The Ardmore Inheritance by Rob Wyllie (best value ebook reader TXT) 📗

bitterness, the Macallan twins had been media-trained to within an inch of their lives and it could just as easily be faked. Whatever the truth, Kirsty was now regularly pleading for anyone with any information that could help the police in their quest for her sister's killer to come forward. Interspersed with these direct appeals were a series of heart-wrenching vignettes addressed to her dead sister, telling her how much she had loved her and how her life could never be the same again. It was Jimmy who had pointed out that indeed, her life would not be the same. Sure, she had lost her twin, no more than six months after losing her father and brother, and all in the most terrible of circumstances. But she had gained a beautiful country house and a six-thousand-acre estate.

What had been a surprise was that the press had somehow discovered that Maggie Bainbridge Associates had been tasked with sorting out the mess surrounding the late Commodore's will. That gave them the excuse to re-run a sort of greatest hits compilation of her and Jimmy's past life difficulties, reminding their readers and viewers that she had been at one time dubbed the most hated woman in Britain, on account of engineering the acquittal of the teenage terrorist Dena Alzahrani, and that he had been the Hampstead Hero, saving the life of a six-year old child in Alzahrani's follow-up outrage with no regard to his own safety. And not only that, Jimmy Stewart had been the last person to see Elspeth Macallan alive, and was therefore seen as a possible suspect for this baffling crime. The murder and everything connected to it was now dominating every media outlet, but nobody seemed to be asking the most obvious question of all. Was Kirsty Macallan in any way responsible for the death of her sister?

This was the question Maggie was asking Frank as they waited for Jimmy to return from the barista's counter with their order. They were once again in residence at their favourite Starbucks on Fleet Street, conveniently located a stone's throw from the salubrious offices of Maggie Bainbridge Associates. The fact that it was an inconvenient two-tube ride from Frank's Atlee House base seldom seemed to discourage him from attending their frequent and informal case conferences, and Maggie was glad of that. She liked Frank and she liked to see as much of him as possible.

'Aye, well the motive is clear enough,' he said, 'but talking to that DI Jones who's working the case, their alibi's rock-solid.'

'Yes, I saw them earlier on the night in question if you remember,' Maggie said, 'and they told me they were having drinks with friends and then going on to a restaurant.'

Frank nodded. 'And that checked out. They left the pub at about quarter to nine in an Uber and arrived at the restaurant at about ten-past nine. Some place in Chelsea it was. Anyway, DI Jones' lads have apparently chased up the driver and it all seems to stack up. Although to be fair, the guy didn't speak much English so they're not sure if he understood what they were asking. They've asked Uber for the cab's GPS records, so we'll see what they bring. But it looks solid as I said.'

'So what is the thinking now?' Maggie asked.

He nodded toward his brother who was returning with their coffees. 'Jimmy-boy's the only suspect they've got, and before you say anything, no-one's taking that seriously, don't worry. It's just the way these things work. The brass go mental if there's not at least one name in the frame. So, to get back to your question, the thinking is now opportunist sex attack. Someone sees Elspeth coming out of the restaurant onto that quiet street, and with that handy wee alley-way next door thinks, hello, here's my chance. He drags her into the alley and tries it on, hence the ripped knickers, but then she fights back and he panics, pulls out the knife and stabs her. Then scarpers, obviously.'

'And is that what you think happened?' she asked.

'Aye, I suppose so,' Frank said.

Maggie detected the uncertainty in his voice.

'But?'

'But she was stabbed. Which means the assailant came prepared. I'm not saying it means anything, but I've mentioned it to the murder team.'

'But it's been what, nearly three weeks now?' Maggie said. 'And no leads?'

Frank shrugged. 'Aye, it's another DCS Barker master-class. But I'm probably being unfair to him.' To Maggie, he didn't sound the least bit concerned if he was. 'The thing is, the forensic boys haven't found anything worthwhile. I know it's a bit unsavoury to say it, but normally in these attempted rape cases the perpetrator's got his dick out and well...well, often they find traces of semen. But nothing in this case.'

'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