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

of all time. A cultural reference that could now enjoy the accolade of having entered the vernacular whilst most lay people remained unaware of its source. He wondered if Jill herself knew, because somehow he didn't see her as a rock chick.

'So this is serious shit is it ma'am? Sounds like it to me.'

'Yeah, serious shit,' Jill had said. 'That's why they've sent it over the border to us, to keep it out of sight of the local media hacks. So we need to treat this with kid gloves, understand?'

'Why ma'am? he'd asked guilelessly. 'Why the big secrecy?'

'You'll find out soon enough,' she'd said, without giving anything more away.

'And you can't tell me anything else?' What he'd meant was, you won't.

'It's a double murder case and a pretty shocking one too, that's all I've been told. Anyway, Police Scotland have assigned a liaison officer to help you with anything you need. She's based at a station in Glasgow. New Gorbals I think it's called. Do you know it?'

Did he know it? He'd spent the first eight or so years of his not-so-glittering career in that manor, making first detective constable and then detective sergeant after a three-year stint pounding the beat. It had been mainly low-key stuff, dealing with the sad losers and deadbeats who had simply just been unlucky to be born in what was still one of the most deprived areas of his home city. Petty burglary, pimping, supply and possession of Class A drugs, that was how they eked out a pathetic living, a living which earned barely more than they were getting from their benefits. And not being the brightest sandwiches in the picnic, they invariably would get caught at some point, giving them the chance to sample the delights of Her Majesty's Prison Barlinnie, better known to the locals as the Bar-L. The place was an infamous Victorian hell-hole, where well into the twenty-first century the in-cell bucket-as-toilet routine known as slopping out was still in practice. But at least the sad bastards granted temporary residence within its forbidding walls were guaranteed three meals a day and a warm place to sleep, which made it understandable why many of them opted to go straight back so soon after their release. Now Frank was getting the chance to go back too, to re-visit some of his old haunts for the first time in quite a few years. But unlike the locals, he would be able to leave again anytime he wanted. At least he hoped so.

The liaison officer went by the name of Constable Lexy McDonald, which gave a good indication as to how seriously the local force were taking the investigation. He'd expected as a minimum a Detective Inspector like himself, or at a push, an experienced Detective Sergeant who'd been round the block a few times and knew what was what. Instead he'd been allocated the lowest form of police pond-life. A constable, and a uniform too, not even a DC. And in this most misogynistic of outfits, a girl to boot. Priceless.

Swearing under his breath, he picked up his phone and dialled the number he'd been given. A bright voice answered on the second ring.

'Police Scotland, Constable Lexy McDonald speaking.'

Mildly amused at the formality of the response, he noted the lilt in her voice that betrayed the distinctive musicality of the Western Isles. A voice that sounded about sixteen years of age.

'Hi, this is DI Frank Stewart with the Met. I've heard you're to be my go-to guy up there in my homeland. Good to make your acquaintance.'

'Thank you sir, I was expecting your call. My sergeant's told me I've to help you in any way I can sir. With the case I mean.'

'Aye well that's really good to hear Constable MacDonald,' he said pleasantly. 'So has this wee case of ours got itself a name yet?'

'Not yet sir, at least I don't think so. I was just told it was one of the Whiteside cases.'

'One of the cases eh? That's interesting. So we'd better get ours a name sharpish, don't you think? Oh aye, and on the subject of names I'll call you Lexy from now on, if that's ok.'

'That's no bother sir. And I'll call you sir, shall I sir?'

Frank let out an involuntary guffaw. Like himself, it seemed PC McDonald had a sense of humour. Instantly he knew they were going to get along just fine.

'Aye, well I'll take Inspector Stewart as well, that's my Sunday name. But before we get started, I was going to ask you how long you've been on the force.'

He was pretty sure of the answer he was going to get, but he thought he'd better check just to be sure.

'I've just finished my two years’ probation sir,' she said, with obvious pride. 'This is only my fourth day in an operational role.'

He allowed himself a wry smile. The brass were taking this so seriously that they'd allocated him a liaison who counted her length of service in days.

'But I'm really keen to get stuck in sir,' he heard her say, as if reading his mind. Of course she was. They all were, when they were only four days into their careers.

'So am I Lexy, so am I,' he lied. 'But come on, tell me what you know. About these Whiteside cases, if that's what they're called.'

'Ok sir. So Professor Geoffrey Whiteside was the chief forensic pathologist back in the days when we were still Strathclyde Police.'

'Aye, that's what it was when I worked up there.' He still had his old warrant card with their logo and the photograph of a young and keen PC Frank Stewart, all revved up and ready to eliminate all traces of crime from south of the river. Somehow it hadn't quite worked out as he'd envisaged.

'Yes, it's been Police Scotland for nearly ten years now I think,' Lexy said, instantly ageing him. 'But anyway, Professor Whiteside was of course brought in for all the high-profile cases and that meant he