“I don’t suppose you happen to know where Mr Flynn Talbot lives?”

The woman looked at me as though I had just robbed her of her life savings. “Why on earth are you asking about that cranky old sod?”

I pushed out a polite smile and didn’t answer her question. “I understand he lives somewhere here in Cairntilloch?”

She folded her arms. “Aye. He does, more’s the pity.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You ask any of the folks from around here,” she replied with more than a hint of challenge in her voice. “He’s a rude and cantankerous bugger. He never mixes with the likes of us. The only time anyone sees him in the village is if he or that poor housekeeper of his need some groceries.”

She leant forward in a conspiratorial fashion. “That Mrs Oates deserves the Victoria Cross, for putting up with the likes of him.”

Good grief. Well, he didn’t sound like a cuddly Father Christmas type at all. I performed what I hoped was one of my best winning smiles. “His address? Do you know it?”

The woman waggled the broom handle in her hand and turned to point to the other side of the village green. “See those trees over there? Well, there’s a posh three-storey house not far from a couple of the holiday homes. That’s his. Ostentatious thing it is. You can’t miss it.”

She jerked her puffball hair. “His house is called Lily Grove. You cut through the trees and take a left. There’s a lane that will lead you all the way there. Just watch your footing, pet. It can get a bit icy at this time of year.”

My eyes widened at her. Did I hear her correctly? “Sorry,” I blinked at her, “did you just say Flynn Talbot’s house is called Lily Grove?”

“Aye, that’s right. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.”

She gave me a quizzical look.

So, Flynn Talbot had named his house after Lily. That threw me. “Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.”

The woman turned back to her shop steps. “You’re welcome, pet. Just watch yourself, though. That Talbot man is a nasty piece of work.”

Harley and I made our way through the woods with the winter sunlight trickling through the bare, gnarled branches.

We soon reached a little pebble lane that opened out to reveal two wood and glass chalet-type holiday homes either side of each other.

Further up the road sat an impressive three-storey townhouse, its garden studded with a variety of evergreen trees and shrubs. There was a black electric gated entrance leading up to it.

Positioned on the gate was a black and white plaque with the words Lily Grove painted on it. He hadn’t forgotten her after all, despite my earlier reservations. After all these years, she must still be with him.