by Rob Wyllie
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Elspeth Macallan had arranged that he should pick her up at her flat at seven-thirty, which struck him as a bit early for an eight-thirty dinner date at a restaurant that was no more than a fifteen-minute walk away, especially when it was common knowledge, divulged through their social media, that the Macallan twins rarely walked anywhere. Fearful of what her plans for him pre-dinner might be, he'd decided he would turn up fashionably late, which caused him a frankly absurd amount of mental stress, as he discovered how difficult it was to over-ride a lifetime of punctuality.
'Sorry I'm late,' he lied, as she opened the door to his first ring. 'My Uber didn't turn up and I had to re-book. But here I am now.'
'Don't worry Jimmy,' she said, stretching up to kiss him on the cheek. 'We've got plenty of time. You look very nice by the way.'
'Thanks, I thought I should make an effort.' In truth, it hadn't taken much of an effort, but the crisp white shirt and navy jacket worn with his ever-present black jeans just nudged the look into something you could call stylish. 'And you look lovely too of course.'
She was wearing the same dress as she had been in their last meeting.
'It's Dior isn't it? I remember you telling me about it. It's French as I recall.'
She laughed. 'Gosh, fancy you remembering, you are a clever boy. But actually it's not the same one. That other one was one they lent me for promotional purposes on my channels, but it sold so incredibly well that they sent me two others to keep. This black one and a lighter grey one too. You won't understand being a man, but I've already had both of them on three times each this afternoon. I just couldn't decide between them. But you can't go wrong with black, can you?'
He smiled. 'Aye, I had the same problem myself with this shirt. Blue or white, I couldn't make up my mind.'
She led him through to the stylish kitchen, dominated by a large island topped in expensive granite. At one end lay a silver tray with two champagne glasses and a bottle on ice. Without asking, she filled both without spilling a drop then passed one to him, her fingers lingering on his hands as he took it from her.
'You've done that before, I can tell,' he said, slightly disconcerted, 'and thanks, I don't mind if I do.' And then he noticed that the bottle was already half-empty. Or still half-full, depending on which way you looked at it.
She raised her glass. 'Here's to a lovely evening.' And then she drained it in one.
'I'm sorry, but I'm going to have some more. I hope you don't mind?' She was smiling but he thought he detected a nervousness in her voice. He couldn't imagine it was him that was causing it.
'Go ahead,' he said, then raised his own glass, 'and yes, here's to a lovely evening.' He watched as she poured herself a refill, taking care to fill it right to the brim.
'Don't worry, there's another bottle in the fridge,' she said, squeezing his arm. 'Let's go through to the lounge and you can start to tell me all about yourself. Or maybe you could just kiss me. Whatever you want.'
He thought it an extraordinary thing for her to say, and then he remembered her sister's behaviour at his father-in-law's birthday party. Maybe it ran in the family or maybe the Macallan twins were just so used to getting what they wanted.
'Well I don't much like talking about myself,' he said, 'but I suppose I could give you the five-minute potted history if you insist.'
She gave a coy smile. 'Well as long as it's only five minutes. Because to be honest, I'd rather you kissed me.'
He shrugged. This was taking one for the team, big time, and he was going to make bloody sure that Maggie Bainbridge never forgot his sacrifice. But then again, as his brother Frank had pointed out, how horrible could it really be?
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At least there hadn't been a scrum of paparazzi waiting outside La Garrigue when the Uber pulled up outside. She'd promised a quiet dinner in a nice little French restaurant, but Elspeth and Kirsty Macallan lived their lives in the public eye and he worried their idea of quiet would be quite different from his. He knew exactly where his apprehension came from though. It was that crazy five months he'd spent with Astrid Sorenson, the Swedish country singer who had ruined both his life and his marriage. Except it hadn't been her fault at all, because he'd ruined it perfectly well all by himself. It was true that he'd fallen for her when he was at the absolutely lowest point in his life, but that was a poor excuse. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Now it had become a whole bloody industry, with a thousand charities jumping on the bandwagon. Help for Heroes, Veterans in the Community, the Invictus Games to name but a few. All well-meaning of course, and he wished none of them ill, but unless you had been there, seen half a dozen of your best mates blown to pieces in front of your eyes, then you didn't have a bloody clue what it was all about. When something like that happens and you're three and a half thousand miles from home, then a man just can't bloody think straight. So when the Swedish princess had turned up at that Helmand concert like some bloody modern-day Vera Lynn, well what was he supposed to do? It was she who had made the first move, but he didn't have to say yes. Sure, she was beautiful and alluring, but then so was Flora. Looking back, he knew exactly why he had said yes. It was simply because she was there and he'd needed something that night. Tonight was different. Elspeth Macallan too was beautiful and alluring and had already made it plain she was available. But that just wasn't going to happen. He was with her for one reason and one reason only. To find out what she knew.
On arrival, the maître d' had taken Elspeth's jacket and passed it to a colleague, then led them to a quiet corner table where he handed each a leather-bound menu. He allowed them to settle for a few seconds then asked, 'Sir will be choosing the wine this evening?'
'Aye, I suppose sir will be,' Jimmy said, taking the menu from him. The only problem was that before they'd left her home, Elspeth had finished the bottle of fizz, out-drinking him in a ratio of three to one, and he wasn't sure how wise it would be to allow her some more. And then he checked himself. Allow her some more. What was that all about and who did he think he was exactly? If she wanted to get herself pissed, that was entirely up to her. And in any case, it seemed she had her own ideas on the subject.
'Of course he will,' she said, suddenly looking serious, 'and whilst he's doing that, bring us some champagne please.'
'Certainly madam. And I'll give you a few minutes sir, shall I?' the waiter said before gliding away.
'Are you ok?' he said, sensing her change of mood.
'Yes, I'm fine,' she said. 'Honestly. I suppose it's just everything that's going on. I can't seem to put it out of my mind.'
'Aye, understandable,' he said, not quite sure if he believed her. It had been more than three months since she'd discovered the perverse terms of her father's will, and over six months since the tragic incident at Ardmore House. And she'd been fine back at her place, when she'd been knocking back the champagne and running her hands all over him. So whatever the reason for her mood change, he felt it had somehow been prompted by their arrival at the restaurant.
As he skimmed through the wine menu and finding not unexpectedly that it comprised exclusively of French vintages, he saw her take her phone from her bag and place it on the table. Screen down. Maybe she just didn't want to be distracted during a lovely romantic meal, or maybe she didn't want him to be able to see the ID of any callers or texters. He wondered which of those it was. Perhaps both.
'Any preference?' Jimmy asked, wearing a perplexed look, 'because I'm more of a new world man myself. Shiraz if it's red and Sauvignon if it's white. And I usually choose the one that's a pound dearer than the cheapest on the menu. Although I read somewhere that's what they want you to do. It's usually the crappiest wine and the one they make the most profit on.'
She shrugged. 'Let's get the waiter to choose after we've ordered our food, shall we? They'll probably recognise me eventually so they'll want to make a good impression. They may even decide it's on the house, that happens a lot. Kirsty and me can make or break a restaurant you
know.' It was said with an absence of conceit. He guessed for her, she was simply stating a fact. And by mentioning her sister, it left an opening for a question he wanted to ask.
'How are relations with Kirsty if you don't mind me asking?' he said, dropping his voice so as to dial down any potential offence. 'I know it must be difficult for you.'
'It's shit, since you ask. We were so close until our father died and now this stupid will's screwed everything up. I just don't know what's got into her, I really don't. Because she knows I'm the elder twin, of course she does. But it's Rory who's behind all of this of course. He's a hateful man and so money-grabbing. And he's got Kirsty twisted around his little finger. She can't even go for a piss without asking his permission. It's pathetic.'
Just in time, Jimmy remembered. Rory Overton and Elspeth Macallan had history. So it wouldn't be a surprise to find that her opinion of her sister's husband was coloured by that relationship.
'It's a terrible shame though,' Jimmy said. 'I mean, me and my brother Frank aren't always best mates but I'd hate if anything came between us.'
'It is a shame,' she said, 'but look, here's the waiter coming to take our order and I don't really want to spoil our evening talking about all that boring stuff.'
So she wanted to change the subject. The only problem was, he did want to talk about all that boring stuff. That was the mission, to find out what she knew and have one final attempt at getting a deal, but he could see it would have to be delayed for the time being. Smiling he said, 'I'll second that Elspeth. But there's just something I wanted to ask you, it's about your old nanny Susan Priest. I assume you know she was killed recently? In a hit and run accident?'
She shrugged. 'An old nanny? God, that must have been twenty-five years ago at least. No, I didn't know. Why should I? I've never given her a day's thought in all of that time.'
He remembered what John Priest had said to him. Elspeth, Kirsty, how the hell should I know. Maybe she was telling the truth, and whatever the case he doubted if she was likely to admit it if it had been her who had been in touch with Mrs Priest. For a moment he thought about pursuing the matter, but then decided to keep his powder dry. Instead he said,
'Aye, it was a tragedy right enough, a terrible thing altogether. But you asked about me, well, there's not much to say really. I'm thirty-two years of age, six-foot two, weigh one hundred and eighty pounds, born and brought up in Glasgow, did law at Glasgow Uni, joined the army, went to Afghanistan, came out, got a job with Maggie Bainbridge Associates. That's my life in one sentence.'
'Is that all you're going to give me?' she said, her tone subdued. 'Because I can't help noticing you didn't mention your marriage to Flora McLeod.'
He gave her a grim look. 'That's because it hurts, if I'm being brutally honest with myself. It was my biggest screw-up and make no mistake.'
'But she's lovely your Flora, isn't she? Beautiful and clever too. The beautiful and clever Dr Flora Stewart with the handsome-hero husband.'
And now he noticed it, as clear as a blue sky in summer. Jealousy. He remembered at the same time what Rory Overton had said. She's still jealous babe. That's what it is. Jealous of me and jealous of Esme.
'You knew Flora of course. When you were kids I mean.'
'Yes I did. We were at the primary school together, in Lochmorehead. That girl who was murdered by her husband was there too, I don't know if you knew that?'
'Yes I did. Morag, wasn't it?'
'That's right. Morag Robertson. But she was more friends with Kirsty and Flora. They were so bloody popular, all of them.'
There it was again, a bitterness that seemed to be undiminished after more than twenty years.
'They had their own stupid language. Kirsty, Flora and Morag, making up silly words for everything, and they wouldn't tell me what they were. It was pathetic.'
'And you weren't part of this?' He knew he was treading on dangerous ground so checked himself just as he was about to ask the question beloved of TV interviewers the world over. How did that make you feel?
But she answered it without being asked. 'It didn't bother me. I had plenty of other friends at the school although sometimes that was quite hard because we were away quite a lot. You know, when my father had another posting. Although we always came back when we could.'
'Because of Ardmore House and the estate I suppose?'
'Yes, it's in the Macallan blood. We didn't like to stay away from the place for too long. No, more than that, we couldn't stay away. That's why my father always tried to get a posting to the Ardmore base. He felt exactly the same.' And it explained too why gaining ownership of the place was such a big deal for each of the twins. Maybe it was time to bring up the subject again? But then a waiter appeared alongside their table, a plate in each hand.
'Fish for you madam I believe, and the bourguignon for you sir?'
'That's right,' they said simultaneously, causing each to smile.
The main course passed pleasantly enough, with Elspeth doing most of the talking, much of which, being focussed on her world as a social-media influencer, Jimmy neither understood nor was much interested in. From time to time the waiter would come to refill their glasses, and each time it seemed hers was quite empty. And with each glass marking a milestone, there was a perceptible drop in her mood. Something wasn't right, he could tell that.
'Are you sure you're ok Elspeth?' Jimmy asked again, as gently as he could.
'Yes, why do you keep asking?' She spat out the words, her voice loud enough to cause a number of the other diners to steal a glance in their direction.
'Sorry, I'm just concerned for you that's all. After all, you've been through a lot.'
'No, look I'm sorry too Jimmy,' she said, this time quieter and with a smile that was obviously forced, 'I shouldn't let my troubles spoil our evening.'
He heard her phone vibrate, and for a moment she froze, as if deciding how to react. And then finally she said, 'I'm sorry, I'm being a hopeless date, and I've had a little too much to drink as well. I'm just going to pop to the ladies’ room and freshen myself up, and then I'll be fine.'
She picked up her clutch bag from beside her chair, popped her phone into it then stood up.
'Won't be long,' she said.
A man at an opposite table caught Jimmy with a look that spoke of solidarity. Women, they're such high-maintenance aren't they? The waiter appeared again and attempted to top up Jimmy's glass, he placing his hand over the top to decline. He was already beginning to feel drowsy, the combined effect of the rich food and rather more wine than he was used to. But when she came back, he would have to raise the subject immediately, irrespective of her mood. Have you done a deal with your step-mother? This was work after all, and that was the question he needed answered. He couldn't duck it any longer.
The only problem was that after nearly ten minutes, she still hadn't returned. Odd. He began to wonder if the alcohol had overcome her and she had passed out in the ladies. He got up and approached the nearest waitress, a fresh-faced teenager wearing an eager smile.
'Excuse me.'
'Hi sir, can I help?'
'Aye, it's my date,' he said, his voice apologetic. 'She went to the ladies quite a while ago and she's not come back yet. I'm a bit worried about her.'
'No worries sir, I'll go and look. What's her name?'
'Elspeth.'
He followed the girl through an archway and into a narrow passageway, at the end of which were two doors marked Hommes and Femmes. The waitress pushed open the right-hand door and went in.
'Elspeth? Hi Elspeth, are you ok?' He could hear her call out again, this time her voice muffled as the door closed behind her on its spring.
A few moments later she emerged wearing a perplexed expression.
'There's no-one in there sir.'
'What?'
'No sir, no-one. Perhaps she's popped outside for some fresh air or a cigarette?'
'She doesn't smoke, but thanks, I'll take a look.'
He p
ushed open the door and stepped out onto the pavement. The restaurant was tucked away on a quiet side-street just off the Fulham Road, and at just past nine o'clock it was deserted. He looked up and down but there was no sign of her. And then he had a thought. An embarrassing thought.
He turned on his heel and went back inside. The young waitress was standing just inside the doorway, apparently awaiting his return. He smiled at her and said, 'Just one thing before I let you get back to work. Can I ask you, where do they put the coats?'
'There's a couple of hangers beside our little bar sir. I'll show you.'
'Ok, thanks.'
He wasn't exactly sure if he could remember what Elspeth's jacket looked like. Short-ish, perhaps light grey in colour and silky in texture, that was the best he could come up with. But as he carefully sorted through the dozen or so garments that hung on the pair of coat-stands, the problem resolved itself. There was nothing that remotely resembled hers, which meant his worst suspicions had now been confirmed.
His date had done a runner. And already he was dreading having to reveal the mortifying outcome to Maggie and Frank.
Worse than that, now he was going to be landed with the bloody bill.
Chapter 23
For Frank, it had been a more or less satisfactory day. Satisfactory, insomuch as the ratio between progress and set-back had looked like settling at around two to one in favour of the latter, and after twenty years on the force he recognised that was generally as good as it got. One step forward and two steps back. That was the metronome that guided the rhythm of routine police-work. Day in and day out, you just had to chip away at the tedious minutia of an investigation and then eventually everything would click into place.
Spirits had been raised when he'd got the sensational call from wee Lexy McDonald telling him that she'd only gone and found it, hadn't she? That she'd found that absolutely priceless piece of information that had every prospect of nailing Brian Pollock to the wall and wiping that smug bloody smile off his face forever. The 999 call that had sent Police Scotland scuttling from Helensburgh round to Ardmore must have been made either by the murderer or an accomplice, that was now becoming clear. And now the key to working out exactly what had happened on that terrible evening was to track down who had made it. He knew that the initial call would have come into a British Telecom call centre, these being the guys who asked which service do you require? Then it would have been passed along to the Police Scotland call-handling centre in Govan. And at both stages, it was pretty odds-on they would have kept records. Who called, from which number, and when. That was all they had to find out to settle Pollock's fate, and he was looking forward to getting stuck into that task later that day.