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

at that, another step on his way up the promotional ladder. So Sharon Thomas was coerced into tidying up her recollection of events, on the pretext that a man like that would probably do it again if he wasn't put away for a good spell. Suddenly, she remembered the night with crystal clarity. After arriving back at her flat, she'd poured them each another drink and then they'd sat on the sofa, where they'd held hands and kissed before it all started to get out of hand. She said no, of course she had, but he had ignored her, reaching up under her skirt to tear off her knickers, then lying on top of her and forcing her to have unwanted intercourse. With that version of events, the Procurator Fiscal had little option but to proceed with charges, even although Frank knew they harboured doubts at the time.

And then two days later, the accused's lawyers released a series of explosive texts, first to the press and then to the prosecutor's office, which turned the spotlight on what had really happened that night. A barrage of messages had been sent by the alleged victim to the accused, lascivious in nature and thanking him for the wonderful time she had had, and looking forward to seeing him again as he had promised. At first ignored, there was eventually a single response from the former footballer, terse and brutal, thanking her for being a great shag, his exact words, but that he wasn't planning to see her again anytime soon.

With the case blown out of the water, Pollock had embarked on a damage-limitation exercise, played out principally on Scotland's broadcast media. An exercise that laid the blame for the foul-up squarely on the shoulders of the Detective Sergeant who had been working on the case, a DS whom in Pollock's words, had displayed repeated lapses in both judgement and endeavour. The brass knew it was all bollocks of course, but no-one wanted to be the one who stood in the way of golden-boy's career. So Frank had been bought off with an offer of instant promotion to Inspector, providing he took up a new post in the Metropolitan Police, and with immediate effect. Meanwhile the inexorable rise of Brian Pollock continued unchecked. It seemed that every time he screwed up, he was shunted upwards until eventually, and against all notions of natural justice, he had ended up as Chief Constable of Police Scotland, with the obligatory knighthood that came with the job. For Frank, London had worked out fine, but unlike plenty of his colleagues, he hadn't ever wanted to make the move south. But the incident had seared a burning injustice in his heart which he knew would not be erased until he got even with the bastard who had caused it. And now finally here was his chance, and the elevated status that Pollock had somehow attained was going to make his fall from grace even sweeter.

The train had arrived into Glasgow's Central Station bang on time, and the weather being reasonable for his home city, that is not totally pissing down with rain, he decided to walk the one-and-a-half miles to the New Gorbals police station.

'I'm here to see PC McDonald and her sergeant,' he told the duty officer on the desk. 'I'm DI Frank Stewart.'

'We've got three PC McDonalds,' he answered, Frank noting the unhelpful tone and the absence of a 'sir' in his response. But then he'd forgotten they didn't like outsiders up here, even if they spoke with a Glasgow accent. In fact, especially if they spoke with a Glasgow accent.

'Lexy,' he said, 'PC Lexy McDonald. And by the way, it's sir to you, ok pal?' He thought it wouldn't do any harm for word to get round the place that Frank Stewart had turned into a right tosser since he'd joined the Met.

'Oh aye, I'd forgotten about her sir,' he said, unchastened. 'She's new. Wait a minute and I'll get her to fetch you through.'

A couple of minutes later he heard the buzz as the automated access door was unlocked, then watched it opening outward into the entrance area. A small and pretty freckled-face constable in an obviously brand-new uniform materialised from behind it, beaming a wide smile.

'Welcome to the New Gorbals sir,' she said. 'Welcome back that is.'

Welcome back.The truth was, it was quite nice to be back, even although the manner of his leaving still rankled.

'My sarge wants to sit in with us sir, if that's ok,' she said, as she led them across to the small interview room which was apparently to be his temporary base whilst he was in town.

'Sure. What's his name?'

'Sergeant Muir sir.'

'Jim Muir?'

'Yes sir.'

So they'd finally made old Jim a sergeant. He'd been a DC when Frank had made DS, the guy already in his mid thirties with a career that was slowly going nowhere. But whilst a lot of guys were quite content to see out their service on the coal-face, Muir wasn't, and even ten years ago he was bitter about it. But rules were rules, and if you couldn't pass the sergeants' exam then it was no dice. But fair play to the man. Better late than never, even although he guessed the reason for his unexpected and undeserved promotion was the same one that allowed Colin Barker of the Met to cling to his unmerited DCS role. The old dodgy handshake routine. But maybe he was just wearing his cynicism on his sleeve.

'Jim, good to see you again,' he lied, extending a hand. 'Keeping well?'

'Mustn't grumble,' Muir replied. 'I'd get you a coffee but the machine's bust again.' So much for the warm welcome.

'No worries Jim, I had a couple of wee cans of Tartan on the way up on the train. It's not often we get a wee day out, is it?'

'Are you staying up here long?' Muir asked, his eyes narrowing. Again, no sir. But Frank wasn't bothered.

'Me?' he said. 'No, just the