The Legacy (13 page)

‘This is getting far too deep,' said Ellie who had heard the last couple of words as she struggled through the door with a basket full of logs. ‘Can we eat yet or do we have to keep drinking wine?' asked Ellie. The dog ran between Ellie's legs and headed for the warmth of his basket.

‘No, we can eat. Come and sit down and I'll serve it up,' said Sarah.

Camilla and Ellie sat down at the table as Sarah started to serve supper. It was boule bas served with crusty homemade bread and salad. Camilla tasted it. It was outstanding. ‘God this is good,' she said.

‘Thank you,' said Sarah. ‘I'm glad you like it.'

‘It's a Sarah speciality,' explained Ellie. ‘It takes a bit of making but Sarah wanted to make an effort as she's never met you before and she was keen to make a good first impression.'

‘Thanks for that Ellie,' said Sarah. ‘You're not supposed to say things like that, at least not whilst I'm within earshot.'

‘No, but it's true and I'm really grateful to you for being so thoughtful,' said Ellie.

‘So am I,' said Camilla. ‘To Sarah,' she said, raising her glass. Sarah and Ellie copied her and their glasses clinked together.

They continued talking until the early hours of the morning, finishing off another two bottles of wine and a large slab of Brie. Camilla couldn't remember when she'd enjoyed an evening quite so much. They were so different to the likes of Peter Fairweather and the people that she normally met up in London. They were much more grounded and not remotely interested in talking about money and the things they had recently bought. She found their company refreshing and stimulating. But she was dead on her feet and needed to sleep.

‘I've got to go to bed,' said Camilla standing up unsteadily. ‘I'm knackered. I've had a great evening, thank you very much for supper Sarah, it was brilliant.'

Sarah smiled. ‘No problem. It was lovely to meet you at last having heard so much about you.'

‘Come on, I'll show you to your room,' said Ellie, getting up. Camilla followed her out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the first floor. ‘You're in here,' said Ellie, opening the door to one of the bedrooms and switching the light on. ‘There's a small en suite bathroom through the door over there,' she said, pointing to the far wall. ‘I've put fresh towels in there. Will this be OK?' she asked.

‘It's lovely Ellie, thank you, this'll be great. And no wonder you're so happy with Sarah, she's fantastic,' said Camilla.

‘Thank you,' replied Ellie, ‘she obviously likes you. She was worried you'd disapprove of us. I said you were my oldest friend and that you'd be happy if I was happy.'

‘You were right. I'm very happy indeed that you have found a soul mate at last. I just wish I could be so lucky,' said Camilla. ‘Nite Ellie and thanks again for everything,' said Camilla, pecking Ellie on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow.'

Having said goodnight to Camilla, Ellie went downstairs. Sarah was tidying up. ‘She's very nice,' said Sarah. ‘I can see why you two are so close.'

‘Thank you for making an effort Sarah,' said Ellie, ‘I'm really grateful. It matters to me what Camilla thinks and I know she thought you were great. Come on, let's go to bed, we can finish off tomorrow.'

‘OK,' said Sarah. ‘I'll just check the fire. Nite nite Boot,' she said, ruffling the top of the dog's head as she secured the catch to the wood burner's door. But Boot wasn't interested. His ears pricked up and he started to bark. He was clearly agitated. He jumped out of his basket and ran to the main door. ‘Come on boy,' said Sarah, ‘there's nothing out there except the odd fox. Back to bed.'

‘What's the matter with Boot?' asked Ellie from upstairs.

‘Not sure,' Sarah replied, ‘I think he's heard something outside, probably a fox. I'll leave him to it. He'll calm down eventually.' She switched off the lights and went upstairs, leaving Boot sitting by the door, ears straining for any more unexpected sounds.

Chapter 27

R
ichards could hear the dog bark as he moved towards Ellie's Land Rover. He wore a dark balaclava, gloves and black clothes. The day sack on his back and the webbing belt around his waist were also black, designed not to be seen at night. He had a pistol holstered on one leg and a knife on the other. He looked the part but he was out of practise and he cursed himself for not seeing the twig in his path. It broke as he stepped on it and he realised that it was this that had alerted the dog. He stood perfectly still and concentrated on slowing his breathing. If they let the dog out, it would be a matter of seconds before it found him and he'd then have two choices. Either try and make a run for it, hoping that whoever had let the dog out wouldn't see him, or kill the dog and then, as quickly as possible, incapacitate whoever was with the dog before they had the chance to raise the alarm. Neither option was ideal. He'd rather get rid of the girl on ground of his choosing and at a time of his making. Accepting that he might not have that luxury, he moved his hand down to the wicked looking knife that was sheathed in the holster on his thigh. He withdrew it and lowered himself into a crouch, holding the black bladed knife out in front of him.

As he waited to see what would happen, he thought about the discussion he'd had with Highworth the previous night. Highworth had clearly been spooked by his discussion with Knowles and he was now trying to close off as many loose ends as possible. He couldn't understand why the assassin had let the girl live when he'd killed Fairweather. He was convinced that this was a loose end and he'd told Richards to get rid of her. ‘Try and make it look like an accident if you can. But if you can't, you can't,' he'd said. ‘I just want her dead and out of the way.'

Richards had tried to reason with Highworth, pointing out that if there was any chance of her compromising Fairweather's murder, then the assassin would have killed her without a moment's hesitation. He'd also pointed out that, so far at least, the police seemed to accept that Highworth's death had been a tragic accident. If the girl were also to die, it might raise their suspicions. But Highworth wasn't to be persuaded. ‘Just kill her,' Highworth had said. ‘It's one less thing to worry about. Let's not forget that if I go down, you'll be coming with me.'

‘OK. I'll take care of it,' Richards had said, smiling thinly. He wasn't worried about Highworth's threat. As soon as it looked as though Highworth was going to talk, Richards would find a quick and effective way of silencing him. He had absolutely no intention of letting Highworth implicate him in any of this. He knew that he could get to Highworth and, if necessary, his family wherever the police tried to hide them. But, for the moment at least, it made sense to play along with him. ‘Who knows,' Richards thought to himself, ‘this might all wash over and we could be back in business within a month or so.' It was worth the risk. Although he had other customers, Highworth was the most reliable and he paid extremely well.

Richards started to relax the moment he saw the downstairs light go off. The dog stopped barking and, within a few minutes, the upstairs lights went off as well. It was obvious that the people inside were going to bed. ‘Good,' thought Richards, taking a small black box out of his pack and placing it under the rear bumper of the Land Rover. It was a magnetic tracking device. Richards knew that he would now have little difficulty following the Land Rover. This was a relief as the journey to the farmhouse had been difficult. Once they'd got up onto the moor, there was very little traffic and he'd had to kill his headlights for most of the journey to avoid raising the girl's suspicions that she was being followed. Having seen where they'd stopped, he'd driven past the house and parked up an old farm track about a mile away. He'd then changed into his black combats and walked back, taking a cross country route in order to avoid houses and roads. He'd managed to find a bit of high ground about two hundred metres from the house from which he was able to watch what was happening inside. He had night vision goggles in his pack but the girls had left the curtains wide open and, armed with binoculars and a powerful zoom lens on his camera, he'd been able to watch the evening unfold, taking photographs of the three girls' faces whenever the opportunity arose. He'd sent them through to one of his colleagues to see whether they could identify them from the police records that they had access to. He didn't expect a match but it was always worth checking. It was surprising how many people were recorded in government files. All it took to access them was someone who needed a bit more money than they were being paid by the state.

Satisfied that the house was now quiet for the night and confident that he could track the Land Rover if and when it moved, he retraced his steps back to his car. Once there, he quickly changed into the walking clothes he'd worn on the way from the station and reversed the car onto the road. It was quiet as he turned the car round and headed into Mortonhampstead. It was a small moorland town and he knew that at this time of night people would be curious if he tried to book into one of the few hotels or bed and breakfasts. He therefore decided to push on to Exeter, confident that he would be able to find a travellers' hotel either in the city or near the airport. They'd be used to people coming and going at odd hours and he was keen to remain as forgettable and anonymous as possible.

As he drove off the moor, he thought about the assassin. He was genuinely sad that he'd had to kill him. They'd met at short notice in a pub in Edinburgh on the pretext of a new mission. Once they'd discussed the details of the supposed target, Richards had said his farewells and left the pub. He'd deliberately chosen a quiet pub in an even quieter road. He'd hidden in the shadows outside the main door and, as the assassin followed him out a few minutes later, he'd gone up behind him, put an arm around his neck and stuck the knife into his back. He had been aiming to go between the ribs and into the heart but the assassin, perhaps sensing that something was wrong, had started to turn just as Richards grabbed him and started to push the knife into him. As a result, the knife had missed the heart and entered the gut. Knowing that he'd inflicted enough damage to kill the assassin, Richards lowered his target slowly to the ground before leaving the scene. He'd then gone to the assassin's flat and searched it meticulously. It had taken him most of the night but he was confident that there was nothing hidden that could lead anyone to him. He'd left the flat immaculate, reasoning that if he had ransacked it, the police would be unlikely to accept that the assassin had just been mugged and would start looking for a deeper motive.

Chapter 28

Lucy woke early and padded from her bedroom into the kitchen. She made a pot of fresh coffee and turned the TV on. The presenter was describing a train crash in Madrid, suggesting that it might have been the work of terrorists and that there were similarities between it and a train crash in Holland the previous month. ‘It's all doom and gloom,' thought Lucy, pouring a second cup of coffee to take to Isobel. ‘A single incident like a train crash or a mugging ruins so many peoples' lives so quickly. It's not just the dead,' she thought, ‘it's the families left behind that have to pick up the pieces.' She could feel tears welling up in her eyes as she thought of her father. ‘Whoever you are and wherever you are, I'll get you you bastard,' she said to herself, thinking of her father's mugger. She picked up the coffee she'd made for Isobel and walked down the hall towards Isobel's room.

‘Hi,' said Isobel, coming out of her room and nearly knocking the cup of coffee out of Lucy's hand. ‘Got to pee,' she said as she rushed into the bathroom. She left the door open so that she could continue chatting to her friend. ‘How did you sleep?' she asked, noting how red her friend's eyes were.

‘OK actually,' replied Lucy. ‘I think the shock and the journey from Nepal have taken it out of me. I only got up because I want to start trying to work out what happened to Dad.'

‘I don't blame you, where do you want to start?' asked Isobel, flushing the toilet and washing her hands. She was worried about her friend but had decided that the best way to help her was to try and be as up-beat as possible. If Lucy wanted to focus her anger on trying to find her Dad's killer then that was fine by her. She didn't for a minute think that Lucy would be any more successful than the police but, if it helped, she was happy to humour her and support her as best she could.

‘I think we should go to the solicitors first. I want to know why Dad went to see them earlier in the week. Perhaps he told them something.'

‘Good plan. Is that for me?' asked Isobel, looking at the coffee in Lucy's hand.

‘Yes, I thought you'd like some.'

‘Thank you Luce,' said Isobel. ‘You're a star, you know that don't you?'

‘Yes, so you tell me!' replied Lucy. Isobel was a nightmare until she'd had her first coffee of the day and Lucy was prepared to do whatever it took to make the day as easy as possible.

‘As soon as it's nine, I'll phone the solicitors and see if we can get an appointment for this morning,' said Lucy. ‘Come and have some breakfast. There's some bread and cereals but not much else I'm afraid.'

Isobel followed her friend into the kitchen, plonking herself down on a chair in front of the TV whilst Lucy put a few slices of bread in the toaster. After breakfast, the girls showered and changed. Lucy phoned the solicitors and got through to a charming and very understanding man who agreed to see them mid morning. She then phoned Kate and arranged to ring her again after they'd seen the solicitor. The last thing she did before leaving the house was to send an e-mail to Harry explaining what had happened. She explained why she'd left Nepal so quickly - it seemed like months ago, not a few days - and asked him for his phone number so she could phone him in a few days once she'd sorted out the funeral and worked out what to do next. She hadn't forgotten about Harry. She was still keen to see him again but, for the moment, he would have to wait.

They arrived at the address the solicitor had given them a few hours later. It was in the Old Town, just off the Royal Mile, in a beautiful old Victorian red brick building. The brass plaque on the wall next to the main door confirmed that they were at the offices of McLeod, McLeod and McKnight.

‘Very smart,' said Isobel, admiring the highly polished brass door fittings. ‘The more I see of your Dad's world, the more I realise what a stylish man he was. What happened to you? Perhaps the style gene skipped a generation.'

‘Ho ho,' replied Lucy. ‘Sometimes I forget just how unfunny you are.' Isobel smiled to herself. She decided to try and be as normal as possible and was pleased that her friend was getting at least some of her old bounce back.

Lucy went up the steps to the door and pushed it open. It led into a hallway which served as a reception.

‘Miss Masters?' asked a middle aged lady from behind an old mahogany desk. Lucy nodded. The lady stood up and walked round the desk towards Lucy and Isobel. ‘My name is Sheila Jones, I'm Mr McLeod's secretary. If you take a seat, I'll tell him you're here.' She pointed at an old chesterfield sofa in an alcove. ‘Please help yourself to the coffee and tea on the table.'

‘Thank you,' replied Lucy, walking over towards the table and pouring two coffees. She handed one to Isobel and sat on the sofa next to her friend. Five minutes later, a smartly dressed man in his mid to late fifties came over to them.

‘Miss Masters?' he asked. Lucy nodded.

‘I'm Murdo McLeod,' said the man. ‘I was your father's solicitor. I'm so sorry to hear about his tragic death, please accept my sincere condolences.' He shook Lucy's hand before turning to face Isobel.

‘Thank you,' said Lucy, introducing Isobel and asking that she be allowed to remain with her throughout their discussion. McLeod agreed. Isobel noticed his voice. It was deep and measured, with a soft Scottish lilt. He reminded Isobel of her father. Well groomed, his shoes were highly polished and the trousers of his three piece tweed suit had razor sharp creases down their fronts.

‘Please come into my office,' McLeod said, leading the way past the reception desk and towards the back of the building. The girls followed, noticing the smell of wood polish and the large framed pictures of austere looking lawyers in robes and wigs on the walls.

McLeod's office was big and well furnished. A partner's desk with a green leather top stood in one corner. An informal seating area was arranged beneath a bow window with a sofa and two easy chairs positioned around a coffee table. ‘Please sit down,' said McLeod, indicating the sofa with his outstretched hand.

Once they were all seated, McLeod picked up a leather folder from the table. ‘Tell me, Miss Masters, how much did you know about your father's affairs?' he asked.

‘Not much I'm afraid, he wasn't very forthcoming about his personal affairs, even with me,' replied Lucy.

‘No, I suspect he wasn't.' McLeod paused, taking a sip of water before he continued. ‘I was an Army lawyer before I became a family solicitor and I served with your father a number of times over the years. I suppose I've known him a long time, about twenty years actually, and I reckon I knew him as well as any man. Anyway,' said McLeod, ‘he recently added some additional details to his will and earlier this week he gave me a sealed envelope to give to you should anything happen to him.'

‘Why do you think he did that?' asked Lucy.

‘I've been thinking about that myself in view of what's happened,' replied McLeod. ‘He said he was just tidying up some loose ends because he was going away for a while but, to be honest, he seemed a little distracted. I asked him if everything was OK but, as you suggested, he kept his affairs very much to himself. He said he was fine, just doing a bit of what the Army calls “personal admin”. I'll give you the letter in a minute but let's start with the will.'

‘OK,' said Lucy.

‘It'll have to go through “confirmation”, rather like probate in England, before we can release anything but I can give you an outline of what's in it now. I probably shouldn't but I know how much you meant to your father and, given the circumstances, I'm sure it's what he would have wanted. You are the major beneficiary. As there aren't any other siblings, I presume you're happy if I give you a quick summary of what's in the will?' he asked, looking over the top of his glasses.

‘Yes, thank you,' replied Lucy. ‘Anything that can shed some light on what happened to him would be helpful.'

‘You don't think it was a straightforward mugging?' McLeod enquired carefully.

‘No, I don't,' said Lucy. ‘It's too much of a coincidence. He sorts his affairs out and a few days later he's killed. Also, my father may have been as tough as old boots and an obstinate old bugger but he was very careful to avoid trouble. He would walk away from it whenever he could and I just can't accept that he would get himself into a position where a mugger could get the better of him. And the other thing is that the doctor at the hospital said that it looked like it was done by someone who knew what they were doing. He didn't say it exactly but he gave the impression that the injuries weren't those you'd expect to see from a casual mugging. There may be nothing in it but I need to check it out, even if I end up wasting my time.'

‘OK Miss Masters, I think I understand. Let's start at the beginning.' McLeod paused, taking another sip of water and opening the folder. ‘Your father was a wealthy man,' said McLeod, looking Lucy in the eye. ‘Far wealthier than you would expect a retired Army officer to be, particularly one on a modest Major's pension. The banks will have to confirm the exact state of his accounts but he was worth more than three million pounds, at least he was last year when we re-wrote his will. His art collection alone is worth about seven hundred thousand pounds, probably more if you include the pictures on loan to some of the galleries in town. In addition to his George Street flat - on which there is no mortgage - he also had a few offshore accounts. I presume the details of those are in the sealed envelope I mentioned. As I suspect the taxman doesn't know anything about these, it's probably best that you keep the details to yourself. I only know they might exist because he asked my advice a few years ago, as a friend rather than as a solicitor, and I assume he acted on it.'

‘Goodness me,' said Lucy, not sure what else to say. She was completely shocked. Her father had always been very careful with his money. He'd never discussed his financial affairs with her but she had assumed that the flat was rented and that he was doing a bit of security on the side to supplement his pension. He gave no indication of having a great deal of money. Notwithstanding the packaging from Sotherby's that she'd found at the flat, she'd always assumed that the paintings he collected had been bought at local antique shops. ‘I'd never have guessed. Other than his paintings, which I didn't realise were so valuable, he didn't live the high life.'

‘No,' said McLeod. He stared at Lucy for a few minutes, lost in thought as if weighing up whether or not to explain something to her. He took a brown envelope out of the folder and held it in his hand. ‘Miss Masters, although your father didn't share the detail with me, I have an idea of what might be in this letter. He gave me strict instructions that you were to read it here, make whatever notes you wanted, and then you were to destroy it in my presence before you left these offices. I will hold you to that. But I will also try and add whatever detail you want after you've read it. But be warned, your father was an unusual man and I have a very strong suspicion that the letter will shock you.' He paused and took another sip of water.

‘Go on,' prompted Lucy.

‘Your father was a sniper in the Army you know. I presume you know what that means?' he asked, his voice low and serious.

‘Yes,' replied Lucy in an equally low voice, not sure where this was going. ‘I think it means he killed people.'

‘It does. And he was very good indeed at his job, probably the best of his generation. I came across him in Bosnia when I was the legal advisor in the headquarters. Most of my job involved interpreting the rules of engagement that our forces operated under. Essentially, I had to work out when and how our troops could engage the enemy. What I mean by that is that it was my responsibility to tell our troops when they could and couldn't open fire. It was very tightly controlled as you can imagine. Abiding by the rules was of huge importance in order to maintain the legitimacy of the NATO mission. I came across your father again in Iraq and again in the early stages of Afghanistan, just before I left the Army. What he did whilst in the Army was entirely legal and was fully supported by his chain of command. Indeed, and as I'm sure you're aware, he got an MBE for his services in Afghanistan. But I have a suspicion that when he left the Army, he continued doing what he did so well, only this time for money rather than for the government. I'm only telling you this because I don't want you to be shocked by whatever you read in the letter. And of course I might be wrong.'

‘I'm not sure I understand what you mean Mr McLeod,' said Lucy in a faltering voice. She reached for Isobel's hand, squeezing it tight until Isobel protested.

‘There's no easy way of explaining this Miss Parker,' replied McLeod, ‘but I'm pretty sure that when he retired your father became what the old westerns used to call “a hired gun”.'

‘I knew he did security but are you saying that he became a mercenary? I know that some of his friends from the Paras did that.'

‘No, I don't think you'd call him a mercenary. I'm sorry to use the movies to explain what I mean but, in today's cinema vernacular, I suspect he'd be called a hitman or an assassin.'

‘An assassin!' exclaimed Lucy, visibly shocked. Isobel screeched as Lucy squeezed her hand even tighter.

‘Sorry,' said Lucy, letting go of her friend. ‘You think my father was some sort of hitman?'

‘Yes, that's about the size of it,' replied McLeod, handing Lucy the letter. ‘I'll leave you to read this and then, once you're done, I'll try and answer any questions you might have.'

‘Thank you,' said Lucy, her hands shaking as she started to open the letter.

‘You might want this,' said McLeod, handing Isobel a legal pad and a couple of pencils. He then left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.