The Ardmore Inheritance by Rob Wyllie (reading the story of the .txt) 📕

have been a shame not to at least try and complete the original mission, not that he'd thought there was much chance of success. But nothing ventured nothing gained, that's what they said, wasn't it? So he'd turned his back on the horror show and crept along the upstairs landing, trying each of the twins' bedrooms in turn. He hadn't been sure which one was which, not that it had mattered. A quick scan of the first one had drawn a blank, pretty much as expected. Nothing on either bedside table other than a glass of water and a crumpled fashion magazine, the bed not slept in. Shrugging to himself, he'd crossed the landing and cautiously pushed open the second of the bedroom doors, and there it had been. A top-of-the-range iPhone 12, sleek and expensive. He'd covered the short distance from door to bedside in just three strides before slipping it into his pocket and retracing his steps down the stairway and into the kitchen. Opening the door to the boot-room, he'd called quietly to the labrador, not that there was anyone around to hear them. The dog had given a muffled bark and padded through to him, nuzzled his head against his leg, then flopped down in his bed-basket.

Back in the Audi, he'd quickly fired up each of the Macallan twins' iCloud accounts, expecting one of them to deliver an authentication code to the phone he had just nicked, so that it could be diverted to one of his burners kept specifically for the purpose. He waited expectantly for at least five minutes, figuring that the slow delivery could well be down to the variable 4G signal, but nothing came through. Shit. So this must be someone else's phone. A minor set-back, but perhaps he would find a way to profit from it nonetheless, when he was back in his London flat and had time to think it all through.

He'd taken the boots and coat off before getting in, obviously, not wanting to risk depositing any fibres or suchlike in his nice motor, and now they needed to be safely disposed of. He'd jumped out and wrapped the boots in the coat, bundling them up as tightly as he could. And then he'd sprinted across the road, leapt the low crash barrier and made his way down to the water's edge across the pebbly beach. It wouldn't have been enough to just throw them in from there, he'd already figured that out, so after first removing his wicked Nike Air Max's, he'd waded in, wincing as the icy water sent shivering spasms through his body. And then when it reached his waist, he'd began to swim. It had brought back sweet memories of his brief sojourn in the Special Boat Service, before Commodore Macallan had bankrolled that smooth and lucrative transfer to civvy street. He'd swam for a few minutes, covering a couple of hundred metres before pushing the bundled coat and boots under the surface, watching for a moment as they began to sink. And then he'd broke into a smooth front crawl and headed back to the shore.

Setting the powerful heater to maximum, he'd blasted off along the lochside and in no more than an hour he'd been cosily warm and dry again. It was a couple of hours later, just as he was crossing the border into Cumbria, when it had suddenly come to him, something he hadn't registered at the time. That just before that hot hatchback had roared off into the night, he was now pretty sure he'd heard two car doors slamming. A rather interesting fact, which he could see opened up a fund of fascinating business opportunities. Especially since he, better than anyone, knew the precise motive for the murders of Roderick and Peter Macallan.

Chapter 5

Thursday night had become their night, Maggie, Jimmy and Frank, and for the eighteen months or so it had been extant, their get-togethers had followed a strict routine. No matter how early Maggie and Jimmy arrived at the Old King's Head from their tiny serviced office on Fleet Street, Frank would already be there, and no matter how much progress he'd made with his first pint, he always instructed his younger brother to head to the bar and get another round in, the instruction generating first complaints and then grudging compliance.

But since their earlier meeting with Asvina Rani, Maggie had been observing her partner's mood, and the cloud of dark foreboding that had enveloped him did not seem to have lifted appreciably. She knew that getting back together with Flora meant everything to him, and so she would have expected that an opportunity to be working so close to where his estranged wife lived would have raised rather than dampened his spirits. But she suspected she knew what it was. His affair with the irresistible temptress Astrid Sorenson, the beautiful Swedish country music star, had broken Flora's heart and she knew that the shame and regret lived with him constantly. And today, rather than being buried deep in his brain in a file labelled too difficult, it had been brought to the forefront of his thoughts.

'How's it going wee brother and Maggie?' Frank said, as they settled down at the table he had bagged for them. He telegraphed a glance at his half-empty glass. 'I was just hoping you were on your way to the bar Jimmy mate.'

'I'll go,' Maggie said quickly. 'It's got to be my turn for once.'

'No no,' Jimmy said, forcing a half-smile. 'Mustn't break with tradition. Two Doom Bars and a large chardonnay?'

'What's bugging him?' Frank asked Maggie as Jimmy left to battle his way through the crowded bar-room. 'The dog ate his lunch or something?'

So she told him a bit about that morning's meeting with Asvina, and the likelihood of her or Jimmy having to visit Loch More in the near future.

'Loch More?' he said, giving her a curious look. 'Well it's a small world so it is.' She