by Rob Wyllie
He supposed you could call it a team meeting, although generally speaking Frank didn't do teams nor meetings either. But now he could sense they were within a whisper of solving the convoluted tangle of linked murders, and he couldn't slot in these final pieces of the jigsaw without the assistance of wee Eleanor Campbell and the annoyingly laid-back Ronnie French. Now it seemed almost certain that it had been Commodore Roderick Macallan who had murdered Morag and Isabelle McKay, but the motive was still a mystery, and was there a connection to Daniel Clarkson? The brief he had given Eleanor was as wide-ranging as it was in fact brief. Find out everything that Daniel Clarkson was up to. She had, as he had expected, initially bridled at the task, because that's what she always did, but eventually, and only after he had threatened to ask another of her Maida Vale colleagues instead, she complied.
In parallel, French had been tasked with piecing together Clarkson's life story, and Frank had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that the lazy slug had done a decent job. Thirty-one years old, raised in Gateshead, joined the navy at eighteen, trained as a communications specialist, served on the nuclear submarines, based out of Ardmore, joined civvy street after ten years' service, set himself up as an IT contractor specialising in cyber security. That made Frank laugh. Talk about poacher turning gamekeeper. But it was the discovery that Clarkson had been at Ardmore base at the exact same time as Lieutenant James McKay, both under the overall command of Commodore Roderick Macallan, that had excited him most. Because there was no way that was just some sort of bizarre coincidence. No way.
And now, a few days later, they were huddled round Eleanor Campbell's desk, waiting for the great diva to deliver her wisdom, and hoping what she had discovered would cause everything to drop neatly into place.
'So how have you got on?' Frank said, trying not to betray the anxiety he felt. If none of this delivered, he feared the investigation might crash and burn before it really got started.
'You said find everything,' she said sourly, 'that's like a lot.'
He winked at French. 'Exactly. That's why we picked you. So, how have you got on?'
She gave him a glum look. 'He was using 128-bit encryption. So, not good.'
'Does that mean we're like buggered then?' Frank said.
She either didn't notice his gently mockery or chose to ignore it. 'No-one can hack 128-bit encryption. Not even Jayden. But I did manage to get some stuff.'
That was the thing about Eleanor, he thought. She liked to tease you with wee snippets of information, forcing you to drag it out of her so that she felt appreciated. So he tried to sound appreciative.
'That's amazing, well done,' Frank said, hoping his insincerity wasn't betrayed by his tone. 'Tell us more, do.'
'So he'd left some things unencrypted on his hard drive,' she began earnestly, 'and also I got into his bank account. He was quite rich. Nearly a hundred and eighty grand in his current account.'
'You hacked his bank account?' Frank said, impressed.
'Not hacked, accessed,' she corrected. 'Jayden lent me an app.'
'Good old Jayden. And do we have any ideas how our boy Geordie came by this pile of dosh?'
'Like, yeah,' she said, giving him a disparaging look. 'That Commodore dude paid him a hundred and twenty thousand.'
'What?' Frank spat out the response.
'Yeah, like four and a half years ago. Maybe an investment in his cyber business or something?'
'Nah,' French said. 'He only started that a couple of years' back when he came out the navy. Four years ago he was serving on HMS Azure, according to what I found out.'
'And are you sure Eleanor?' Frank said, still struggling to process the information. 'It was definitely Roderick Macallan who paid it?'
'Like, yeah,' she repeated, clearly offended that her statement should be challenged. 'Defo.'
'Interesting,' Frank said, his mind racing as he tried to work out what it meant. 'So why would he do that?'
'Services rendered guv,' French said simply. 'That's what it always is, ain't it?'
Frank nodded. 'Aye, you're probably right but it must have been something bloody big for that sort of money to be handed over.'
'Or dangerous,' French mused. 'I mean, risky-dangerous.'
'Well maybe,' Frank said. 'But isn't it more likely that this is keep your mouth shut money?'
The question wasn't meant to be rhetorical, but that's how it turned out. Because as soon as he said it, he knew he was right. Roderick Macallan had killed Morag and Isabelle McKay, he was sure of that, but this one hundred and twenty grand said that Clarkson was involved too in some way. And then he remembered. Clarkson had been called as an expert witness in the trial of Lieutenant James McKay, where he had testified that it was impossible for the communications between McKay and his wife to have been tampered with. Which meant almost certainly, although Frank didn't know how, that they had been. Now that sounded more like a hundred and twenty grand's worth of work.
Out of the blue he said, 'Eleanor, have you any idea how they communicate with submarines when they're underwater?'
'Packet-encrypted technology,' she answered with an air of nonchalance, as if everyone in the world should know it, 'but you wouldn't understand it.'
She was right, he didn't understand it, but that didn't matter, because he knew what it meant. Somehow, Daniel Clarkson had interfered with the email conversations between Lieutenant McKay and his wife, and in doing so had incriminated an innocent man. He could feel the anger growing inside him when he reflected on that breathtaking miscarriage of justice. An innocent man comes home from seven months at sea to a scene of unimaginable tragedy, and then, wrongfully imprisoned and unable to cope with the unbearable loss of his family, takes his own life. A terrible injustice that would have been avoided if the senior investigating officer had done his bloody job properly.
He was so consumed by his thoughts that he failed to notice that Eleanor was still speaking to him, talking about something else she'd found whilst rooting around Clarkson's hard drive.
It was a document he had evidently hacked from Roderick Macallan's computer. A document titled The Last Will and Testament of Roderick Archibald Macallan. A document dated just four months before Macallan shot his son and killed himself in the unknowing presence of Daniel Clarkson.
And now Frank could see how it all fitted together, sweet as a nut. Everything.
◆◆◆
The sombre sound of the organ drifted out into the churchyard, harmonising perfectly with the soft whistle of the wind blowing in from Loch More. The Lord is My Shepherd, I'll Not Want. Maggie didn't think the Macallan twins were religious in any way, so assumed the comforting hymns had been the choice of the minister. Whatever the case, they were succeeding in bringing back memories of her own Yorkshire childhood, of the Sunday morning routine of Sunday School then snaking into the old church to join the grown-ups for the last ten minutes of the service, then home for a proper roast beef lunch. Sweet memories they were, but in fact what was occupying her mind more than any brief bursts of nostalgia was Elspeth's brutal murder, not her sad funeral. The fact was, Maggie just didn't buy the opportunist sex-attack motive, not one bit, and now she had learnt from Frank that due to some mysterious development that he was not yet ready to share with her, he didn't buy it either. The first problem was that text or WhatsApp Elspeth had received just before she left Jimmy in the lurch in the restaurant, a text that seemed to have summoned her to her death, and yet, according to the police telecoms gurus, didn't exist. You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that something didn't add up with that. And something else that Frank had said was spinning around and around in her mind. The fact is, if you were looking for somewhere in London to get away with murder, it's well-nigh perfect. So, a text that didn't actually exist lured the beautiful young influencer out into the quiet street, where she was dragged up an alleyway and killed with no-one seeing a thing. Something didn't add up.
She became aware of the music becoming louder, and a
s she looked round, she saw the old oak doors had been opened and the procession was beginning to emerge. She took a step back so that she was part-concealed by the old yew tree, wishing to be respectful of the family's wishes but from where she could still observe Jimmy and Flora. Rory Overton was the lead pallbearer, one of six in all, and she wondered what was going through his head at the moment. For he had been in a relationship with Elspeth Macallan before switching allegiances to her sister Kirsty, a relationship that led to marriage and a child and a perfect picture-postcard life in West London. And now, conveniently, Elspeth was dead, leaving the inheritance of the Ardmore estate undisputed. Was that what Overton was thinking, an arrogant satisfaction as he considered how well everything had turned out for him?
In the name of god, the merciful Father, we commit the body of Elspeth Anne Macallan to the peace of the grave. The minister gave a silent nod and watched as they lowered the coffin into the grave, surrounded by the clutch of mourners standing with heads bowed in quiet contemplation, Jimmy and Flora shoulder-to-shoulder and still holding hands. Above the soft wind she could hear the sad sobs of Kirsty and she wondered once again how it must feel to lose a twin. Maggie was an only child and had spent much of her earlier childhood wishing for a brother or a sister, but now she was strangely grateful that she would never experience that pain herself.
Rory and Kirsty had now returned to the stone entrance vestibule, ready to accept the formal condolences of the mourners. She saw Jimmy touch his wife on the elbow then trudge over towards the yew tree.
'Well done,' Maggie whispered to him, 'and I hope everything was ok.'
He shrugged but didn't answer directly.
'I thought I'd best leave this bit to friends and family. And I always find these things a wee bit awkward, don't you?'
She nodded and gave a half-smile. The mourners had formed a line and were shuffling past the bereaved couple, some smiling, some sombre, exchanging a word or two, most looking as if they wished the ordeal to be over as soon as possible. As Jimmy had said, it was always an awkward moment. They watched as it became Flora's turn. Her face wore a sympathetic smile, and as she approached, she clasped Kirsty's hands in hers, leaning forward to whisper something in her ear. Then momentarily there was a change in Flora Stewart's expression, a mixture of apology and puzzlement, as if, unknowing, she had said the wrong thing. In a moment the smile had returned, empathetic and concerned as was mandated on these occasions. But Jimmy had noticed it too and gave Maggie a questioning look.
There was to be a modest wake at the Lochmorehead Hotel, a finger buffet with tea and coffee, scheduled to be done and dusted by one o'clock, although with the bar open for business it was expected there would be a few stragglers. Jimmy said he would put in a brief appearance, taking the opportunity to make some peace with his father-in-law and mother-in-law after three years of estrangement. With a full schedule of afternoon appointments, Dr Flora Stewart was heading back to her surgery, and Maggie somehow suspected that Jimmy would be relieved at that. Originally the schedule had including dropping off the inheritance agreement at Alison Macallan's lodge, and it had been agreed with Frank that they should continue with that whilst the Hampshire police were tidying up the evidence on the Susan Priest hit and run. A walk had been planned, Jimmy keen on a near ten-mile expedition that would see her bag her first Munro, a label awarded to every Scottish mountain over three thousand feet in height, of which there were apparently two hundred and eighty-two. He had over one hundred to his name, his brother Frank precisely nil, which made her smile, because it was impossible to imagine the elder Stewart brother in a cagoule and walking boots. Rather like herself in fact, which is why, as diplomatically as possible, she had declined the offer. Instead they agreed on an all together gentler lochside stroll, taking in the eastern side to the point where it joined the sea. An easy five-miler there and back, but still allowing plenty of time for her to ask him once again the million-dollar question, but only if she dared. How was it with you and Flora?
'We should have hired a boat,' Maggie said. They stood on the rickety jetty that was the property of the hotel, looking down the loch towards the Atlantic Ocean. 'See how the sun shimmers on the surface, reflecting the mountains. It's so beautiful, isn't it?'
'Aye it is,' Jimmy conceded, 'but it's also bloody treacherous too. Have you not heard of the Loch More tidal race? It comes in and goes out at about thirty knots, and it's perfectly designed to capsize wee boats. It's absolutely lethal so novices like us are going nowhere near it. We'll stick to the shore, thank you very much.'
She laughed. 'Roger that Captain Stewart. So just a little stroll is it?'
'That's it. The path takes us up to the headland where we'll get a magnificent view right over to the islands, according to my map anyway. Ninety minutes there and ninety minutes back. We should be back in plenty of time for tea at my in-laws.'
'What?' She looked at him with astonishment.
'Sorry, didn't I tell you?' he said, smiling. 'Angus and Elizabeth have asked us to tea. It's a Scottish thing. Tuna sandwiches, shortbread biscuits and fruit scones. Five-thirty sharp.'
Maggie raised an eyebrow. 'So does that mean that relations are thawing then?'
He shrugged. 'They said it was nice to see me again. So perhaps.'
And now she could ask the question.
'And what about Flora? Is there a thaw there also?'
He shook his head. 'I don't know. Maybe you can give me some womanly insight when you see her later.'
She laughed. 'I don't think I'd get many votes as a relationship guru, given my track record. But I'll try my best.'
A few hundred yards down the path stood a pretty wooden boat-house, almost directly opposite the gatehouse which Alison Macallan was soon to vacate. Maggie had passed her suspicions on to Frank and now the Hampshire police were looking again at the Susan Priest hit and run, re-interviewing eye-witnesses and re-examining CCTV footage. It was only a matter of time before they came knocking on this door, exchanging Alison's dreams of a better life for twenty-five years in Cragton Valley prison.
Through the part-open door they could see a small rowing-boat, bobbing up and down on the ebbing tide. Painted on the stern was a name that must have seemed amusing at the time the owners conceived it. Tinytanic.
'Don't even think about it,' Jimmy said, catching her eye.
'Wasn't,' she lied, smiling back at him. 'And I remember what happened to the real Titanic.'
'Aye, although luckily there's no icebergs in Loch More as far as I know.'
They spent the rest of the afternoon in pleasant companionship, talking of this and that, or enjoying periods of comfortable silence. The scenery was breathtaking and she wondered what it must have been like to have grown up in such a paradise, immersed in nature's abundance. Flora, Morag, Kirsty, Elspeth. And now two of them were dead, brutally murdered, the idyllic childhood no protection against the bitter twists of unpredictable fate.
◆◆◆
Angus and Elizabeth McLeod were warm and welcoming, their beautiful Victorian home decorated in rich hues that melted in seamlessly with the varnished wood panelling that was a feature of every room. The room they were in was dominated by an imposing stone fireplace featuring an elaborate cast-iron grate, which by the look of it had not been pressed into service for some months, even as the autumn shadows were lengthening. On a varnished oak sideboard, a sumptuous buffet had been laid out, as yet untouched as they awaited the return of Dr Stewart from her afternoon surgery.
'This has always been called the morning room,' Elizabeth was explaining, 'from long before our time here, although goodness knows why, because it actually catches the afternoon sun.'
'It's a lovely room,' Maggie said, 'and with such a beautiful view over the lake. Sorry, loch, I keep forgetting. And sorry again, I know it sounds like lock the way I say it.' By mentally adding around thirty years to Flora's thirty-two, she worked out that Elizabeth McLeod must be well into her sixties, but she certainl
y didn't look it, and the same went for Dr McLeod too. They were a good-looking couple and these superb genes had been combined then passed down to their beautiful daughter intact.
'Aye, you Sassenachs,' Angus McLeod said, in a kindly tone, 'but I hear from your accent you're a Yorkshire lass, so that's an honorary Scot in my book.'
'I'm indeed honoured,' she said, laughing. 'But I've spent the last two years working with Jimmy and his brother, so I feel as if I'm half-Scottish now anyway.'
'Yes, well they're from Glasgow, so the least said about that the better,' Angus teased. It seemed to Maggie that Jimmy's assessment was correct. Relations were thawing in the McLeod family. And then she saw him glance at his watch.
'Flora's a bit late, isn't she? Her last appointment was at half-past four so she should be here by now.'
'Paperwork dear I expect.' Maggie caught the glance between husband and wife, wondering if this soirée had been engineered by the McLeods in the hope of effecting a reconciliation, with their daughter a reluctant participant.
'Aye, that'll be it,' Angus said. 'Let's all have a wee sherry whilst we're waiting, shall we?'
But when three quarters of an hour had passed and there was still no sign of Flora, the atmosphere began to change, and the concern, at first mild, became more elevated.
'She's not answering her phone,' Elizabeth said, 'and I've tried the surgery switchboard and I'm just getting the answerphone.'
'Ach, it'll be fine,' Angus said, but there was no disguising the concern in his voice. And as Maggie's mind drifted back to the murder and the funeral and everything to do with the death of Elspeth Macallan, suddenly the mist cleared and it was all falling into place. Everything. She thought about the text message, and she thought about the quiet location of the little Fulham restaurant and she thought about the look Flora had given Kirsty Macallan. And she thought about something that Elspeth had said to her. They had their own stupid language. Kirsty, Flora and Morag, making up silly words for everything. It was pathetic.