her chin up. ‘I’m not any old taxi driver. I am a very close friend of Geoff’s. In fact, you could say I’m almost family.’
He didn’t reply and an uneasy silence filled the cab. Since Marc Petersen showed no inclination to talk, Rosalie switched on the radio, which was tuned to her favourite Happy Baby station, and started singing along to a catchy tune.
Marc leaned his elbow against the door. The headache that had plagued him since leaving London was getting worse, not helped by the music and the woman’s awful singing. Perhaps he was suffering from an overdose of pink. He clenched his jaw and drew in an impatient breath. This trip to Scotland had been a spur of the moment decision – one he was already regretting.
The day before he’d never even heard of Raventhorn Castle, the ancestral seat of the McBride family. It had been pure chance that he’d walked into Maguire’s office and spotted the file on his colleague’s desk, together with photos of an imposing stone castle facing a loch, and with a forest and the ragged peaks of the Cairngorms in the background. He had studied the photos and the accompanying note from the lawyers in the firm’s conveyance department with a mixture of frustration and incredulity. The past six weeks since his father’s fatal helicopter crash in Hong Kong had been an endless stream of meetings with lawyers and accountants, business associates and bank managers. He had thought most of the paperwork regarding business matters was now sorted. It seemed he’d been wrong and there were still a few surprises in store. Raventhorn being one of them.
An idea had formed in his mind as he walked back to his office on the tenth floor of Petersen Holdings’ London headquarters. What if he went to Scotland himself? He could do with a few days away, and he would be doing Maguire a favour at the same time. The man had mentioned a special wedding anniversary he was planning for his wife who was suffering from a chronic heart condition.
Yesterday, it had seemed like a good idea. Now, however, he had a throbbing headache and was being driven in a ridiculous pink taxi by a tone-deaf woman who didn’t seem to know, or care, that she was a menace on the road.
They drove into a forest and the tall pine trees sucked in the last of the daylight.
‘Corby Woods,’ Rosalie Heart announced, in a loud, upbeat voice above the music. ‘Not far now.’
There was no traffic. In fact, they hadn’t met anyone since the last village, about five miles back. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket, switched it on and checked for a signal. There was none.
He shoved it back into his pocket and looked up, just in time to see a woman dressed in a long, brownish cloak by the side of the road. Tears – or was it rain? – ran down her pale face. She lifted a hand in a pleading gesture as the taxi drove past.
‘Stop the cab,’ Marc ordered. ‘I think that woman needs help.’
Rosalie Heart slowed down. ‘What woman?’
‘There was a woman, back there. She waved at us, she seemed upset.’
‘I didn’t see anyone. It must have been a tree stump.’
‘I can tell the difference between a woman in a hooded cloak and a tree,’ he snapped. ‘Now, please do as I say and stop the cab.’
She shrugged. ‘Very well. There’s no need to be grumpy.’
He flung the door open and climbed out into the rain, but in the dim, blue grey light all he could see was the forest, and all he could hear was the tree branches swishing in the wind.
Oblivious to the rain running down his face and soaking his hair and coat, he walked back along the road and cut through the undergrowth towards the pine tree where the woman had been standing. A huge raven, perched on a nearby treetop, stared down at him with beady eyes. The woman, however, had gone.
Puzzled, he peered through the shadows and walked into the woods. If there was a path, he couldn’t see it. He breathed in mixed scents of rain and rotting vegetation. Above him the raven flew off with a shrieking call and a loud flapping of wings.
‘Monsieur Petersen? Are you all right?’ Rosalie Heart called from the road. She had put her hood up so as not to get drenched.
He turned and walked back to her. ‘She’s gone, and yet I was sure she needed help.’
Rosalie Heart smiled. ‘If it was who I think it was, she does indeed need help, but not of the kind you, or anyone of us, can give her.’
‘What are you talking about?’
She sighed. ‘Forget it. You won’t believe me.’
‘Try me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘You just saw the ghost of Isobel McBride.’
He narrowed his eyes, and dug his fists into his coat pocket. His shoes were soaked and muddy. Icy water trickled down his face, his neck and the collar of his coat. He had the migraine from hell. And this small woman dressed in marshmallow pink was babbling about ghosts?
‘Are you serious?’ he asked, between clenched teeth.
She nodded, turned away and walked back to the cab, leaving him behind. The woman was making fun of him, that much was obvious. He followed her b
ack to the taxi, slung the door open and sat down. His wet clothes stuck to the pink plastic seat with squelching sounds. Water dripped from his coat and trousers and pooled at his feet. The windows steamed up, and it was like being enclosed in a cosy bubble of gum.
Rosalie Heart pulled her hood off and shook her curly brown hair. As it tumbled around her shoulders he caught the scent of the rain and a deeper, fruity fragrance. She smiled again, and he couldn’t help but notice she had a very attractive smile indeed. In fact, he thought, looking at her properly for the first time, she was rather pretty with her eyes a warm chestnut colour, and her cheeks glowing pink from the cold.
‘It’s a long time since anyone reported seeing Lady Fitheach,’ she remarked in a thoughtful voice as she started the engine.
‘Lady Fitheach? I thought you said her name was Isobel McBride.’
‘Fitheach is Scottish for raven. People call Isobel Lady Fitheach because of the raven that never leaves her side. You saw the bird, didn’t you?’
There had indeed been that huge raven staring down at him from a nearby branch. He dismissed it with a shrug. ‘It’s a wood. There’s bound to be all kinds of birds there.’
She gasped. ‘So you did see it! When I tell everybody at the Stag’s Head you’ll be so famous you won’t have to pay for a single pint for the duration of your stay.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. It was a rambler, that’s all.’
He probably would be the talk of the local pub before long, but it wouldn’t be because of Isobel McBride’s ghost – or whoever had been standing by the side of that forest road.