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

with the coastguard helicopter, which somehow had managed to land on the hotel's front lawn and was now waiting to fly Flora to hospital in Glasgow. She had regained consciousness, but was only able to give the vaguest description of what had happened to her. She remembered two hooded figures approaching her as she left the surgery, and then she remembered been struck on the head and then nothing. It was assumed her abductors had bundled her into a vehicle then made the short drive to the boathouse, laying her in the dinghy before setting it adrift to face the wrath of the dangerous tidal race. Attempted murder of course, the method and opportunity as crystal clear as the waters of Loch More, but what of the motive?

Maggie Bainbridge knew, ninety-nine percent certain, but she needed Flora's confirmation to be absolutely sure. So she had approached her just as the paramedics were about to slide the stretcher into the helicopter, its engines already roaring in preparation for take-off so that it was almost impossible to hear. But by placing her ear within a whisker of Flora's lips, Maggie could just about make out the answer to her question.

'It wasn't Kirsty. She wasn't Kirsty.'

'I know,' Maggie said. 'I know she wasn't.'

Chapter 28

They were in the departure lounge at Heathrow waiting for their flight to Glasgow, and although it was just quarter-past-ten in the morning and he was technically on duty, Frank still felt justified in enjoying a pint. A celebratory pint, because after all, it wasn't every day you solved seven murders and an attempted one too, surely some sort of record for his wee rag-tag department. He glanced over at Jill, deep in conversation with Assistant Commissioner Margaret Walsh, whom he'd just worked out was her boss's boss's boss. Anybody else he would have accused of arse-licking, but not DCI Jill Smart. It just wasn't her style.

Truth be told, he was a bit peeved that he hadn't been invited to the big Sir Brian meeting, but he knew there was a well-established protocol about such things, and when you were going to launch a process that would well and truly shaft the career of one of the top brass, convention dictated the bad news had to be delivered by an officer of broadly equivalent rank, explaining why Jill was to be accompanied to Tulliallan by the Assistant Commissioner. Chief Constable Sir Brian Pollock was to be suspended on full pay pending the outcome of an internal enquiry into the handling of the original McKay murders, but in parallel, the Crown Office of the Procurator Fiscal was considering an allegation that evidence, specifically whiteboard records of the proceedings, had subsequently been tampered with, an allegation that would lead to a Perverting the Course of Justice charge against the officer responsible. Yes, Brian Pollock was finished, and back in London, star journalist Yash Patel had pushed aside the journeywoman freelancer originally commissioned to do the puff piece, and was getting stuck in to composing the ex-Chief Constable's career obituary for the Chronicle. The Rise and Fall of a Policing Superstar. There was no doubting it had a nice ring to it.

Frank had just taken a slurp of his pint when he realised the AC was speaking to him.

'Jill's just been telling me more about the Macallan murders. This has been excellent work DI Stewart,' she said, 'and a real feather in the cap for Department 12B. I assume the suspects are being held in Glasgow somewhere?'

'That's right ma'am,' he spluttered. 'In my old nick in the Gorbals. We picked them up at the airport trying to board a flight to Spain.'

'And the evidence is good?'

'A work-in-progress ma'am. It's pretty solid on the Flora Stewart case, and we're hoping we'll get some forensics on the others. But aye, it's pretty good overall.'

'And what about our hacker friend. The one who was blackmailing our Manchester colleague?' Frank was amused to see the AC was wearing a smirk. 'Do we know who killed him?'

He wasn't sure whether she hoped it was ACC Frost or not, although for some reason, he suspected the former. Everybody liked a bit of juicy gossip and from Walsh's point of view, it would take another rival off the stage. But unfortunately, he had to disappoint her.

'Forensics are saying it was three powerful stab wounds to the abdomen ma'am. Not to get too sexist, but they're saying it's probably the work of a strong man, given how far the knife penetrated. And it looks like it's the same MO as the murder of the Macallan twin.'

The fact was, although it sounded callous, Frank didn't give a stuff about who killed Daniel Clarkson. He'd been given the task of finding the identity of Geordie, and that he had accomplished. Job done, tick in the box. Now he could turn his full attention to the upcoming interviews with Rory Overton and the very-much-not-dead Elspeth Macallan, who were being detained in considerable discomfort at New Gorbals police station.

And when he was done with that, he was shooting off to Loch Lomond to have dinner with Maggie Bainbridge. It was just a shame that his bloody brother and his bloody boss were going to be there too.

◆◆◆

They had gathered in a little lochside hotel for their now-traditional post-investigation debrief, and as had already become traditional, Frank was complaining about the prices.

'I mean, how can haggis, neeps and tatties cost twenty-seven quid, that's all I'm asking, even if it comes with a bloody whisky sauce? Christ, are they using a fifty-year old malt or something?'

'They call it fine dining mate,' Jimmy said, cracking a sardonic smile, 'not something you would understand mind you.'

'Don't worry,' Maggie said soothingly, 'Asvina's paying. Or the estate of Roderick Macallan, to be more exact.'

'And on that note, I assume we're going to hear the full gory Macallan saga this evening?' Jill Smart had driven down from police HQ at Tulliallen after her portentous interview with Brian Pollock and was