The Ardmore Inheritance

by Rob Wyllie

  'Yes?' she said with a distinct absence of charm.

  'Two Doom Bars, a large chardonnay and a wee triple whisky. That's three shots in a glass if you've not heard of it before, and Bells will do fine if you've got it.'

  'We've got Teachers,' she said, turning her back on him. Listlessly she began to assemble his order, a process she evidently meant to string out as far as possible. It was getting on for five minutes when she eventually returned.

  'Twenty-three thirty-five,' she said, fixing him with a mirthless stare.

  'Christ, I should have taken out a mortgage,' he said, fumbling in his pocket for some coins.

  The barmaid gave no response, he assuming it wasn't the first time she'd heard the jibe. He left the note and a pile of pound coins on the bar and told her to keep the change, which caused no improvement in her demeanour. Sneaking a furtive glance over his shoulder, he downed the whisky in one before heading back to the others with the drinks. Fortification for what lay ahead.

  'Cheers brother,' Jimmy said, raising his glass. 'Nice one.'

  'Yes, thank you Frank,' Maggie said, flashing him a smile, getting him thinking that maybe the good looks and charm were working after all. 'And what about your graffiti guy? I've not heard you mentioning how you were getting on with the search.'

  He smiled. 'I'm just leaving all of that to wee Eleanor Campbell at the moment. She said she was getting close last time I spoke, but I've not heard anything since. But that reminds me. Did I tell you that our Geordie-boy did another one of his wee paintings about a week ago? Some place down in Fulham, Clonmel Road I think it was called.'

  'Hang on a minute,' Jimmy said, sounding surprised. 'That's where Kirsty Macallan lives with her husband. You don't know what the number was by any chance?'

  'Not off the top of my head, but I can easily find out. But Christ, wouldn't it be interesting if the Macallans were the target? But no, it couldn't be, that would be mental.'

  'I don't see why not,' Maggie said, 'because from what you told me, he targets people in the public eye. And both Kirsty and her husband qualify on that score.'

  Frank gave her a doubtful look. 'Well I suppose so, but I don't really believe in coincidences. But maybe that's another one for my mate Ronnie French to check out. You never know.'

  He saw Maggie glimpsing at her watch. Frank knew her routine off by heart now on these Thursday meet-ups. Two large glasses of chardonnay would take her through to quarter-to-seven, at which point she began to think about leaving, so that she would be back in Hampstead in good time to read her little boy his bedtime story. And quite naturally she was not going to allow herself to be late for that, meaning that the ask-her-out-window extended to no more than five or ten minutes, a window that he had thus far failed to take advantage of. But it was only twenty-to, so there was still plenty of time.

  When he'd come in, he'd noticed the group of football fans clustered around a table in the corner, each attired in current-season replica shirts, shirts that would have cost them over eighty quid a pop from the club shop up at the Emirates. Arsenal were in Thursday-night Europa League action, a bit of a comedown for a club with such a solid Champions League heritage, but even this Mickey-Mouse competition made a good night out for the faithful. Without knowing why, he'd mentally kept tabs of their frequent trips to the bar, and now reckoned they were each five to six pints to the good. At that level of inebriation, there was every chance that some of them would be barred from entering the stadium, not that it bothered Frank. What did bother him was that with his policeman's nose for trouble, he could smell something brewing. Or more accurately, he could hear something brewing. Because when you heard a glass smash in a bar and nobody then said sorry and started asking for a brush and dustpan, you knew something was going to kick off. And this one, from what he had just picked up, had nothing to do with football.

  'You been shagging my missus? Have you, you bastard?'

  The man was about thirty, six-two in height and broad with it, with closely-cropped hair and a prominent tattoo on his neck that proclaimed his allegiance to his football club. He was holding the shattered glass with its jagged edge less than a centimetre from the face of another man, whose short and slim physique was no match for that of the complainant, even if he'd had the chance to put up a fight. Plainly terrified, he was protesting his innocence.

  'No mate, that's bollocks. I swear it on my granddad's grave. Honest mate, I wouldn't do nothing like that. Honest I wouldn't.'

  It didn't seem to have convinced his accuser. 'You're a fucking lying toe-rag Vince, and I'm going to rip your pretty face to shreds, see if I don't. And then we'll see how you get on with the ladies, won't we?'

  Frank gave a deep sigh and fumbled in his pocket for his warrant card. It was just his bloody luck that it was happening this night of all nights, and that the antagonist was such a man-mountain of a guy. But duty was duty. Worst luck.

  'Don't move you two,' he barked at Maggie and Jimmy. 'And call 999.' He strode purposefully towards the group of fans, thrusting his card out in front of him as he reached them.

  'Ok, I'm the police,' he shouted, 'so boys, let's just calm it down a bit, shall we?'

  The man with the glass spun his head around to face him, still with the jagged edge pushed into the other man's face.

  'Sod off cop, I've got unfinished business here,' he snarled.

  Frank gave him a sardonic look. 'Aye, well you just finish it off and you'll be looking at fifteen or twenty years. That's a lot of games you'll miss. Mind you, maybe that's no bad thing, given how crap you're playing at the moment.'

  The man, still looking at Frank, pushed the glass forward and twisted it, this time drawing blood. He heard the other man give a gasp of pain as he raised a hand up towards the wound.

  'Look, last warning pal,' Frank said, his voice remaining calm and steady. 'Put the glass down and we can just forget all about this. Because otherwise, you're in the deepest of deep shit. Last chance. Come on, put the glass down.'

  'He's going to pay for what he's done, understand?' the man said, but this time there was an uncertainty in his voice.

  'That sounds like a line from a bad movie,' Frank said, laughing. 'Come on pal, no woman's worth doing fifteen years for. And there's plenty more fish in the sea, you just need to look around this place. Lovely women as far as the eye can see.'

  After he said it, he realised he could have chosen his words more carefully. But quite by accident it had the desired effect.

  'What are you saying about my missus?' he screamed, now thrusting the glass in Frank's direction. The other man, seizing his opportunity, sprinted towards the door, dripping blood across the floor. 'She's a darling, she is.'

  Not enough of a darling to stay faithful, was the first thought that sprang to mind, but this time he decided to keep his counsel. In any case, it was a bit hard to speak with a glass shoved against your throat.

  'Look come on pal, this is your last chance,' Frank croaked. 'Put the glass down and I won't even take your name. And remember, my mates from Paddington Green nick will be swarming through that door in a minute, and they won't be so accommodating. So come on, put it down.'

  Frank didn't see his brother approaching them from across the bar. All he was conscious of was something crashing into him, something that left him sprawled on his back on the floor and about four metres from where he had just stood. Dazed, he pushed himself up to see Jimmy face-to-face with the hooligan, his fists poised in front of him like an old-school Victorian prize boxer.

  'Well come on pal, if you're hard enough,' he was saying, his tone menacing. 'Fancy it, do you? Well do you?'

  ◆◆◆

  'If you're hard enough?' Frank laughed. 'Did I actually hear you say that? Who do you think you are, Clint Eastwood or something?'

  'Well cheers mate,' Jimmy said, giving him an indignant look. 'What about thanks for saving my life brother? I think that would be a bit more appropriate. And what about my rugby tackle? A beauty, wasn't it? Too
k you right out, clean as a whistle.'

  'Yes it was and it did,' Frank conceded, 'and thanks.' He tried not to make it sound too grudging.

  The uniforms had now turned up and were taking statements from the Arsenal contingent, who all claimed to have seen nothing and were complaining loudly that they would miss the kick-off if the police didn't get a move on. The wronged husband was in handcuffs and was facing a charge of assaulting a police officer, if Frank could be bothered to fill in the paperwork. And Maggie was pulling on her coat, anxious to get back to her little boy, now that it was clear that both friends had emerged unscathed from their encounters.

  Frank swore under his breath, as he realised his plans were wrecked for another bloody week. In his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate. Slipping it out, he saw it was a text from Eleanor Campbell.

  Good news :-) finally worked out how to track down Geordie. Way cool. Bad news :-( it can't be done. Will (try to) explain when you're back in the office x

  He had no idea what she meant, but maybe the evening hadn't been such a disaster after all. And at least he was going to see Maggie Bainbridge again soon. In fact barely fifteen hours from now by his uncertain calculation.

  Chapter 19

  They didn't normally frequent the Old King's Head in working hours, but Frank had arranged the meeting there so naturally they went along with it. This time, it wouldn't be just the three of them either, as today they were being joined by Yash Patel of the Chronicle. Maggie and Jimmy had bumped into him a few times on previous cases and shared the same opinion of him. Really nice guy, but in spite of the reverence for older generations that was such a credit to his culture, he would sell his own granny for a story. Probably already had, several times over, Jimmy had once commented. All they knew was that his presence had something to do with Frank's Brian Pollock affair, and that what he wanted them to do was slightly dodgy. On entering the familiar establishment, they were pleased to find that not only were Frank and Patel already there, but the drinks were already on the table, Maggie suspecting they would have been taken care of on a Chronicle expense account.

  'Hi guys,' Frank said raising his glass. 'You know Yash, don't you? I assumed a large chardonnay and a Doom Bar by the way, hope that's ok.'

  Maggie gave him a knowing smile in acknowledgement of the events of the previous evening then said, 'Great, and hi Yash, good to see you again.'

  She noticed that Patel was carrying a large padded black bag which was slung over his shoulder on a robust strap. A bag that bore an instantly-recognisable logo. Canon. Curious that.

  'Yeah, great to see you guys again too,' he said, bubbling with his customary enthusiasm. 'This is going to be an absolutely top story, don't you think? Wicked.'

  Jimmy took a slurp of his pint and frowned. 'No idea mate. My brother's been a bit sparing with the info thus far.'

  'Aye, well I'll bring you up to date now,' Frank said. 'Let's just say it's a wee undercover job for you two.'

  'And it's dodgy,' Maggie said. 'You said that too.'

  'Aye, a bit, but you'll not be in any danger or anything like that. Just a wee bit of subterfuge, that's all.'

  'So come on then,' Jimmy said. 'Clue us in.'

  'Aye, all right then,' Frank said. 'So I talked to Yash here about what's going on with the Ardmore murders and the screw-up with the forensics and everything. And obviously about Pollock's role in the whole thing.'

  'This story's got absolutely everything,' Patel said, his eyes gleaming. 'The gory murders, the little girl victim, the wrong guy gets locked up then goes and kills himself, the screw-up by the senior investigating officer who now happens to be the Chief Constable. I mean, shit, my editor thinks he's died and gone to heaven, he really does.'

  'And another wee award beckons for you Yash my boy?' Frank said.

  'Yeah, I've already written the headline,' Patel laughed. 'How top cop crashed and burned - a Chronicle exclusive. Sounds sweet, don't you think?'

  Maggie gave Frank a sharp look. 'I'm sorry, but how do we fit into all of this?'

  Patel reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew what looked like several pages torn from a magazine, then unfolded them and spread them out on the table.

  'This is the puff piece,' he said, pointing to the headline printed above a large photograph of Sir Brian Pollock in his Chief Constable's uniform. 'The rise of a policing superstar. Good, eh?'

  'Puff piece?' Maggie said, looking puzzled. 'I've heard the expression but I'm not sure what it means.'

  'Think of it as bait,' he said. 'When we request an interview, we send them this mock-up of what the final article might look like. It's all twaddle, puffing up their reputation and saying how wonderful they are. Hence the name. It's designed to hook them in, and it never fails, especially with someone with as high opinion of himself as Pollock.'

  Maggie raised an eyebrow in Jimmy's direction and gave a discreet smile. She guessed he was thinking the same as her. Takes one to know one.

  'And nobody ever looks at the small print,' Patel continued, 'which says we reserve the right to write anything we damn well like.'

  'I get that I think,' Maggie said, 'but sorry to sound like a broken record. I still don't get what you want us to do.'

  'You're going to interview him for the Chronicle,' Frank said, smirking. 'Yash has got it all arranged. Pollock will be down in London tomorrow for some Chief Constable's bash and you'll be seeing him at three o' clock. All you need to do is decide who's going to be the journalist and who's going to be the photographer.'

  'Yeah, all arranged,' Patel nodded. 'I've squared it all away with my editor.' He fumbled in another pocket for a second or two. 'Here, we've got you a couple of fake press passes, and actually Maggie, you'll have to be the journo I'm afraid. You're going to be Caroline Watts, if you don't mind.'

  'Who's she?' Maggie asked, 'or is she made up?'

  'No she's real enough,' Patel said, 'but nobody's ever heard of her. She's a freelancer that we use occasionally. Nice girl, but not much of a writer.'

  'Well that shouldn't be too difficult for me then,' Maggie said, smiling. She examined the pass he'd given her. 'No photograph on it?'

  'Don't need it, not on the Chronicle's passes at least. Never have done. And Jimmy, you're going to be Robert Watts the photographer, no relation. And he's not very well known either.'

  'Unlike you, Yash mate,' Frank laughed. 'Everybody's heard of you.'

  'Yeah probably,' he said, making no attempt at modesty, 'and that's why we need you guys. I'm very well-known as a top investigative journalist you see, so if I turned up he would smell a rat. Whereas you two will just be a couple of freelance features guys with the Saturday magazine, doing a nice light piece for the weekend readers.'

  Maggie allowed herself a wry smile. Clearly in the newspaper trade, the freelance features guy was bottom of the food chain.

  'Well I suppose it shouldn't be that hard,' she said doubtfully, 'but I still don't get what we're supposed to say to him.'

  'That's easy,' Frank said. 'You butter him up for ten minutes then you say that your editor would be looking for some balance in the article.'

  'That's right,' Patel agreed. 'You ask him if he can think of an occasion in his career when things maybe didn't go quite so well.'

  'Aye,' Frank said, 'and if he can't think of anything, and I would put money on the fact that he won't, then that's when you bring up the Ardmore murders. Drop it in nice and casual.'

  'You mean light the blue touch-paper,' Maggie said.

  'Exactly.'

  Jimmy grinned. 'Well, the mission's clear enough to me and it looks like all I have to do is carry that camera bag. Easy. And then maybe I might be able to fit in a couple of wedding before I hand it back. There's real money in them.'

  ◆◆◆

  The conference venue was the London Hilton on Park Lane, a location that Maggie and Jimmy knew quite well from a previous case. She found it a rather surprising choice, imagining that such a high-profile gat
hering would take place in a secure government building somewhere surrounded by armed guards. Instead the atmosphere was relaxed, the double-doored entrance to the conference suite guarded only by two smartly-dressed young women sitting at a desk who were ticking off delegates and their invited guests against a computer-printed list.

  Maggie wandered up to one of them, wrinkling her nose as she tried to remember their pseudonyms.

  'Caroline Watts from the Chronicle. I'm here to interview Chief Constable Pollock. And this is our photographer Robert Watts. And no relation, before you ask,' she added, smiling.

  The young woman flicked over a couple of pages of her list until she found their names, giving a nod of recognition before scoring them through with a ruler and ballpoint.

  'And do you have ID?' she asked.

  Maggie handed over the press passes and watched as the woman gave them a cursory glance.

  'They're fine. Sir Brian is in conference at the moment but if you'd like to go through to the exhibition area and wait I'm sure he'll be able to find you.'

  It was a large room, brightly illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the picture windows that made up an entire wall. Along both sides were a series of small pop-up trade stands populated by smartly-dressed men and women of eager demeanour, most clutching glossy flyers which they were anxious to thrust into the hands of unsuspecting passers-by.

  'Brochure sir?' An attractive brunette stepped in front of them, directing her attention solely at Jimmy.

  'Aye ok,' he said pleasantly. 'What's it for?'

  'It's roster planning software sir. We're Heartworks, I expect you've heard of us? Our software's installed in over forty forces around the country. We're the market leader in the UK.'

  'Good to know,' he said, Maggie smiling as she recognised one of his brother's favourite phrases, 'but I'm just a photographer so I'll not be buying any software any time soon. Sorry.'

  He handed back the brochure with an apologetic look. It did not seem to upset the brunette, who shot him a rather too familiar smile before retreating to her stand.