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

'Or dangerous,' French mused. 'I mean, risky-dangerous.'

'Well maybe,' Frank said. 'But isn't it more likely that this is keep your mouth shut money?'

The question wasn't meant to be rhetorical, but that's how it turned out. Because as soon as he said it, he knew he was right. Roderick Macallan had killed Morag and Isabelle McKay, he was sure of that, but this one hundred and twenty grand said that Clarkson was involved too in some way. And then he remembered. Clarkson had been called as an expert witness in the trial of Lieutenant James McKay, where he had testified that it was impossible for the communications between McKay and his wife to have been tampered with. Which meant almost certainly, although Frank didn't know how, that they had been. Now that sounded more like a hundred and twenty grand's worth of work.

Out of the blue he said, 'Eleanor, have you any idea how they communicate with submarines when they're underwater?'

'Packet-encrypted technology,' she answered with an air of nonchalance, as if everyone in the world should know it, 'but you wouldn't understand it.'

She was right, he didn't understand it, but that didn't matter, because he knew what it meant. Somehow, Daniel Clarkson had interfered with the email conversations between Lieutenant McKay and his wife, and in doing so had incriminated an innocent man. He could feel the anger growing inside him when he reflected on that breathtaking miscarriage of justice. An innocent man comes home from seven months at sea to a scene of unimaginable tragedy, and then, wrongfully imprisoned and unable to cope with the unbearable loss of his family, takes his own life. A terrible injustice that would have been avoided if the senior investigating officer had done his bloody job properly.

He was so consumed by his thoughts that he failed to notice that Eleanor was still speaking to him, talking about something else she'd found whilst rooting around Clarkson's hard drive.

It was a document he had evidently hacked from Roderick Macallan's computer. A document titled The Last Will and Testament of Roderick Archibald Macallan. A document dated just four months before Macallan shot his son and killed himself in the unknowing presence of Daniel Clarkson.

And now Frank could see how it all fitted together, sweet as a nut. Everything.

◆◆◆

The sombre sound of the organ drifted out into the churchyard, harmonising perfectly with the soft whistle of the wind blowing in from Loch More. The Lord is My Shepherd, I'll Not Want. Maggie didn't think the Macallan twins were religious in any way, so assumed the comforting hymns had been the choice of the minister. Whatever the case, they were succeeding in bringing back memories of her own Yorkshire childhood, of the Sunday morning routine of Sunday School then snaking into the old church to join the grown-ups for the last ten minutes of the service, then home for a proper roast beef lunch. Sweet memories they were, but in fact what was occupying her mind more than any brief bursts of nostalgia was Elspeth's brutal murder, not her sad funeral. The fact was, Maggie just didn't buy the opportunist sex-attack motive, not one bit, and now she had learnt from Frank that due to some mysterious development that he was not yet ready to share with her, he didn't buy it either. The first problem was that text or WhatsApp Elspeth had received just before she left Jimmy in the lurch in the restaurant, a text that seemed to have summoned her to her death, and yet, according to the police telecoms gurus, didn't exist. You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that something didn't add up with that. And something else that Frank had said was spinning around and around in her mind. The fact is, if you were looking for somewhere in London to get away with murder, it's well-nigh perfect. So, a text that didn't actually exist lured the beautiful young influencer out into the quiet street, where she was dragged up an alleyway and killed with no-one seeing a thing. Something didn't add up.

She became aware of the music becoming louder, and as she looked round, she saw the old oak doors had been opened and the procession was beginning to emerge. She took a step back so that she was part-concealed by the old yew tree, wishing to be respectful of the family's wishes but from where she could still observe Jimmy and Flora. Rory Overton was the lead pallbearer, one of six in all, and she wondered what was going through his head at the moment. For he had been in a relationship with Elspeth Macallan before switching allegiances to her sister Kirsty, a relationship that led to marriage and a child and a perfect picture-postcard life in West London. And now, conveniently, Elspeth was dead, leaving the inheritance of the Ardmore estate undisputed. Was that what Overton was thinking, an arrogant satisfaction as he considered how well everything had turned out for him?

In the name of god, the merciful Father, we commit the body of Elspeth Anne Macallan to the peace of the grave. The minister gave a silent nod and watched as they lowered the coffin into the grave, surrounded by the clutch of mourners standing with heads bowed in quiet contemplation, Jimmy and Flora shoulder-to-shoulder and still holding hands. Above the soft wind she could hear the sad sobs of Kirsty and she wondered once again how it must feel to lose a twin. Maggie was an only child and had spent much of her earlier childhood wishing for a brother or a sister, but now she was strangely grateful that she would never experience that pain herself.

Rory and Kirsty had now returned to the stone entrance vestibule, ready to accept the formal condolences of the mourners. She saw Jimmy touch his wife on the elbow then trudge over towards the yew tree.

'Well done,' Maggie whispered to him, 'and I hope