by Rob Wyllie
A Rob Wyllie paperback
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Rob Wyllie Books, Derbyshire, United Kingdom
Copyright @ Rob Wyllie 2021
The right of Rob Wyllie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
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 copyright owner.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
RobWyllie.com
The Ardmore Inheritance
Rob Wyllie
Chapter 1
Polymath. There was no doubt about it, that's what he was, although he'd only come across the word a couple of days previously, in some podcast or other he'd been listening to on the train. A person of wide knowledge or skill. That's what it had said when he'd googled it, and yeah, that's what he was, too bloody right. And wasn't that rather marvellous for this Geordie lad, and only thirty-one years old too? He learnt the basics when he was in the Navy, but since he'd came out, he'd done well. Bloody well. Street artist and master hacker, those were now his core skills and where it had all started. But then pretty soon afterwards he'd added a third, a skill that was a bit more old-school, but no less satisfying. Cat burglar.
It had been a bloody long journey, trekking up the M1 and the M6, and when he'd got to Glasgow, four hundred miles and seven hours later, and in the pissing rain too, the sat-nav was telling him he'd still got another fifty-seven miles and an hour and half to go. But he'd pushed on, and now he was parked up in the big Q7 in a little inshot right alongside the loch, no more than fifty metres from the gates to Ardmore House. As he jabbed the stop-start button to kill the engine, he reflected how much he loved his wicked Audi SUV, kitted out with every option in the catalogue, and acquired only three months earlier. How many lads his age could afford a motor like that, bought and paid for all perfectly legit from the proceeds of his very lucrative business activities? Yes, all perfectly legit, apart from the cloned registration plates it was running on, keeping him free from both speeding tickets and detection. He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he zipped up the dark bomber jacket and taking the black silk balaclava and matching silk gloves from its pocket, slipped them on. Cartoon burglars always had a bag slung over their shoulders, labelled swag, but he didn't need one of those, labelled or otherwise, because the items he was planning to nick, two of them if he got lucky, would comfortably fit in a back-pocket.
The late April sun had long since dropped behind the craggy mountain ridge to the west, but the moon was up, reflecting hazily in the lapping waters of Loch More. He had no definitive idea of what hours the family kept, but it was now half an hour past midnight so it had to be a good each-way bet that all four would be safely tucked up in bed, if in fact they were all at home. He knew the twins would be there, at least according to that morning's barrage of Instagram posts, and of course that was why he'd made the bloody expedition in the first place. As to the father and their older brother, he didn't know their movements but he'd just have to play that one by ear and deal with any difficulties that might arise as and when.
The house was equipped with one of these wireless alarm set-ups that could be armed from a smart phone, and they'd also gone to the trouble of installing a few cameras around the place that allowed their home to be monitored remotely, no matter where in the world they were. But luckily they hadn't gone to the trouble of protecting the system with a fit-for-purpose usercode and password combination, which is why for the last two days he'd been able to case the joint whilst supping a cold beer and lounging on his comfortable sofa back in his Battersea flat. For the usercode, his old mate Commodore Roderick Macallan (retired) had chosen his personal email, [email protected]. Not exactly difficult to crack, even if it hadn't been in the public domain, which it was. And then the password? Obviously, the Commodore wanted something nice and easy to remember. So naturally he'd picked the birth-date of his beautiful twin daughters, Pixie and Posy. And finding that date wouldn't have taxed even his ninety-year old granny, given that the influencer twins were determined to play out every second of their lives on social media.
He'd been worried the 4G signal would be a bit patchy up here but in the event it was more than acceptable, allowing him to do a final remote sweep of the house and grounds on his smartphone before leaving the car. There was a camera covering the front gates, but it was too dark to make out whether they had been left open or not, although his earlier surveys had suggested they never bothered to close them. Too much of a pain when driving in and out, he assumed. The cameras in the house were confined to the hallway, kitchen and upstairs landing, but he saw that all the lights were off and so it was reasonable to assume that everyone had retired for the night. Time to go in. With a deft swipe he disarmed their alarm system, then tucked his phone in an inside pocket and got out, quietly closing the driver's door behind him. He didn't bother locking it, smirking as he weighed up the chances of two thieving bastards being active in this remote neck of the woods at the same time. Two-thirds of not very much at all.
He'd noticed during his on-line surveys that the floodlight which illuminated the gate area was aligned with a bias to the rightmost gate post, a bit of sloppiness on the part of the installation guys that he meant to exploit. As he reached the entrance to the driveway, he took a quick glance round, then sprinted to the other side of the road, staying out of range of the gate's proximity sensor. A few steps took him past the opening, allowing him then to re-cross the road so that he was standing alongside the left-hand gate post, noticing at the same time that the gates had, as he expected and hoped, been left open. If everyone was safely tucked up in bed, it was unlikely that they would notice the light coming on in any case, but he didn't intend to risk that. Crouching down, he crept forward, keeping his shoulder tight against the post, and then edged alongside the open gate. In, no problem. Now his eyes were adjusting to the moonlight and he could see the old house looming ahead, shadowy and imposing against a dark-navy sky. He'd done a bit of research and found it had been built in the eighteen-eighties by Sir Archibald Macallan, a prominent Glasgow shipbuilding magnate, and had been one of the first houses in Scotland to be equipped with both electricity and hot and cold running water. He'd also read that the guy was a right bastard, treating his workers like shit and with a reputation for cheating his suppliers out of their due. But it hadn't stopped him getting a knighthood and amassing a fortune, most of which disappeared after the second world war when competition from overseas crushed the Clydeside yards, with their arcane trade-union demarcations and prehistoric equipment, out of existence. The Ardmore Estate was about all that survived, passed down the male line until it came into the possession of the current Laird, Sir Archie's great-great-great grandson Roderick. His pal, the Commodore.
Underfoot, the driveway was tarmaced and smooth, obviously well-maintained and a pointer to the piles of cash that the estate must be raking in from their hunting and fishing operations. Nice, but he wouldn't have swapped his business for theirs. Too much like hard work for a start, and besides, he couldn't see how anyone could shoot one of these magnificent antlered beasts without wanting to puke. It was about a two-minute walk to the front door, where the drive opened out into a large gravelled forecourt. Three cars were parked neatly end-on facing the house, suggesting that all the residents were present and accounted for. A ten-year old Discovery, which he knew was the Commodore's. A battered long-wheelbase Land Rover,
which looked like the typical estate hack, probably the wheels of Peter Macallan, the son who ran the estate on a day-to-day basis. And then the transport of one of the Poxy twins, as the tabloids had disrespectfully named them, a top-of-the-range hot hatchback, courtesy of a marketing deal they had cut with the German manufacturers. Sleek black metallic he recalled from the pictures he'd seen on their Instagram, although it was impossible to make out in the semi-darkness. Matching motors with matching personalised number plates. Naturally. He assumed one of the cars would have been left back in London, the twins travelling up together to what they called their Highland retreat. At least he hoped that was the case, so as to give his mission a reasonable chance of success.
But of course he wasn't going in the front door, that was far too risky, even with his bravado. Instead he'd identified a ramshackle porch on the south side of the house, which an old photograph of the place he'd found on the web revealed as constructed in timber with a corrugated tin roof. He'd sketched out an internal plan of the house based on his on-line surveillance and although he couldn't be sure, he figured the porch led into a boot room or something of that sort, directly adjacent to the large farmhouse-style kitchen. Its door might be locked or it might not be, but he didn't expect it to present much of an obstacle to his bunch of skeleton keys if it was. Which left only the bloody dog to worry about.
He'd caught it on camera a day or two earlier, lounging in the kitchen in its bed-basket whilst chewing a bone, an ancient golden retriever or labrador, seriously overweight and very definitely looking as if it was not long for this earth. That was his hope anyway. He'd brought some doggy treats and some chocolate buttons too, proper milk chocolate ones which he knew they loved but weren't supposed to eat. Hopefully they would do the trick, but if it didn't and it started sounding off, he'd just have to leg it and have a re-think. But he was an optimist and of course he was a polymath, wasn't he, so how hard would it be to calm some old moth-eaten mutt? Pretty soon he was going to find out.
Skirting round the edge of the forecourt, he took care to give the house a wide berth in case he triggered any security lights, creeping along the lawned verge to avoid his steps crunching on the gravel beneath his feet. Reaching the south wall he spotted the porch, still just about standing, and even in the moonlight he could tell it hadn't changed much from that old photo. He tiptoed across the wide path that he guessed ran all the way round the house, and slipped under the rickety roof. Fumbling in an inside pocket, he withdrew a powerful LED torch and shone it towards the panelled door which guarded the entrance to the house. At first sight it looked sturdy and appeared to be secured by twin mortice locks, which would have presented a worthy challenge to his lock-picking skills- if not for the fact that it stood partially ajar. Handy, that. And then when he got closer and gave it the gentlest of pulls, he saw why. After years of exposure to the prevailing south-westerly rainstorms, it had swollen to such an extent that he doubted if they'd been able to close the thing even once in the last ten years. Smiling to himself, he pushed it open and slipped through.
As he had suspected, the door led into a small cloakroom, a half-dozen or so outdoor jackets hanging on hooks, and several pairs of walking boots arranged neatly on a low shelf, none of which he could imagine belonging to the glamorous twins. And then he heard it, coming from the direction of what he surmised was the kitchen. A low snuffle and a louder yawn, then a slow pad-pad-pad as the old labrador wandered over to greet him. Silently.
'Good boy, good boy,' he whispered, gently patting the animal on the head and scratching under its chin. The dog gave a sigh and nuzzled its nose against his jacket pocket, evidently detecting the receptacle that held the treats.
He kneeled down, taking a crunchy bone-shape biscuit out of his pocket, then held out his palm. The labrador picked it up with surprising delicacy then flopped onto his stomach as he turned his attention to despatching it. Whilst the animal was distracted, he took out the chocolate buttons, burst open the pack and spread a generous quantity on the flagstone floor. The dog looked up momentarily but continued working on the biscuit.
'Good boy,' he said again as he edged his way into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. The dog, trapped in the cloakroom, made no sound of protest, evidently looking forward to his date with the chocolate buttons. The intruder killed the torch, the room being adequately illuminated by the silver glow from the clocks of the oven unit and microwave. He'd prepared a sketch of the place, roughing out the location of each room, but now that he was in the house he was able to visualise the layout quite clearly in his mind. On the ground floor was a grand entrance hall with four or five doors leading off, which he guessed would include a couple of living rooms, if that's what they were called in this kind of place, a big dining hall and maybe a study or a library. All of which was completely irrelevant, because neither of the social-media-obsessed twins would have left their phones downstairs when they went to bed, not in a month of Sundays. Which meant if he wanted to steal them, which was the whole point of his mission, then he was going to have to go upstairs and exponentially raising the risk factor, slink into their rooms and snatch them away whilst they slept. He could feel the adrenalin start to surge, his face beginning to redden as he psyched himself up for the most dangerous part of the operation. In his mind, he ran through the sequence of events once again. Creep into the hall, tiptoe up the stairs, slip into each bedroom in turn, pray the phones have been left lying on a bedside table, do the snatch, beat it. It had all seemed perfectly straightforward when he'd mentally rehearsed it on the way up the motorway, but now, on the ground, doubts were beginning to surface, the principle one being, what if one of them was awake, or woke up as the theft was in progress? The problem was, both women boasted a feisty reputation, and he didn't think it likely that either would just lay down supinely if they found an intruder in their bedroom in the middle of the night. He didn't like violence but he didn't want to get caught either, which presented a dilemma.
He was just about to make his move when he thought he heard movement upstairs. Damn, but perhaps it was just one of them popping up to visit the loo. So what if he had to give it five or ten minutes for them to drop off again? He had plenty of time. But then suddenly, he heard a shout, the voice muffled but just loud enough for him to make it out. A voice which definitely seemed to emanate from an upstairs bedroom. What the hell are you doing? And then a loud crack, which could only be a shot from a gun, followed by a blood-curdling shriek of pain. And then, no more than a few seconds afterwards, another shot rang out. Shit shit shit, this wasn't part of the plan. Momentarily frozen to the spot, he tried to weigh up his options, rapidly concluding that there was only one. Get the hell out of here, and fast. But then he heard something else. The thump of footsteps banging down the stairs and then the squeak-squeak of a pair of sneakers skittering across the varnished parquet flooring of the great hall. Then a grating creak, which he assumed was the heavy front door being dragged open, but with no corresponding bang of it being closed behind the escaper. As his composure began to return, he slunk over to the door that led to the hall and edged it open. Through the gap, he heard the rah-rah-rah of a starting motor turning over, followed by the distinctive rasp of the hot-hatch's powerful engine firing into life, shooting up a shower of gravel as the driver sped away, foot nailed to the floor.
Now the house was deathly silent, and for the first time he noticed the quiet tick-tick of the roman-numeralled clock mounted next to the hob. Twelve forty-seven. Feeling calmer now, he reappraised the situation. It would be a shame to leave the place empty-handed, especially when he knew that knowledge was power and could be turned into money too, a mountain of the stuff. If he'd learnt anything in the two years he'd been in the hacking business, it was that. So it would definitely be worth spending a few more minutes here. It was mission creep for sure, but the original mission brief was surely now out the window. So that was it decided. Nip upstairs, have a quick sniff round, take a few snaps, then scarper.
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But he'd need to be bloody careful not to leave any trace, because there was something he definitely didn't want to add to his impressively poly-mathematical skill-set. Murder suspect.
Chapter 2
It's a rather complicated matter. That's all Asvina had given away to them when she'd phoned with a brief trailer for what was to be their next case. Which meant that it was going to be an absolute bitch, because Miss Rani, London's premier family-law solicitor to the rich and famous, never passed them the nice easy straightforward ones. That wasn't a problem for Maggie, because after all, if the matters were easy and straightforward, Asvina wouldn't need the services of her firm. Bainbridge Associates, Investigation Services to the Legal Profession. That was their tagline, summing up rather neatly what they did. Checking identities, uncovering dodgy bank accounts, verifying personal back-stories. In other words, all the grubby stuff that the fancy twelve-hundred-quid-an-hour lawyers felt was beneath them.
Maggie had arranged to meet Jimmy at the exit of the Docklands Light Railway station in Canary Wharf, just a stone's throw from the gleaming glass palace that housed Addison Redburn, the prestigious law firm where Asvina was a half-a-million-a-year partner. And as usual when he was meeting with Asvina, he'd made a special effort to spruce himself up. Hair washed and tied back in a neat pony-tail, a freshly-pressed blue shirt with a button-down collar, smart black jeans, polished tan cowboy boots. Maggie had known her Scottish assistant barely two years, but already they were like an old married couple and mostly, in a good way. The relationship was characterised by mutual respect and an ability to disagree on how a case should be approached without sulking, which, when she thought about it, perhaps stretched the marriage analogy too far. Maybe she would be best to reserve judgement until they bumped into the mythical seven-year-itch. Then again, her own actual marriage had only made six years, so maybe she was being optimistic in thinking they would still be working together by then.