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

Maggie knew they wouldn't be.

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'Nice guy, eh?' Jimmy said, as at a leisurely pace, they made their way back to Parsons Green tube station. 'Not.'

'Never meet your heroes, isn't that what they say?' Maggie said, laughing.

He shot back a sardonic smile. 'Can I just remind you he played for England, so he's no hero of mine. But yeah, he's really up himself, no question about it. Horrible guy altogether.'

She nodded. 'He is. And god, he really wants the house and the estate, doesn't he? More than she does, it seems to me.'

'That doesn't surprise me,' Jimmy said. 'I read an article about him in a rugby magazine a few months ago. He's really into his shooting and fishing, big-time. So I'm thinking this is probably his wee retirement plan, now that he's given up the game. I guess he needs to find something else to do with the rest of his life.'

'Yeah, there's something in that,' Maggie agreed, then giving him a mischievous smile she continued, 'And what did you think to Kirsty? Because she was certainly interested in you if I'm any judge. She hardly took her eyes off you for a second.'

'Aye maybe,' he said, shrugging, 'but I don't think she remembered who I was, did she? From that party I mean.'

She laughed. 'She probably asks so many men to sleep with her, she's lost track.'

'Yeah, I expect that's it,' he agreed, evidently unconcerned. 'But there was one thing I did pick up on actually. And I wondered if you'd noticed it too?'

She gave him a puzzled look. 'No, I don't think so.'

'I'm surprised,' he said, not bothering to hide an annoyingly smug expression, 'please don't tell me you're losing your touch.'

'Don't be so bloody cheeky,' she said, trying hard not to laugh, 'or I'll have you court-martialled.'

'I'm not in the army now,' he said, deadpan, 'in case you'd forgotten.'

'Come on then smart-arse. Tell me what you've got. I haven't got all day.'

He gave her a look of mock superiority. 'Aye, I will then. So what I was thinking was, if Kirsty Macallan is so damn sure she was the first-born twin, why's she suddenly so interested in her old maternity records?'

Chapter 11

Frank's train trip up from London had been both convenient and comfortable, the four-hour-something journey time allowing ample opportunity to down a couple of beers from the service trolley and to ponder how he would handle the delightful act of serendipity that had parachuted Brian Pollock back into his life. To tell the truth, it had been a bit of a shock at first, being more than ten years after he'd last had the displeasure of working with the shit-faced bastard. Back then, the newly-promoted Inspector Pollock had waltzed into New Gorbals station from a previous fast-track assignment somewhere in the north-east, the jungle drums sending the message in advance that he was a complete prick and needed to be handled with great caution. Frank had not long turned thirty, and had banked a solid two years as a hard-working and street-smart Detective Sergeant. All things being equal, there was a fair chance he would make Inspector before too long, such was the regard for him amongst the brass. That was until Pollock turned up to screw all his carefully-laid career plans.

The case had been relatively routine but high-profile. An ex-footballer turned pundit had been accused of raping a woman he had met in a Glasgow bar. After sharing a few drinks together, they had taken a taxi back to her flat, where the offence was alleged to have taken place. So far, so normal, but what had made this one more complicated than it needed to be was that the woman had waited more than three weeks before reporting the incident to the police. Nonetheless the station DCI had reviewed her complaint and satisfied that it was credible, allocated the case to DI Pollock. Frank hated these cases with a passion, because he knew that some poor wee lassie was going to be asked some horrible questions about this most private and intimate aspect of her life. And it didn't matter how sensitively you tried to put it, there was always that elephant in the room. Prove to us you didn't say yes. He'd had to do it a couple of times in the past, and he had no desire to do it again. Which is why when he was rostered to the investigation and told by Pollock he had to interview the woman, whose name was Sharon Thomas, he called up a favour and brought in a woman DS from Paisley whom he'd met on a course, and whom he knew was Renfrew district's go-to officer for these sort of cases. Meanwhile Pollock was all over the media, predicting a swift resolution to the investigation. A forty-one-year-old man was in custody and was helping with enquiries he told them, and they were expecting him to be charged soon.

Except that DS Priti Chowdray of Renfrew division wasn't convinced. First of all, the victim had steadfastly refused to allow the police doctor to examine her. Secondly, gentle but persistent questioning had uncovered some inconsistencies in her story, the woman first claiming the rape had happened on a sofa in her living room whilst later she remembered it had actually taken place when they were in bed together, sleeping off their over-indulgence. As DS Chowdray had explained to Frank, this seemed like a classic case of post-coital regret and so should be treated with caution, she recommending a more thorough investigation of the alleged facts before charges were brought. Not to justify or excuse the actions of the guy, she made that clear, a man who in her opinion had cynically set out to take advantage of the woman's inebriation, but simply in the interests of justice.

But Pollock wouldn't have it. All he could see was another collar and a high-profile one