The Ardmore Inheritance, Rob Wyllie [best novels for students TXT] 📗

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.

'I suppose we'll have to question her ma'am?' Frank asked. 'ACC Frost I mean?'

Jill gave a despairing shake of the head. 'We need to go easy on that. We can't question her unless we have grounds that she was involved. Evidence-led, that's how it's supposed to be, remember? Even if she is the prime suspect.'

'Understood ma'am,' Frank said. He saw the look of disappointment on Ronnie French's face. 'But I'm sure we'll find something.'

'Good,' she said, giving French a stern look. 'So there's probably no need to hand the investigation over to our friend Barker right now I would say. And if you're ok with it Pete, I'd like to keep it with Frank in Department 12B for a day or two just to tidy it up, and then we'll pass it to your Serious Crimes team.'

'Sure ma'am,' Burnside shrugged. 'Fine by me. I don't need the work, believe me.'

Jill smiled at Frank. 'I assume you've still got that slightly questionable relationship with that forensic officer?'

He returned her smile. 'Eleanor Campbell you mean? I do, and it's strictly professional before you ask. But yes, I'm sure somewhere in Clarkson's cyber history is the key to his murder and she'll help us find it, no question. We've got his laptop remember? We'll get onto it right away.'

So now once again, progress in a case was in the hands of the temperamental prima donna of Maida Vale Labs. But then again he thought, it could be worse.

He might have had to rely on Ronnie French alone.

Chapter 26

WPC Lexy McDonald had woken with a mixture of trepidation and excitement that morning, as she contemplated the importance of the day that lay ahead. A day, that if it went to plan, which might very well unlock the key to who had carried out the terrible killings of Morag and Isabelle McKay. And by doing so, start to put right the horrendous miscarriage of justice caused by the sloppy police work that was fast becoming the shameful hallmark of the case. That's what DI Stewart had told her at least, and she was determined not to let him down.

The key was of course to find out who had made that anonymous call reporting that a murder was in progress. She had discovered through her initial enquiries that BT only routinely kept records of incoming emergency calls for six months, although occasionally they would hold some older ones if they were monitoring calls for training purposes during the period in question. But unfortunately they didn't have these extra ones for the time they were interested in, meaning that they would have to ask the police emergency call response centre in Govan, which had every prospect of being rather more problematic. Because she would need to tell them why she wanted them, and that would mean breaking cover. And they had already discovered that when that happened, things had a habit of going missing.

'Aye, well don't worry about that,' DI Stewart had said when she had asked his advice. 'Just tell your sarge what I've asked you to do, all tidy and above board. I'm sure it'll cause ructions behind the scenes, but that in itself will tell a wee story, don't you think?'

So she had taken his advice, going so far as asking Sergeant Muir if he would come along with her to the call centre on the basis that they might get more joy if it was an experienced officer who was asking the questions. But not unexpectedly he declined, and furthermore decreed that her visit would have to wait a day or two, due to him having a higher-priority task for her. There had been a spate of burglaries in the nearby Castlemilk housing scheme, and the police were having a crackdown, flooding the area with uniformed officers as a show of strength and conducting intensive door-to-door enquiries. All hands to the pump, that was the clear message being handed down by the brass, and all other matters would have to wait in the queue until the two-day exercise was complete. Two days in which anything embarrassing at that call-centre could be quietly tidied away.

Still, she had actually enjoyed the diversion, relishing the chance to get out and about in the real world, although it had to be said that the drug-invested real world of Castlemilk seemed rather less than pleased to see them. With fifty-five percent unemployment and the same percentage of single-parent households, it was a microcosm of the social problems that still afflicted the great city, despite years of gentrification, a gentrification that had taken a wide swerve to avoid this bleak outpost. But she'd met plenty of folks who had been brought up in places just like it, yet had gone on to do very well for themselves. There was always hope, even if you had to look hard to find it.

On the map, it had looked an easy walk from New Gorbals to the call-handling centre, but it turned out to be a good forty-five minutes at a brisk pace, and she'd worked up quite a sweat by the time she got there. The centre occupied a discreet low-rise office block with minimal signage identifying its purpose. Lexy wasn't quite sure how these places worked, but had a vague understanding that the staff were mainly civilians but under police management. A few years ago they'd gone on strike, she remembered that, over plans to consolidate locations and slash pay and conditions, or at least that's how the unions had portrayed it, but that all seemed to have settled down now as far as she knew.

The double front doors opened into a tiny reception area. A female receptionist sat at a desk, protected behind