by Rob Wyllie
'I'll go,' Maggie said quickly. 'It's got to be my turn for once.'
'No no,' Jimmy said, forcing a half-smile. 'Mustn't break with tradition. Two Doom Bars and a large chardonnay?'
'What's bugging him?' Frank asked Maggie as Jimmy left to battle his way through the crowded bar-room. 'The dog ate his lunch or something?'
So she told him a bit about that morning's meeting with Asvina, and the likelihood of her or Jimmy having to visit Loch More in the near future.
'Loch More?' he said, giving her a curious look. 'Well it's a small world so it is.' She waited for him to elaborate but he didn't say anything more.
At least the awkwardness between them, the result of that horrible occasion several months ago when she'd had to turn down his invitation to dinner, seemed to have softened noticeably in recent weeks, and now she entertained hopes that one of these Thursdays he'd ask her again. Or maybe if he didn't, she might ask him instead.
'Do you know the Loch More area then?' she asked him.
'Nah, I don't but he does,' he said, nodding in the direction of his brother who was approaching with the drinks. 'And listening to him go on about it, I don't think he likes the place much.'
'I gathered that.'
'What did you gather?' Jimmy asked as he laid their drinks on the table.
'Nothing mate, nothing,' Frank said unconvincingly.
'I was just telling Frank about the Macallan case,' Maggie said, 'and how complicated it is.'
'Aye, it sounds messy right enough. I've seen these lassies on You Tube by the way. Pretty girls, the pair of them.'
'What, Frank Stewart's been on You Tube?' Jimmy said, giving a laugh. 'What's the world coming to. You'll be sending emails next.'
'I was watching some old Scottish football clips,' he said, returning his brother a friendly one-finger salute. 'Ally's tartan army from way back in the seventies, that magic game against Holland. The Macallan girls came on before it, advertising some wee electric Toyota.'
'Yeah that's what they do,' Maggie said. 'They call them brand influencers, or brand ambassadors, I'm not sure what the difference is. But it seems to make them a lot of money whatever it is.'
'Aye, but it doesn't seem to have stopped them getting in to a punch-up over the Ardmore estate, does it?' Jimmy said. 'You'd have thought they already had plenty of money.'
Maggie was glad to see him something more like his old self. Now she wasn't sure whether to raise the question that had been intriguing her, but finally decided that it might be easier in this more convivial setting, and with Frank present to lighten the mood, as he invariably did.
'I hoped you don't mind me asking Jimmy,' she said uncertainly, 'but do you know the twins?'
He shrugged. 'Well I wouldn't say I know them exactly. I only met them once, at a do up in Lochmorehead a few years ago. It was a weekend when I had a seventy-two hour leave from Helmand I think. It was Flora's dad's sixtieth birthday bash and they were there. As I told you, they were at school together, my Flora and the twins. There was only about half a dozen girls in the wee village school and they were all pretty close as you can imagine. And there was that other girl, Morag Robertson, the woman who was murdered by her husband. She was there too and I met her just to say hello to. It was just a couple of months later that she was killed.'
Frank shot his brother a look of astonishment.
'Bloody hell, did you say Morag Robertson? This is just bloody ridiculous, so it is.'
'What do you mean?' Maggie asked, perplexed.
'Look, I can't really tell you too much right now,' Frank said. 'It's just something that's come into the department in the last day or two. I don't know if there's any connection to what you guys are working on, but it would be nuts if there was, let's just say that.'
'And you're not going to tell us anything else?' Jimmy asked, smiling. 'Us, your bestest mates in the whole wide world?'
This is more like it, Maggie thought, relieved. It seemed as if his sense of humour hadn't completely deserted him.
'Sorry, can't,' Frank said with an apologetic expression. 'It's not that I don't want to, honestly. It's just that I've not even opened the bloody file yet, let alone looked at it in any detail. And not just that, I've still not come up with a name.'
Maggie smiled to herself. She'd come to learn of the importance Frank gave to christening his investigations, and not with just any old name, it had to be the right one. Operation Shark, the Leonardo Murders, the Aphrodite Suicides. They'd all been huge cases that had started with nothing more than a snappy sobriquet. But once it had a name it seemed to galvanise him, the matter rapidly snowballing until he felt he was able to take it to his boss DCI Jill Smart, and ask for that official seal of approval that came with the allocation of a case number.
'Anyway, enough of all that, we're all here to have a bit of a laugh, are we not? So here's something that'll amuse you and I guarantee it,' he said, wearing a wicked expression. 'Obviously I'm not supposed to tell anyone, but this is an absolute cracker. Something else me and wee Eleanor have been working on. I can't name any names mind you, and you'll soon understand why that is, believe you me.'
Maggie gave him a fond smile. He was a good person, Frank Stewart, and he would have been only too aware how talking about his estranged wife caused his brother pain. So it was all credit to him for introducing a change of subject.
'What, handcuffs?' she laughed after she'd heard the tale. 'And do you think they were official police issue?'
'Oh aye, they were that alright,' Frank said, 'def-in-itely. Even the top brass like her get issued with a pair. Hers were probably gold-plated too.'
'What about the other woman?' Jimmy asked. 'Is she a cop as well? Maybe the other pair of cuffs belonged to her?’
'Can't tell,' Frank said sardonically. 'We can only see her arse in the photo.'
'So how come it's landed with you?' Maggie asked, still smirking at the image Frank had painted in her mind. An image which, much to her consternation, left her moderately aroused too.
'Good question. It turns out our reputation goes before us and we're now attracting stinky manure from every force in the land.' His manner was matter-of-fact, but Maggie could detect the pride in the way he said it. 'Seems like there's a lot of crap out there that needs a bloody big carpet to be swept under, and well, you can imagine why they want to get this one tidied up pronto. You know, before the tabloids sink their teeth into it.'
'And what did you say this guy was called?' Jimmy asked. 'Georgie?'
'Geordie. You know, a bit like Banksy. That street artist guy from Bristol.'
'I guess you're anxious to track him down,' Maggie said, 'assuming it is a him of course.'
Frank laughed. 'Aye, wee Eleanor pointed that out too. That it might not be a him I mean. But when our boys and girls do the psychological profiling in this sort of case, nine times out of ten it's a him we're looking for. Some spotty teenager with no mates, stuck in his bedroom with nothing else to do, that's my guess. But I'm sure we'll figure it all out soon enough. Eleanor's on the case, which is good news for me.'
Maggie nodded. 'Yeah, she's a clever lady. But anyway, how about we give talking shop a rest and have another drink instead? I could really do with one.'
'I'll go,' said Jimmy and Frank in unison, causing them to burst into laughter and then exchange a high-five. And then simultaneously they reached into a pocket and took out a coin, sparking further merriment.
'Best out of three then mate?' Jimmy said, winking at his brother. 'Heads or tails?'
Not for the first time, Maggie reflected how fortunate she had been that the Stewart brothers had come into her life just when she needed them the most. It was no exaggeration to say that Jimmy in particular had saved her life, and it was a debt she fully intended to repay.
And she was going to make a start by sending herself up to Lochmorehead to interview Mrs Alison Macallan, leaving Jimmy safely four hundred and fifty miles away here in London. With the beautiful and dang
erous Macallan twins.
Chapter 6
It had made sense to travel up to Scotland in her old Golf, because it had allowed her to fit in an afternoon visit to her parents in Yorkshire en route. It had been lovely as usual, her mum fussing over her like she was still five years old, and what had made it even better was that she had caught her dad on one of his good days, a day when he could remember both her name and who she was. Naturally they had been disappointed not to see their adored grandson, but it was already half way through the Autumn term, and with all the trauma Ollie had been through in the last two years, he needed the solid anchor of school in his life. So he had remained back in Hampstead under the care of their treasured nanny Marta, and could look forward to staying up late, watching inappropriate TV, and stopping off at the corner-shop for sweets on the way home from school. In fact, Maggie doubted if he would miss his mummy at all, but in any case she only intended to be away for one night, a punishing schedule that would involve a four-hundred and fifty-mile slog back to London when her business in Lochmorehead was complete.
The little hotel was splendid, old-fashioned but cosy and comfortable, and furthermore she had been allocated a room with a stunning view of the loch. It was close to eight o' clock when she'd arrived, the setting sun blasting a beam of shimmering purple through a gap in the mountains, the reflected hues dancing on the water surface. It was a magical landscape, which made it all the more difficult to reconcile with Jimmy's description of it. The damn place is cursed I tell you. But maybe Mrs Alison Macallan would be able to shed light on that when they met later that morning. After a hearty cooked breakfast of course.
'Full Scottish madam?' She had ordered the heart-attack inducing feast without thinking, but now that the elderly waitress was preparing to place it in front of her, she was beginning to have second thoughts. The fact that it had had to be wheeled out on a trolley rather than carried in on a tray was a pointer to its wholesomeness.
'Yes please,' she said, the arresting aroma rising up from the platter instantly blowing away her reservations.
'I'll just bring you your toast madam. Back in a moment.'
Maggie gave a grunt of acknowledgment through a mouthful of sausage, before turning her thoughts to the morning ahead. The objective with regard to Mrs Alison Macallan was relatively clear, but the chances of the mission being successful were rather harder to calculate. Asvina had said Mrs Macallan was very bitter about the way she had been treated by her husband, and Maggie knew from her own personal story how difficult that often made it to approach a situation rationally. When the motive escalated from justice to revenge, that's when it was most difficult in her experience, but with Alison's husband dead more than six months, and that death being so tragic, maybe her bitterness would have dissipated somewhat. She wouldn't have long to wait before she found out.
But now she had to admit to herself that Alison Macallan wasn't the only reason she had decided it should be her and not Jimmy who made the gruelling trip northwards. In fact, she wasn't even the main reason. The friendly waitress had now returned with her toast and Maggie smiled up at her.
'Excuse me, but is there an outdoor store nearby? You know, where I can get some hill-walking gear. And also, is there a doctor's surgery?'
The waitress smiled. 'Yes madam, there's Active Outdoors just a couple of miles along the road, heading up towards the Rest and Be Thankful. Out of the car-park and then turn right and then it's on the left, you can't miss it. They've got a good range and there's a wee cafe up there too. They do a nice coffee and a scone, so they do.'
Maggie gave an inward grimace at the thought of more food, but still managed to shoot the kindly woman a smile.
'Thanks, that sounds absolutely perfect. And the doctor's?'
'We've still got a wee surgery here in the village. Doctor McLeod and his daughter. They're very good.'
Doctor McLeod and his daughter. Dr Flora Stewart. That was assuming she was still using her married name. Now all she had to do was make up an ailment and book an appointment.
Having given a good account of herself in the battle with her breakfast, she refilled her coffee cup and spent a leisurely ten minutes admiring the view, before completing the check-out formalities. She had decided to postpone her visit to the outdoor store until after her meeting, and since it was a lovely morning she resolved to walk the three quarters of a mile to Mrs Macallan's home.
The cottage was on the main road, if it could be called that given the sparsity of traffic, and was designed in what she thought was called Scottish baronial style. Clearly a former gatehouse or lodge, it was constructed in stone with an impressive covered porch and a fairy-castle turret. It guarded a set of ancient-looking wrought-iron gates, secured by a rusty chain and padlock which suggested that this had not been the principle entrance to Ardmore House for many years. To her surprise, she found the front door slightly ajar, and was just about to call out when an overweight labrador squeezed out through the gap and gave a muted woof, which Maggie took to be a friendly greeting. The dog snuggled up against her leg and gave another bark, just as the door was opened.
'Hello, you must be Miss Bainbridge I take it? Don't mind Flossie, she's very friendly.'
Alison Macallan was approaching fifty, but looked older, her hair greying and unkempt, her face bereft of makeup. She was dressed in salmon jogging bottoms which had clearly seen better days, and a shapeless cream Arran pullover. But despite her unprepossessing appearance, Maggie could see that under the surface an attractive woman was struggling to break out. But that's what it did to you, the killer combination of tragedy and despair, when fear of the future stalked your every waking moment and stopped you from sleeping too. She remembered it only too well, and when she was at her lowest, she wouldn't have dared look in the mirror. But maybe their shared experience might help the mission.
'Maggie. Please, it's Maggie. I hope you're still ok with this Alison?' She bloody hoped she was, because she couldn't very easily nip back another day.
'No no, it's fine,' Alison said, although the tone was guarded. 'Come through.' She led Maggie through a tiny kitchen into a dark sitting room, furnished with two floral-pattern armchairs that, like the Arran pullover, could count their best years behind them. A pile of magazines was strewn across a small coffee table, upon which stood in addition to the reading matter, a bottle of supermarket own-label vodka, three-quarters empty, and a solitary glass. She gave Maggie a wry smile.
'It's from last night, honestly. I know I shouldn't, but I find it helps.'
'No need to explain Alison,' Maggie said, as she took her seat. 'Been there, done that. A dozen bottles of cheap chardonnay a week was my average, and that was just when I was trying to cut it back. You see, my husband and his lover were murdered in front of my little son, and he was only six at the time. And she was raped too.'
'Good god,' Alison said, looking aghast. 'I'm sorry.' For a moment Maggie wondered whether she had been right to tell her, but she knew she had to, if she wanted to have any chance of building a bond with this woman.
'No, I'm sorry too, I didn't mean to upset you. I only shared this because my story's so so similar to yours. The fact was, my husband Phillip was a pig, but it was still a great shock when he died.' In truth, and to her eternal shame, she had felt nothing when he had died, but there was likely to be little profit in sharing this with Alison Macallan.
'Yes my husband turned out to be a pig too,' she said. 'Worst than that, a complete bastard. But I loved him once. And yes, it was still a shock when he died, especially in the circumstances. I assume you know all about it?'
Maggie doubted if there was a person in the country that didn't know about the Ardmore shootings.
'Yes, of course, it was never off the news was it? Such an awful thing, a man killing his own son. So yes, I can totally understand it must have been utterly devastating to you Alison. Unimaginably so.'
But then she had to ask the question that the entire nation had been asking these pa
st six months.
'Do you know why Alison? Why he did it?'
She shook her head sadly. 'Of course I've asked myself that again and again, but I don't, not really. I know that Roderick found Peter incredibly frustrating, and there were always arguments. Both of them had been drinking that evening and all I can imagine is that their emotions boiled over.'
Maggie gave her an inquisitive look. 'You say arguments? What did they typically argue about, if you don't mind me asking?'
Alison shrugged. 'I don't mind. The running of the estate, mainly. Obviously Roderick could not give much attention to the day-to-day affairs when he was in the Navy, so he handed that job over to Peter quite a few years ago. And it was doing extremely well financially, I know that. But they often had disagreements about how it should be run. As I said, there were lots of arguments. Especially after Roderick retired, when he had time on his hands.'
'I can understand that, generally speaking,' Maggie said, 'but there must have been something particularly serious to lead to the events of that terrible night, surely?'
She shrugged again. 'I really don't know. I know that Peter was very committed to the conservation movement and he became passionate about marketing the estate on that basis. In particular, he wanted to stop offering deer hunting as a sport. I'm not sure Roderick saw eye-to-eye with that.'
'But I assume that it made up quite a large proportion of the revenue?'
'Yes, I think so, although I'm hopeless with money so I never really got involved in Roderick's business affairs.' Which made Maggie smile to herself, having seen the detailed documents Alison's solicitor had prepared in support of her claim against the deceased's estate. 'But I think he was very much against the plan, and not just on business grounds. Roderick saw stag hunting as very much part of the estate's traditional heritage, and preserving that heritage was very important to him.'
'Did you like Peter?' Maggie said quietly. 'Because you were his step-mum. I'm sorry but I'd quite forgotten that.'