The Ardmore Inheritance Read online

  Her venom shocked Jimmy, but then he remembered having encountered plenty of guys like her father in his army days. Mostly they were inadequate characters who would have been nobodies without their rank, and he wondered if Commodore Roderick Macallan had been the same.

  'And Kirsty? What about her?'

  'Kirsty hated them both, more than me I think. She hated Peter for being so useless and she hated our father for letting the estate get so run down and for everything else he'd done. I love my sister of course but she's money-obsessed. That's why she's trying to take my rightful inheritance away from me.'

  I love my sister. From where he was sitting, it didn't sound much like it.

  Smiling, he said, 'Well of course that's why I'm here Elspeth, to talk about the terms of your father's will. Well, at least to understand if there's any possibility that we could arrive at a settlement that everyone can agree on.'

  'Settlement?' she said, her tone sharp. 'Why should there be a settlement? I'm the oldest and that's all there is to it. I get Ardmore House and the estate and half the money. That's what the will says. It couldn't be clearer.'

  He'd thought it was going to be a difficult meeting and so far he hadn't been wrong. But the fact was, Elspeth Macallan wasn't seeing things straight, and now it was his job to put that right. Diplomatically, if he could.

  'Look Elspeth,' he said softly, 'I can see where you're coming from, honestly I can, but well, I think there's a couple of obstacles that might arise before we can put this thing to bed. Going forward that is.'

  He winced inwardly at the sound of the ghastly corporate-speak emanating from his lips, but it did seem to have succeeded in its objective of softening the blow.

  'What do you mean, obstacles?' she said in a quieter voice.

  He gave a concerned smile. 'You'll know your stepmother is intending to contest the will. We've heard from her solicitor that she will be claiming half the entire estate. And it's not impossible that she might succeed. She was his wife for over twenty years.'

  'Alison's a fool,' Elspeth said, spitting out the words. 'Daddy hated her and wanted her to get nothing. That's why he changed his will. It was quite clear.'

  'Hated her? Why was that?'

  She shrugged. 'Daddy had moved on with his life and she was being simply tiresome.'

  He took that as code for daddy had found a new woman and wanted rid of the old one with as little fuss as possible. But he opted against sharing the thought with her.

  'Well that may be Elspeth, but if a court were to take her side, that would have a big effect on you and your sister's share. So it might make sense to work out something that would persuade Alison to drop her challenge.'

  'No, absolutely not,' she said. 'Never. Daddy wanted her to get nothing and that's what I want too.'

  He allowed himself a wry smile. At least he couldn't fault her for her clarity. So with that out of the way, now was the moment to bring up the elephant in the room and see where that ended up. Crushed underfoot would be his forecast.

  'Well that's fair enough,' he said, smiling, 'if that's how you feel about her. But the other thing I need to ask is, is there any way you can prove that it's you that was the first-born? Because I'm afraid if this goes to court, they won't just take your word for it.'

  It sounded blunt but there was really no other way of saying it. And as predicted, it didn't go down well.

  'I love my sister, but she's lying when she says she is the oldest. Everybody knows that it's me. Everybody. I don't know why she's doing this.'

  I love my sister. There it was again. He didn't like to think what relations would be like if she hated her. 'The thing is Elspeth, the executors made some investigations before my firm got involved and they couldn't find anybody who seemed to know for certain. Even your old aunt, your father's sister, didn't seem to know.'

  'Well Aunt Grace is rather old and doddery, so that's no surprise. Although she is lovely.' It sounded like exactly what it was, an afterthought for his benefit.

  'Look, I don't want to press you on this,' he said, which was precisely what he was doing, 'but is there anything or anyone you are aware of that could support your claim? It's really important Elspeth I'm afraid. Really important.'

  'It's not a claim. I've told you already, I'm the eldest.' For the first time, Jimmy detected an element of doubt buried beneath the petulant tone.

  'Well, of course I have to take your word for that,' he said, trying not to sound disrespectful, 'but it's going to be difficult to prove, that's all I'm saying. So is there really no way you could come to an agreement with your sister? I don't know the place of course, but I'm guessing Ardmore House is big enough to be divided into two very acceptable homes, and the grounds are lovely too. And that shouldn't breach old Sir Archie's covenant because the house and the estate would remain in the family. And wouldn't it be quite nice to live in such a beautiful place with your sister?'

  She gave him a contemptuous look. 'Do you really think I would want to live next door to them? Her and Mr Perfect with their perfect loved-up life and their perfect little brat?'

  If her bitterness left him temporarily speechless, he recognised instantly what had prompted it, something he hadn't previously considered to be a factor in the twins' relationship. Jealousy. For unlike her sister, Kirsty Macallan was married, to a handsome ex-international rugby player, and they had a daughter, a two-year old sweetheart blessed with the perfect genes of her parents. All of this was, he suspected, absolute gold-dust from a business point of view, taking Kirsty into areas where her sister could not yet venture. Now in his mind, he was already rehearsing what he was going to say when Maggie asked him how the meeting had gone, and finding himself unable to decide between a simple not well or a more accurate total disaster. He hoped to god she had fared better with Alison Macallan, otherwise the case was dead in the water before it had even got properly started.

  'Well, I really don't know where we can go with this Elspeth,' he said, giving a sigh, 'but we're duty-bound to continue our investigation and see where it leads.' Nowhere was what he suspected, but he couldn't really say that to her.

  She gave him a piercing look, then suddenly said, 'I remember you. I didn't say before but I do. You were at that party in the village hall, for Dr McLeod's birthday. You see, I watched you and Flora all night. Every second.'

  It was an odd thing to say and he wasn't sure where she was going with it. But it didn't take long for him to find out.

  'And now you're not together any more, that's what I've heard?' she said.

  'No. No, I'm afraid we're not.' They were just a few words, but they didn't convey how bitterly he regretted the fact they were true.

  'Things change. People change.' She looked into his eyes, holding a steady gaze. 'So I was wondering, will you have dinner with me? I'm sure we could have a lot of fun together.'

  What sort of fun she had in mind, she didn't say, but at least she'd been rather more delicate in her proposition than her sister had been all these years ago. Then, Kirsty Macallan had asked him, quite outright and quite shamelessly, to make love to her up against the wall of Lochmorehead's old village hall, although she'd expressed it rather more agriculturally. Shocked, he'd said no, but that didn't mean he hadn't been tempted.

  But now Elspeth was staring at him impatiently, her lips shaping into a seductive smile.

  'So come on Jimmy Stewart, what do you think? It'll be fun, you know it will.'

  And then, unthinking and probably without malice, she plunged the metaphorical knife into his heart.

  'I don't know what's stopping you. After all, Flora's seeing someone now, isn't she? And I've heard it's quite serious.'

  Chapter 8

  Now that he'd set wee Eleanor Campbell off and running at the tricky Geordie case, Frank could finally turn his attention to the other equally perplexing matter that had recently thumped into his in-tray. The one that had been sent down from the north side of Hadrian's wall in an armoured security van guarded by a sq
uad of armed officers in full riot gear, battering down the M74 with sirens a-wailing and lights a-flashing. At least, that was the comic vision that had immediately filled his mind when his boss DCI Jill Smart had, with exaggerated subterfuge, handed him the single sheet of paper containing the case briefing. A case briefing so sensitive that she had determined it had to be delivered in person, causing her to battle through the frightful early-morning London traffic between Paddington Green nick to his own wee Atlee House office. A case briefing she considered too toxic to trust to either the internal post or to e-mail.

  'This is one-hundred-percent weapons-grade dynamite Frank,' she had said, giving her little speech before handing over the sheet of paper, as if still uncertain whether she was doing the right thing. 'Even by the standards of epic cop screw-ups, this is the dial turned up to eleven.'

  The dial turned up to eleven. He smiled to himself as he acknowledged the cultural reference to Spinal Tap, definitely one of his favourite films of all time. A cultural reference that could now enjoy the accolade of having entered the vernacular whilst most lay people remained unaware of its source. He wondered if Jill herself knew, because somehow he didn't see her as a rock chick.

  'So this is serious shit is it ma'am? Sounds like it to me.'

  'Yeah, serious shit,' Jill had said. 'That's why they've sent it over the border to us, to keep it out of sight of the local media hacks. So we need to treat this with kid gloves, understand?'

  'Why ma'am? he'd asked guilelessly. 'Why the big secrecy?'

  'You'll find out soon enough,' she'd said, without giving anything more away.

  'And you can't tell me anything else?' What he'd meant was, you won't.

  'It's a double murder case and a pretty shocking one too, that's all I've been told. Anyway, Police Scotland have assigned a liaison officer to help you with anything you need. She's based at a station in Glasgow. New Gorbals I think it's called. Do you know it?'

  Did he know it? He'd spent the first eight or so years of his not-so-glittering career in that manor, making first detective constable and then detective sergeant after a three-year stint pounding the beat. It had been mainly low-key stuff, dealing with the sad losers and deadbeats who had simply just been unlucky to be born in what was still one of the most deprived areas of his home city. Petty burglary, pimping, supply and possession of Class A drugs, that was how they eked out a pathetic living, a living which earned barely more than they were getting from their benefits. And not being the brightest sandwiches in the picnic, they invariably would get caught at some point, giving them the chance to sample the delights of Her Majesty's Prison Barlinnie, better known to the locals as the Bar-L. The place was an infamous Victorian hell-hole, where well into the twenty-first century the in-cell bucket-as-toilet routine known as slopping out was still in practice. But at least the sad bastards granted temporary residence within its forbidding walls were guaranteed three meals a day and a warm place to sleep, which made it understandable why many of them opted to go straight back so soon after their release. Now Frank was getting the chance to go back too, to re-visit some of his old haunts for the first time in quite a few years. But unlike the locals, he would be able to leave again anytime he wanted. At least he hoped so.

  The liaison officer went by the name of Constable Lexy McDonald, which gave a good indication as to how seriously the local force were taking the investigation. He'd expected as a minimum a Detective Inspector like himself, or at a push, an experienced Detective Sergeant who'd been round the block a few times and knew what was what. Instead he'd been allocated the lowest form of police pond-life. A constable, and a uniform too, not even a DC. And in this most misogynistic of outfits, a girl to boot. Priceless.

  Swearing under his breath, he picked up his phone and dialled the number he'd been given. A bright voice answered on the second ring.

  'Police Scotland, Constable Lexy McDonald speaking.'

  Mildly amused at the formality of the response, he noted the lilt in her voice that betrayed the distinctive musicality of the Western Isles. A voice that sounded about sixteen years of age.

  'Hi, this is DI Frank Stewart with the Met. I've heard you're to be my go-to guy up there in my homeland. Good to make your acquaintance.'

  'Thank you sir, I was expecting your call. My sergeant's told me I've to help you in any way I can sir. With the case I mean.'

  'Aye well that's really good to hear Constable MacDonald,' he said pleasantly. 'So has this wee case of ours got itself a name yet?'

  'Not yet sir, at least I don't think so. I was just told it was one of the Whiteside cases.'

  'One of the cases eh? That's interesting. So we'd better get ours a name sharpish, don't you think? Oh aye, and on the subject of names I'll call you Lexy from now on, if that's ok.'

  'That's no bother sir. And I'll call you sir, shall I sir?'

  Frank let out an involuntary guffaw. Like himself, it seemed PC McDonald had a sense of humour. Instantly he knew they were going to get along just fine.

  'Aye, well I'll take Inspector Stewart as well, that's my Sunday name. But before we get started, I was going to ask you how long you've been on the force.'

  He was pretty sure of the answer he was going to get, but he thought he'd better check just to be sure.

  'I've just finished my two years’ probation sir,' she said, with obvious pride. 'This is only my fourth day in an operational role.'

  He allowed himself a wry smile. The brass were taking this so seriously that they'd allocated him a liaison who counted her length of service in days.

  'But I'm really keen to get stuck in sir,' he heard her say, as if reading his mind. Of course she was. They all were, when they were only four days into their careers.

  'So am I Lexy, so am I,' he lied. 'But come on, tell me what you know. About these Whiteside cases, if that's what they're called.'

  'Ok sir. So Professor Geoffrey Whiteside was the chief forensic pathologist back in the days when we were still Strathclyde Police.'

  'Aye, that's what it was when I worked up there.' He still had his old warrant card with their logo and the photograph of a young and keen PC Frank Stewart, all revved up and ready to eliminate all traces of crime from south of the river. Somehow it hadn't quite worked out as he'd envisaged.

  'Yes, it's been Police Scotland for nearly ten years now I think,' Lexy said, instantly ageing him. 'But anyway, Professor Whiteside was of course brought in for all the high-profile cases and that meant he was involved in nearly every murder investigation on the patch.'

  'Including our one?'

  'Yes, including our one, but I'll get to that in a minute. So the professor left the forensic service four years ago and it was quite a sad story I suppose. He got cancer of the liver and had to take early retirement, but the treatment wasn't successful and he died not long afterwards. He was only sixty-three.'

  'Aye, that's tragic right enough,' Frank said, sensing where the conversation was heading. He was no medical expert, but he knew what was the number one cause of liver trouble, having been warned plenty of times of the dangers by his own GP. 'So was he a drinker then, our Dr Whiteside?'

  'Yes sir, it seems so. My sergeant says everyone knew about it at the time but it was just brushed under the carpet.'

  'But now I'm guessing it's come out from under the carpet, am I right?'

  'Yes sir, you're right. There was a case up here, before they started looking at all the other ones he had been involved in, and that's where it all started. A woman called Senga Wilson was sent down for murdering her lover mainly on the forensic evidence of Dr Whiteside. On the basis of the time of death and also some of her DNA which was discovered at the scene of crime.'

  'Yeah, I think I remember the case vaguely.' It wasn't the case he remembered, but the name. Senga, that peculiarly Glasgow epithet immortalised in Billy Connelly's classic comic song. Three men frae' Carntyne and five Woodbine and a big black greyhound dug called Boab. It made him laugh out loud just thinking about it, and
he wondered if Lexy, a generation and a half younger than him, knew of it too. He doubted it, and he wasn't going to embarrass them both by asking.

  'Aye, Senga Wilson, that's right,' he said. 'She battered him senseless then cut off his todger, is that the one?'

  He heard her laugh. 'Yes that's the one sir. It was in all the papers up here. But she'd always claimed she'd been at home with her husband at the time of the murder. The trouble was, he wouldn't corroborate the alibi, obviously because he thought she'd been shagging around and he was pretty sore with her.'

  'Understandable,' Frank said, laughing. 'But something's happened I'm guessing, to bring it onto our radar?'

  'She took an overdose sir. In Cragton Valley.'

  Frank knew all about Cragton Valley prison, the principal place of incarceration for women offenders in Scotland, having sent quite a few of his customers there in the past. It also held the unenviable record of having more of its inmates commit suicide than any other jail in the UK, a record which a succession of governors seemed unable or unwilling to do anything about.

  'Dead?'

  'Yes sir. They couldn't save her. She had three children too sir. Poor wee things.'

  He sighed. 'Aye, they always have. Kids I mean, and I expect they're in some god-forsaken care home somewhere. With their mother having been in jail and all that.'

  'Actually no sir, they're still with their father. In Sighthill. He's got a wee council flat up there.' Frank knew the place well. Leafy Surrey it wasn't, and he feared for their life chances growing up in a dump like that.

  'Fair play to the guy then. But I'm guessing he's got some involvement in our wee story, right?'

  'Yes sir, he has. You see, these flats are all stuffed with CCTV aren't they? So he knew they could prove his wife had been with him on the night of the murder, and he'd gone to the trouble of getting a DVD made, from the security guy who was a friend of his. It showed her coming home from work at about half-past six and then not leaving again until seven the next morning.'