The Ardmore Inheritance

by Rob Wyllie

  'Yeah, there's something in that,' Maggie agreed, then giving him a mischievous smile she continued, 'And what did you think to Kirsty? Because she was certainly interested in you if I'm any judge. She hardly took her eyes off you for a second.'

  'Aye maybe,' he said, shrugging, 'but I don't think she remembered who I was, did she? From that party I mean.'

  She laughed. 'She probably asks so many men to sleep with her, she's lost track.'

  'Yeah, I expect that's it,' he agreed, evidently unconcerned. 'But there was one thing I did pick up on actually. And I wondered if you'd noticed it too?'

  She gave him a puzzled look. 'No, I don't think so.'

  'I'm surprised,' he said, not bothering to hide an annoyingly smug expression, 'please don't tell me you're losing your touch.'

  'Don't be so bloody cheeky,' she said, trying hard not to laugh, 'or I'll have you court-martialled.'

  'I'm not in the army now,' he said, deadpan, 'in case you'd forgotten.'

  'Come on then smart-arse. Tell me what you've got. I haven't got all day.'

  He gave her a look of mock superiority. 'Aye, I will then. So what I was thinking was, if Kirsty Macallan is so damn sure she was the first-born twin, why's she suddenly so interested in her old maternity records?'

  Chapter 11

  Frank's train trip up from London had been both convenient and comfortable, the four-hour-something journey time allowing ample opportunity to down a couple of beers from the service trolley and to ponder how he would handle the delightful act of serendipity that had parachuted Brian Pollock back into his life. To tell the truth, it had been a bit of a shock at first, being more than ten years after he'd last had the displeasure of working with the shit-faced bastard. Back then, the newly-promoted Inspector Pollock had waltzed into New Gorbals station from a previous fast-track assignment somewhere in the north-east, the jungle drums sending the message in advance that he was a complete prick and needed to be handled with great caution. Frank had not long turned thirty, and had banked a solid two years as a hard-working and street-smart Detective Sergeant. All things being equal, there was a fair chance he would make Inspector before too long, such was the regard for him amongst the brass. That was until Pollock turned up to screw all his carefully-laid career plans.

  The case had been relatively routine but high-profile. An ex-footballer turned pundit had been accused of raping a woman he had met in a Glasgow bar. After sharing a few drinks together, they had taken a taxi back to her flat, where the offence was alleged to have taken place. So far, so normal, but what had made this one more complicated than it needed to be was that the woman had waited more than three weeks before reporting the incident to the police. Nonetheless the station DCI had reviewed her complaint and satisfied that it was credible, allocated the case to DI Pollock. Frank hated these cases with a passion, because he knew that some poor wee lassie was going to be asked some horrible questions about this most private and intimate aspect of her life. And it didn't matter how sensitively you tried to put it, there was always that elephant in the room. Prove to us you didn't say yes. He'd had to do it a couple of times in the past, and he had no desire to do it again. Which is why when he was rostered to the investigation and told by Pollock he had to interview the woman, whose name was Sharon Thomas, he called up a favour and brought in a woman DS from Paisley whom he'd met on a course, and whom he knew was Renfrew district's go-to officer for these sort of cases. Meanwhile Pollock was all over the media, predicting a swift resolution to the investigation. A forty-one-year-old man was in custody and was helping with enquiries he told them, and they were expecting him to be charged soon.

  Except that DS Priti Chowdray of Renfrew division wasn't convinced. First of all, the victim had steadfastly refused to allow the police doctor to examine her. Secondly, gentle but persistent questioning had uncovered some inconsistencies in her story, the woman first claiming the rape had happened on a sofa in her living room whilst later she remembered it had actually taken place when they were in bed together, sleeping off their over-indulgence. As DS Chowdray had explained to Frank, this seemed like a classic case of post-coital regret and so should be treated with caution, she recommending a more thorough investigation of the alleged facts before charges were brought. Not to justify or excuse the actions of the guy, she made that clear, a man who in her opinion had cynically set out to take advantage of the woman's inebriation, but simply in the interests of justice.

  But Pollock wouldn't have it. All he could see was another collar and a high-profile one at that, another step on his way up the promotional ladder. So Sharon Thomas was coerced into tidying up her recollection of events, on the pretext that a man like that would probably do it again if he wasn't put away for a good spell. Suddenly, she remembered the night with crystal clarity. After arriving back at her flat, she'd poured them each another drink and then they'd sat on the sofa, where they'd held hands and kissed before it all started to get out of hand. She said no, of course she had, but he had ignored her, reaching up under her skirt to tear off her knickers, then lying on top of her and forcing her to have unwanted intercourse. With that version of events, the Procurator Fiscal had little option but to proceed with charges, even although Frank knew they harboured doubts at the time.

  And then two days later, the accused's lawyers released a series of explosive texts, first to the press and then to the prosecutor's office, which turned the spotlight on what had really happened that night. A barrage of messages had been sent by the alleged victim to the accused, lascivious in nature and thanking him for the wonderful time she had had, and looking forward to seeing him again as he had promised. At first ignored, there was eventually a single response from the former footballer, terse and brutal, thanking her for being a great shag, his exact words, but that he wasn't planning to see her again anytime soon.

  With the case blown out of the water, Pollock had embarked on a damage-limitation exercise, played out principally on Scotland's broadcast media. An exercise that laid the blame for the foul-up squarely on the shoulders of the Detective Sergeant who had been working on the case, a DS whom in Pollock's words, had displayed repeated lapses in both judgement and endeavour. The brass knew it was all bollocks of course, but no-one wanted to be the one who stood in the way of golden-boy's career. So Frank had been bought off with an offer of instant promotion to Inspector, providing he took up a new post in the Metropolitan Police, and with immediate effect. Meanwhile the inexorable rise of Brian Pollock continued unchecked. It seemed that every time he screwed up, he was shunted upwards until eventually, and against all notions of natural justice, he had ended up as Chief Constable of Police Scotland, with the obligatory knighthood that came with the job. For Frank, London had worked out fine, but unlike plenty of his colleagues, he hadn't ever wanted to make the move south. But the incident had seared a burning injustice in his heart which he knew would not be erased until he got even with the bastard who had caused it. And now finally here was his chance, and the elevated status that Pollock had somehow attained was going to make his fall from grace even sweeter.

  The train had arrived into Glasgow's Central Station bang on time, and the weather being reasonable for his home city, that is not totally pissing down with rain, he decided to walk the one-and-a-half miles to the New Gorbals police station.

  'I'm here to see PC McDonald and her sergeant,' he told the duty officer on the desk. 'I'm DI Frank Stewart.'

  'We've got three PC McDonalds,' he answered, Frank noting the unhelpful tone and the absence of a 'sir' in his response. But then he'd forgotten they didn't like outsiders up here, even if they spoke with a Glasgow accent. In fact, especially if they spoke with a Glasgow accent.

  'Lexy,' he said, 'PC Lexy McDonald. And by the way, it's sir to you, ok pal?' He thought it wouldn't do any harm for word to get round the place that Frank Stewart had turned into a right tosser since he'd joined the Met.

  'Oh aye, I'd forgotten about her sir,' he said, unchastened. 'She's new.
Wait a minute and I'll get her to fetch you through.'

  A couple of minutes later he heard the buzz as the automated access door was unlocked, then watched it opening outward into the entrance area. A small and pretty freckled-face constable in an obviously brand-new uniform materialised from behind it, beaming a wide smile.

  'Welcome to the New Gorbals sir,' she said. 'Welcome back that is.'

  Welcome back. The truth was, it was quite nice to be back, even although the manner of his leaving still rankled.

  'My sarge wants to sit in with us sir, if that's ok,' she said, as she led them across to the small interview room which was apparently to be his temporary base whilst he was in town.

  'Sure. What's his name?'

  'Sergeant Muir sir.'

  'Jim Muir?'

  'Yes sir.'

  So they'd finally made old Jim a sergeant. He'd been a DC when Frank had made DS, the guy already in his mid thirties with a career that was slowly going nowhere. But whilst a lot of guys were quite content to see out their service on the coal-face, Muir wasn't, and even ten years ago he was bitter about it. But rules were rules, and if you couldn't pass the sergeants' exam then it was no dice. But fair play to the man. Better late than never, even although he guessed the reason for his unexpected and undeserved promotion was the same one that allowed Colin Barker of the Met to cling to his unmerited DCS role. The old dodgy handshake routine. But maybe he was just wearing his cynicism on his sleeve.

  'Jim, good to see you again,' he lied, extending a hand. 'Keeping well?'

  'Mustn't grumble,' Muir replied. 'I'd get you a coffee but the machine's bust again.' So much for the warm welcome.

  'No worries Jim, I had a couple of wee cans of Tartan on the way up on the train. It's not often we get a wee day out, is it?'

  'Are you staying up here long?' Muir asked, his eyes narrowing. Again, no sir. But Frank wasn't bothered.

  'Me?' he said. 'No, just the one night I think. I want to pop over to Shettleston to see my mother and father, and then I'll be away back down the road tomorrow.'

  He saw Lexy giving him a surprised look, having told her he would stay for as long as it took. But he didn't want Jim Muir knowing that.

  'So this case Jim,' he started, adopting a matey tone and deliberately ignoring PC McDonald, 'it looks like a right heap of shite to me. It's my DCI's fault, Jill Smart you know. She's got this megalomania to extend my wee department across the whole of the UK and between you and me, I can't be arsed with it. Way too much work if you know what I mean.'

  Without waiting for him to answer he continued,

  'So to be honest, I can't see the point of this whole shebang, can you? We can't bring back the woman and the kid that was murdered and now the guy who was supposed to have done it has gone and topped himself. So what's the point of opening it all up again, that's what I say. Complete waste of my time and everybody else's. It's not as if there's not enough new cases to be going on with, is it?'

  Muir nodded. 'That's the view over at HQ I think.'

  Aye, I bet it is, Frank thought to himself. From the Chief Constable downwards.

  'So maybe I'll just spend a few hours with Lexy this afternoon taking a quick surf through the file. Just so we can tick all the right boxes and make everybody happy, right? Then we can shove it back in its dusty old filing cabinet, and no harm done. You're welcome to sit in if you want Jim, by the way. Many hands make light work and all of that.'

  Frank knew he wouldn't. In fact, he was counting on it.

  'No that's fine Frank,' he said, grimacing. 'You carry on with Lexy. I've got plenty to be getting on with.'

  He shot Muir a smile. 'Great. So I'm planning to knock off early anyway, about half three, so I can get over to Shettleston. An hour and a half should be all we need here, eh Lexy?'

  When Muir had left them he asked her, 'Have they still got a canteen here?'

  She gave him a surprised look. 'Yes sir. Do you want me to go and get you a coffee or something?'

  'No no. Let's just take a wee stroll down there. I fancy one of these iced gingerbread squares if they still do them.' He nodded up to the discreet camera that was mounted on the ceiling, she returning a knowing smile.

  'So,' he said once they'd got settled down at a quiet table, 'this wee murder. Tell me all about it. Start to finish please, omitting no detail.'

  She flicked over to the first page of her pristine ring-bound notebook, giving him the chance to admire, albeit upside down, her neat and precise handwriting. The product of a neat and precise mind, he hoped.

  'Ok sir. So the crime took place almost exactly four years ago, at a semi-detached house on the Ardmore naval base on Loch More. It's one of these houses that are reserved for service personnel with families. Lieutenant James McKay lived there with his wife Morag and their two-year old daughter Isabelle.'

  'Poor wee thing' he said, knowing the girl's fate. 'A real tragedy right enough.'

  'Yes sir, it is. So the Lieutenant was a weapons officer, who had served mainly on the nuclear submarine fleet. They're often at sea for months on end so I'm guessing it can be difficult for the families left behind. I mention that sir because I think it's very relevant to our case.'

  'Noted. Carry on please.'

  She furrowed her brow as she studied her notes. 'Yes, so he'd been at sea for about six or seven months on a training mission, I think I told you that on the phone, didn't I? Anyway, the submarine docked at about 6pm on the evening of the murder, and I suppose there was some stuff to do before the crew could leave the ship...'

  Frank laughed. 'Aye, I guess they'd need to find a big enough parking space and then lock it up. It's an expensive bit of kit, a nuclear sub. And dangerous too, in the wrong hands. You wouldn't want some wee Glasgow neds nicking it for a joyride, would you?'

  'Yes, something like that sir,' she grinned. 'But anyway, witnesses say it was near to a quarter to eight when he left the dockyard and started to make his way home. I've had a look on google maps and it's about a fifteen-minute walk, there or thereabouts.'

  'So he would have arrived home at about eight o'clock then?' Frank said, thinking out loud.

  'Yes sir, around then. And that's when, originally, it was alleged the murder was committed. The story was that he had gone home in some sort of a rage and more or less killed his wife and their child right away. The murder weapon was one of their own kitchen knives. Morag was killed by three stab wounds to her abdomen, and the wee girl had her throat cut.'

  'God's sake. And he got caught at the scene, more or less red-handed. Is that right?'

  Lexy nodded. 'That's precisely right sir. A neighbour or someone had apparently heard a disturbance and reported it to the police. A patrol vehicle with two uniforms rushed round there and then broke down the door when they got no answer. They found James McKay in the kitchen holding the knife with blood still on the handle and on his hands too.'

  'So I suppose then the scene-of-crime guys would have turned up and this Professor Whiteside guy would have been dragged in to examine the bodies?'

  'Yes, that's what the file says sir. The professor arrived at around midnight to establish the time and cause of death. Obviously he confirmed the causes of death were the knife attacks, and he put the time of both deaths at about four hours earlier.'

  Frank gave a wry smile. 'That would have been handy for the investigating officer. Does it say in the file if and when DCI Pollock turned up?'

  'Yes sir. He arrived at around ten o' clock and arrested Lieutenant McKay not long afterwards.'

  Yes, the jammy bastard wouldn't have been able to believe his luck, and he definitely wouldn't have let anything as inconvenient as the facts get in the way of a nice easy collar. He could imagine how it played out, the pathologist turning up late, either pissed or hung over and pleading for a bit more time just to be sure, and Pollock overruling him and forcing the issue. It was shameful, no matter how you looked at it.

  'But I'm guessing McKay denied everything?' Frank said. 'I m
ean, he's bound to have, given that we now know he didn't do it.'

  'He did sir, you're right,' Lexy said. 'He said he'd found his wife and daughter already dead and had removed the knife from his wife's body because he thought he could save her. He said he gave both of them CPR and mouth-to-mouth but of course it didn't work.'

  Frank sighed. 'Well it wouldn't, given they had both been dead for at least two or three hours. But that would account for why he was covered in her blood, the poor guy. And so that was it? That was the whole case against him?'

  'No sir,' she said, flicking her notebook over to the next page, 'there was something else. In fact, I think it was this that mainly sealed the case against him.'

  'Ok, so go on, tell me.'

  'Right sir. Well in court, the prosecution produced email correspondence between the McKays going back about six months that suggested their marriage was in trouble.'

  Frank gave her a puzzled look. 'But hang on a minute. Wasn't he on his sub all of that time? Don't tell me they can send and receive emails from two miles beneath the ocean.'

  She smiled. 'Apparently they can sir. I don't think they're actually on line all the time though. They get a weekly update as I understand it. But I don't know how it works obviously.'

  'No, me neither,' he grinned. But he knew someone who probably did, and he resolved to ask Eleanor on his return to London. 'But these emails, you say they were produced in court?'

  'Right sir. Nearly a hundred of them. It started with his wife saying she was sick of her life as a naval wife and wanted a divorce. At first he told her he loved her and pleaded with her to change his mind.'

  'Don't tell me. Then the threats began.'

  'Yes sir. He told her he wouldn't let her take his daughter away from him and that he would kill them first. The threats were quite graphic, really horrific. They're all in the file sir, you can read them if you want.'

  'I'll pass on that for now Lexy, thanks,' he said. But even as he said it, he knew the thing just didn't make any sense. A bitter husband, terrified at losing his marriage and his child, has a breakdown and commits a horrific murder after several months of threats, and is caught red-handed at the scene. It was little wonder the jury found him guilty, and he was reluctant to admit, little wonder that Pollock had him arrested and charged as swiftly as he did. But now they knew James McKay couldn't possibly have done it, meaning, obviously, someone else did, and did it at least two or three hours earlier. There was no question about it, the whole thing stunk to high heaven.