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

will be online on the government website. It's pretty good, I've used it to track down a few of my old mates since I left the army. And failing that, there's any number of associations for old service personnel. We'll find him, don't you worry about that.'

She smiled. 'Sounds like a job for you then.'

'Aye, no bother, I'm on it.'

'And then there's Elspeth and the dinner date,' she said, giving him a wry look.

Yes, the bloody dinner date. He'd thought about it quite a lot, and the more he thought about it, the less he liked the prospect. His brief and fatal affair with the Swedish country singer Astrid Sorenson had taught him of the dangers of being in the public eye, and it wasn't exactly going to help his mission with Flora if he was photographed at some fashionable restaurant with the beautiful influencer Elspeth Macallan.

'Well boss, I've been thinking about this,' he said, pursing his lips. 'I'm not so sure it's a great idea to be honest.'

'Well it's up to you,' she said, 'and I won't push it, but it might help us with the matter quite a bit. And it's not as if you would be deceiving her after all. A date is just a date, it doesn't mean you're looking for anything else. And you can tell her everything of course, about Flora I mean. She'll appreciate your honesty I'm sure.'

He laughed. 'What, you mean the same honest Elspeth that might be lying about being the first-born twin?'

But when he thought about it some more, he realised she was probably right. He hadn't been on many first dates but he vaguely remembered that there was always that tell me about yourself moment. So fine, he would go on the date, and if and when it came up, he would tell her everything and that would all be very straightforward.

'Alright, you know what,' he continued, frowning. 'I'll do it. Take one for the team. Again.'

'And what about Kirsty?' Maggie said.

He grimaced. 'I'm not asking her out too, forget that. Besides, I don't think her husband would be too pleased.'

'I wasn't thinking that. What I mean is, are we just going to use Elspeth to find out which one of the twins has done a deal with Alison?'

'Aye,' he nodded. 'If she denies it, and it's odds-on she will, then I'm hoping I'll be able to tell if she's lying.' Inside, he wasn't so sure, but he would worry about that later. 'So what are you going to be doing whilst I'm doing all the work?'

'Me?' she grinned. 'I'm going to bunk off early to watch my son playing in a flat back four behind a diamond midfield.'

'I've always preferred the wing-back system myself,' he said, pleased to have left her mystified.

◆◆◆

It hadn't been quite as easy to track down ex-Petty Officer Priest as he'd hoped it would be. It turned out that to get onto the Government Gateway website you needed an obscure layer of passwords and permissions that he didn't possess, and most of the paraphernalia involved in registering a new account was, for security reasons, delivered by post, meaning it would be at least seven working days and perhaps more before he could gain entry. So he texted an old army pal who had a desk job in the central payroll department, and whom he guessed would have access to all the service pension records, and wouldn't worry too much about data protection either. He'd received a prompt reply - see what I can domate, with a thumbs-up - but four hours later he hadn't heard anything and he didn't like to push it. But then finally it came through. Petty Officer J R Priest. 12 St Alban's Road, Winchester, Hants. Nothing else. No phone numbers, no email, but he wasn't really surprised. After all, names and addresses were in the public domain, you only had to check the Electoral Register so no data protection issues, but emails in particular were a different kettle of fish. A quick google and a browse of a couple of telephone directory sites didn't help. If he wanted to speak with the Priests, he was going to have to jump on a train.

He looked at his watch. Five twenty-five. He could be at Waterloo in twenty minutes and then it was about an hour and a half's journey and then no more than fifteen minutes' walk. All being well, he'd be on their doorstep at about half past seven, still pretty civilised for most people. Of course, they might not be in, but he could leave a note through their door asking him to contact him. It was a bit impulsive, he knew that, but wasn't that what private investigators were meant to do, dashing all over the place chasing up leads?

The rush-hour train was packed to the rafters, meaning that he and about two hundred other poor sods had to stand all the way, only the fact that he wasn't paying five grand a year for the privilege offering any consolation. The Priests semi-detached home was on a quiet estate, the architecture betraying its ex-council history, although the well-maintained appearance of both theirs and the neighbouring properties suggested they had long since passed into private ownership. He double-checked the address then jogged up the slabbed path to their door. He was just about to ring the bell when he noticed them, strung out along the inner window-sill of what he guessed was the living room. A row of greeting cards, maybe for someone's birthday or perhaps it was the Priests' wedding anniversary. But seared in his mind was a memory of an occasion back in his army days when he'd paid a sympathy visit to the parents of one of his men killed in action. The same row of cards, the same messages. Deepest sympathies. Our thoughts are with you. We are so sorry for your loss.

He rang the bell and a few seconds later the door opened.