The Ardmore Inheritance

by Rob Wyllie

  'So that's why they've been able to release the body to the family for the funeral?' Maggie asked. 'Because the forensics have drawn a blank?'

  'Aye, I suppose so,' Frank said again. 'Not so much drawn a blank, but rather they've got everything they need. And they know that funerals are sad, but they do help in the grieving process. So they don't like to hang onto the body any longer than they have to.'

  'And there were definitely no witnesses?' Jimmy asked.

  'Nothing,' Frank said, shaking his head. 'No-one's come forward and there's no CCTV on that quiet wee side road. The fact is, if you were looking for somewhere in London to get away with murder, it's well-nigh perfect.'

  'And what about that text or WhatsApp or whatever it was?' Jimmy asked. 'You know, the one she got just before she ran off.'

  'Well that's a funny thing,' Frank said, screwing up his nose, 'because when they looked at her phone records, there was nothing. Are you sure you didn't imagine it mate?'

  'Definitely not,' Jimmy said. 'Like I told you, it was as if she'd been expecting it. That's why I remember it so clearly.'

  'Well there was definitely nothing in the call records. Maybe it was some notification or alert or something.'

  At that moment, Jimmy's phone rang. Or at least, it blasted out one of the many musical ringtones he liked to attach to his regular callers. What he had chosen for her, she couldn't say, although it had to be a good fifty-fifty bet it was his namesake Rod Stewart's Maggie May. Frank's was the strident opening riff of Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit. This one was altogether gentler and instantly recognisable. Let It Go, Let It Go, The Cold Never Bothered Me Anyway. That bloody song from Frozen, an ear-worm if there ever was one.

  He gave a coy smile. 'It's Elsa, from the office.' Of course. Elsa Berger, native of the Czech Republic, the sweet and efficient administration manager of Riverside House. Elsa Berger, who was hopelessly in love with Jimmy Stewart.

  He laughed as they shared some private joke and then she saw him raise an eyebrow in evident surprise.

  'Really?' he said. 'Tell him not to go anywhere. We'll be there in five minutes.'

  'Well?' Maggie asked impatiently, after Elsa had finally allowed him to hang up.

  'We've got a visitor. It's Rory Overton, and he says he wants to do a deal.'

  ◆◆◆

  Elsa had managed to secure one of the shared meeting rooms at short notice, and was now bustling around clearing up the empty coffee-cups and mineral water bottles that the last occupants had thoughtlessly left behind.

  'You want drinks?' she enquired, without interrupting her labours. 'Coffee, tea, water?'

  'Mr Overton?' Maggie asked. 'Would you like a drink?'

  He shook his head. 'I'd just like to get on with it if you don't mind.' The tone was smoother than usual, which made her suspicious. He must want something.

  'I'm so terribly sorry for your loss,' she said. 'We both are, especially poor Jimmy, given how close he was to the terrible events. And I can't even begin to imagine how your wife must be feeling right now. To lose a close family member is just so awful, but to lose your identical twin is simply unimaginable.'

  'Thank you,' he said, giving her a sad look. 'She's coping, that's the best we can say. Just taking every day at a time. I know it's a cliché, but that's exactly how it is.'

  'Aye, it must be incredibly tough for her,' Jimmy added, 'especially the way poor Elspeth died. I didn't get to know her very well, but she was a lovely girl.'

  'Yes she was,' Overton said. 'It's been a terrible loss to everyone. Which I suppose is why I'm here. There's been quite enough suffering you see, and I don't want Kirsty to face any more of it.'

  Maggie gave him a quizzical look. 'Everyone would agree with that sentiment, but I'm not sure how we can help.'

  'You can help, I think,' he said. 'It's Alison you see. We want to do right by her. And a court battle won't help anyone. Not now. There's been enough bad feeling and we don't want any more on top of what's happened.'

  She nodded. 'So would you like us to try and draw up an arrangement that would be agreeable to both parties? Is that what you want us to do?'

  'Yes, in a nutshell. That's it. And we want it wrapped up as soon as you can. In days, if that's possible.'

  Maggie furrowed her brow as she tried to work out what this meant. They knew one of the twins had already done a deal with their stepmother that basically said you tell the court under oath that I'm the elder and we'll see you are all right. So did this mean that it must have been the late Elspeth who had come to that arrangement with Alison Macallan? Whatever the case, surely it didn't matter now that there could be no dispute as to who would inherit Ardmore House and the estate? And yet here he was, in their offices, anxious to do a deal.

  'Yes, well I'm sure we can come up with something,' she said, smiling. 'So do you have anything in mind? A starting point for the negotiations?'

  'We'll leave the details to you,' Overton said, 'but you can go up to a million.'

  'A million quid?' Jimmy said, unable to hide his surprise. 'That's a hell of a lot of money.'

  Maggie caught the faintly pitying look that flashed across Overton's face. Not to us it isn't. Not now that we've inherited a country estate.

  'There's just one condition,' Overton said, 'and just so you're absolutely clear, it's a deal-breaker.'

  'What's that?' Maggie said.

  'She can't live on the estate. She'll need to give up the lodge house and find somewhere else to live. I know she likes Edinburgh. I'm sure she could find a very comfortable place there with that sort of money.'

  She gave him an uncertain look. 'Well, yes, but Alison really loves Ardmore, I know that from when I spoke to her at the start of all this. And it's been her home for twenty-five years at least.'

  'So?' Overton said. 'There's nothing to keep her there now, and a new start is probably exactly what she needs. I mean, who would want to live somewhere where there's so many unhappy memories?'

  Well you would for a start, Maggie thought, or so it seemed. But then she already knew his desire to be lord of the Ardmore estate trumped any other considerations in his life. She wondered if Kirsty Macallan shared the same desire. Somehow she doubted it, but it was Rory Overton who called the shots in that marriage and Kirsty would have little option but to go along with it.

  'Very well,' she said, 'I'll see what we can do. But it might not be as easy as you think.'

  He smiled. 'I'm sure you can work something out, both of you. I have every faith. And as for your fee, how about five grand plus expenses?'

  'We charge by the hour,' Jimmy said. 'Two hundred pounds plus expenses. But yes, five grand might just about cover it.'

  'Fine, whatever,' Overton said dismissively. 'So we're good to go then?'

  'Agreed,' Maggie said. 'I'll speak to Alison as soon as I can, and see where we end up.'

  He stood up and edged towards the door. 'That's all good then. Oh, and there's one more thing before I go. It's about the funeral. We want it to be a quiet gathering with just family and close friends. So I'm afraid you won't be able to come, either of you. I hope you don't mind, but I'm sure you understand.'

  ◆◆◆

  Of course, afterwards when Maggie and Jimmy reflected on the outcome of the meeting, they could see very well what was going on. The Overtons, or the Overton-Macallans as they had recently restyled themselves, were forging ahead with a brand new future in Scotland and they wanted as far as possible to sever connections with the past, to somehow wipe it away as if it had never existed. But that didn't really explain why an innocuous private investigator and her assistant, whom they had met on only three previous occasions, should be barred from Elspeth Macallan's funeral. Unless they had something to hide, that was, which made Maggie all the more determined that they should be represented.

  The problem was, she could think of only one way that could legitimately come about, and she feared that Jimmy Stewart was not going to like her proposal. And when, after n
o little trepidation, she told him what she had in mind, her fears were realised.

  Chapter 25

  Frank was feeling pleased with himself. It was the day of the planned raid on the home of Geordie, the egocentric hacker and street-artist, and for once, and contrary to expectations, he'd managed to get all his ducks in a row from a paperwork perspective. When you were planning one of these raids, especially an armed raid, there was a mountain of forms to be filled in and a barrage of brass-level signatures to be obtained. But because of this, these operations often had the propensity to go tits-up schedule-wise, due to the availability, or more accurately the lack of availability, of the latter. The brass set their own timetables and in particular liked to get out and about, glad-handing with politicians, community leaders and businessmen, and no ACC was going to give up a round of golf just to be in the office to sign a poxy Department 12B chit. But today, by some miracle, he had all the papers on his desk, all neat and tidy in a blue transparent plastic folder with every i dotted and t crossed. The raiding squad would be all ready to go later this evening when, if Geordie followed his normal routine, he would be arriving home from his latest assignment as a cyber-security consultant at an international bank over at Canary Wharf. Naive bastards, they clearly had no idea what sort of guy they were employing.

  It had been Ronnie French's idea to postpone the raid until eight o'clock in the evening rather than the six-thirty it had originally been planned for, on the basis that they were more likely to find the Geordie guy on-line and thus have the opportunity to catch him mid-hack, if that was the right way to describe it. Frenchie's reasoning was that most people prepared something to eat and relaxed for a while immediately after returning from work, a reasoning that was hard to argue with, so Frank didn't try. It had also been Frenchie's idea to go in hard with the armed response squad. That particular proposal hadn't surprised Frank, since he knew from previous experience that nothing excited Ronnie more than to pile into a raid with all guns blazing. In fact, nothing excited the somnambulant Ronnie French except the prospect of an armed skirmish, or so it seemed. However, what had really annoyed Frank was that his boss DCI Jill Smart agreed. She had, as was her way, performed a risk assessment of the upcoming operation which concluded that since there was a material chance that the suspect could be armed, then the police should be armed too. Frank for the life of himself couldn't see why some terminally vain computer geek should be more likely to be armed than any other low-life but saw no point in arguing, especially since Jill had undertaken to take care of all the tedious paperwork involved herself. And so it was that at seven-fifty precisely they were assembled at the entrance door of Geordie's block of flats, they being Frank, Ronnie French and two taciturn armed officers in full riot gear, one of whom was equipped with a sturdy battering ram.

  'Are we going to smash the front door in too boss?' French asked, pointing at the semi-glazed entrance. 'I think it's safety glass so we should be ok.'

  Frank gave him an indulgent smile. 'I know you're desperate for a big rumpus mate, but let's just wait a couple of minutes shall we? There's always a bit of to-ing and fro-ing in these places.'

  They didn't have to wait much more than half a minute when a stern-faced middle-aged woman appeared on the pavement alongside them. She shot Frank a disapproving look.

  'What's going on here?' she said sharply.

  'Nothing to worry about madam,' he said, beaming her a reassuring smile. 'Just a routine police matter, that's all. Tell me, do you live in these flats?'

  She nodded. 'Of course I do.'

  'And what floor are you on?'

  'I'm on the second. Flat twenty-two.'

  'Aye ok then. So we'll just come through with you if that's all right. We're heading up to the fourteenth in a minute so we'll be taking the lift. Now off you go and have a nice evening.'

  She looked at him uncertainly before complying.

  'Right boys, we're in,' Frank said. 'And remember Frenchie, let me knock first before you give the boys the nod to batter his bloody door down. Because the Met has to pay for any damage.'

  'Ah come on guv, where's the fun in that?' Ronnie said.

  'Don't worry, I'm sure there'll be plenty of fun once we're in.'

  Frank had done a fair amount of groundwork in preparation for the raid, and in particular had managed to suss out the physical layout of the place, courtesy of a short conversation with the leaseholder of the building. It turned out the suspect occupied a river-facing flat, one of eight on that floor, his front door immediately opposite the entrance to the lift with the safety stairwell alongside, which was perfect for securing the op scene. All they had to do was station one of the armed boys in front of the lift doors and there would be no means of escape even if he did manage to burst past them. And as to the name of the suspect, the Canary Wharf bank and the leaseholder of the building had finally come up trumps, although it had taken them a fortnight to do so, and then it took just five minutes to cross-reference the two lists. There he was, standing out resplendently in both. Daniel Clarkson. It was early days, but now they had a name, it wouldn't take long to put together a profile of the guy. The request had already gone into the bank's procurement department to release whatever personal details they held on their cyber-contractor, and they expected to get a lot of useful information from that. Disappointingly, he didn't seem to have a criminal record, but of course that was about to change. Big time.

  'Right lads, you know what to do,' Frank said as the lift doors slid open. 'I knock the door, we give him twenty seconds, and then in we go. And please, no shooting.' It was meant as a joke, but neither of the armed guys responded with a smile.

  He rapped on the door three times. 'Daniel Clarkson. This is the police. Open up.' They stood silently, awaiting a response.

  'Daniel Clarkson. Police. Open up.'

  'We need to go in,' French said impatiently. 'He might be destroying evidence. Guv, come on, let's get in there.'

  Frank raised an eyebrow in mock disgust. 'Aye all right then. Ok, in we go now boys.'

  The officer with the battering ram took a wide backswing and then let rip, smashing open the flimsy door with his first attempt.

  'Daniel Clarkson,' Frank shouted as they streamed in, 'this is the police. Stay exactly where you are and don't move.' Behind him, he saw one of the officers had drawn his pistol. 'No bloody guns I said, for god's sake. He's a hacker not a bloody terrorist.'

  It seemed as if the suspect had been relaxing on his sofa before their unexpected arrival. On the wall, a huge wide-screen television was showing a Premier League football match but with the sound muted. A laptop sat on a small table, open on a Facebook page. Geordie, Street Artist. So now there was no doubting they'd got the right guy.

  'Right, grab that laptop Frenchie and then let's see where he's hiding.' He pushed open a half-closed door and found himself in a kitchen, feeling the breeze on his face from the wide-open window.

  'Not here,' Frank called. 'He can't be far away. There's just two bedrooms and a bathroom.'

  'We've already looked,' shouted one of the officers. 'No sign of him.'

  'Well we're on the fourteenth floor so he's not jumped out of the bloody window, has he?' At least, he hoped he hadn't. 'Have you looked under the beds and in the wardrobes.'

  'Yeah, all clear,' came the reply. Which just left that door in the hallway, the cloakroom or broom cupboard or whatever you wanted to call it.

  Silently, Frank took hold of the handle then nodded to the officer with the Glock 17, who dropped down on one knee, pistol pointed at the door. With a deft movement, he yanked it open.

  'Bloody hell.'

  Slumped against a bundle of coats was the body of a man, mouth and eyes open in a grotesque expression, frozen in place by rigor mortis. Beneath him, a pool of congealed blood had spread almost to the door of the little cupboard, evidence to this being the location where the murder had been perpetrated. Six to eight hours probably since he'd been killed Frank reckoned, but th
ey'd let the forensic guys work that out exactly. What was certain was that Daniel Clarkson wasn't going to be answering any of their questions now.

  ◆◆◆

  Next day, down at Paddington Green, Frank and Ronnie French were with DCI Jill Smart and DI Pete Burnside for an informal briefing on the Clarkson murder. The critical question they were addressing was if there was any concrete evidence linking it to the Elspeth Macallan case, and therefore should it be handed over to Detective Superintendent Colin Barker to become a joint investigation. The truth was, Frank couldn't say one way or the other.

  'What are the forensics saying?' Jill asked. 'About the cause of death I mean.'

  'Stabbing ma'am,' Frank said. 'Two or three times in the abdomen. They're doing the formal autopsy later today and then we'll know for sure.'

  'Poor guy,' Jill said.

  'Sounds like he got what he deserved,' Burnside said with characteristic lack of sympathy.

  'So ma'am,' Frank explained to Smart, 'one interesting thing is the phone records put him at the scene of that tragedy up in Scotland where Elspeth's father killed her brother Peter and then shot himself. We don't know why Clarkson was there and whether he saw anything, so we don't know if there's a connection. To be fair, we don't know too much about the guy at the moment, but we should be able to fill in most of the blanks with a bit of digging.'

  'I'll be on to that as soon as we're done here ma'am,' French said helpfully. 'Now that we've got his name and address and where he works it shouldn't be too hard.'

  Frank nodded. 'And as to his murder, it seems likely that someone took exception to being blackmailed and this was done to shut him up. So that's going to be our first line of enquiry.'

  'Yes, I'd go along with that,' Smart said, nodding. 'Find out who else he was blackmailing.'

  Who else. Because there was no avoiding that bloody great elephant in the room. That they already knew the name of the person who had the greatest motive to shut Geordie up for good. Or to exact revenge, as was more likely.