The Little Yellow Llama

Probate had been granted in the affairs of Mr Douglas Michael McKinnon, and the small estate was being divided as per the instructions. It was mostly standard. The house, car, and a small pension went to the wife. The holiday flat in Aviemore now belonged to their son, Douglas Jr. Thankfully, he’d taken the deceased’s beloved Yorkie, the wife had wanted it put down. But the last section, added only three months ago, was the strangest bequest he’d ever come across, and it was already causing problems.

Simon Judworth, of respected London solicitors, Judworth, Bell and Shah, leaned back in his black leather executive chair, resting his arms across his grumbling stomach, wishing he’d gone for the tuna melt at lunch rather than the low-cal Cesar salad. He was a large man but it suited him. Always smartly dressed, with a dapper black trilby and formal coat completing the effect whenever he left the office. Self-assured but not arrogant, he was a man that others waited for, commanded respect, and he was not used to clients speaking to him in this manner.

 He studied the irate woman across from him, grateful for the newly-installed plastic shield as a fleck of saliva decorated her side. Mrs Maria McKinnon was in her 60’s; Her hair still held the blackness of her youth, and with high cheekbones, clear ivory skin, a long elegant neck and a good figure she was, physically, quite attractive. She’d clearly had an easy life; Not rich but quite comfortable. She was, however, pompous, cruel and rather loud.

“Well it’s not right,” she was bellowing at him, “He can’t go leaving cryptic notes and money to some chancer I’ve never even heard of.”

“I’m sorry Mrs McKinnon, but Mr McKinnon was implicit in his instructions. The Will is a matter for public record and you are entitled to dispute it, though I strongly discourage it. A dispute could take years, would be very costly and the bequest is insignificant.”

They went back and forth along the same lines for another forty minutes before Judworth looked at his watch, bringing the appointment to an end. Mrs McKinnon slammed the frosted glass door as she flounced out, muttering about suing, incompetence and other things he chose not to hear. 

Judworth closed the file as his partner and long-time friend, Samina Shah, knocked gently and entered his office.

“She didn’t take it well then.”

“Indeed not.”

“Do you want me to come with you for the last bit?”

“Not necessary thank you, unless of course your offer isn’t entirely altruistic, hmm”

“You have to admit,” Samina smiled, “It’s quite intriguing. £500, fair enough, but the strange note, key and little yellow plastic llama…”

#

Thunder caromed around the leaden sky, threatening the earth with a drenching as Judworth stepped from the Thames Clipper. He removed his face-mask, sanitised his hands and headed up the pier. The park was just ahead. He hoped the café or bar were open, somewhere they could sit and not get wet, he didn’t want to have to hurry this appointment - he loved spending time in Greenwich Park.

She was waiting for him at the old bandstand and waved as she saw him approach. He lifted his briefcase in acknowledgement and sauntered towards her.

“Ms Garcia, I presume.” He smiled and held out his hand, quickly withdrawing it, “Sorry, old habits and all that.”

She was not what he’d anticipated, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting. Hiding behind long black hair, dark-rimmed glasses and a navy-blue rain-mac, she was very forgettable in a lot of ways, but had a splendid smile that reached her dark eyes and hung there like a hummingbird at a flower.

“Call me Gabriella, Ms Garcia sounds so old. I brought coffee, hope that’s ok?” she said, gesturing to the thermos resting on a small folding table, accompanied by two camping chairs.

“Good of you.”

They took a few moments chatting comfortably as strangers, familiarising themselves with each other and the surroundings. Life had become either very formal or very informal these days; All screens and masks, or picnics outside – Judworth knew which he preferred. He watched a baby robin hopping nearby, not yet brave enough to approach them. Slow, fat raindrops started to tap on the roof of the bandstand interrupting his reverie.

“So, to business, Gabriella. I assume you knew Mr McKinnon, and are aware he passed away recently…”

“Erm sorry, who?”

“Mr McKinnon? Douglas Michael McKinnon?”

“Oh no, not Dougie with the little Yorkie?  

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“I didn’t know his last name. He died? Oh, that’s so sad, he was a lovely man. Is Bitty ok?”

“Bitty is fine, Mr McKinnon’s son has taken her. His wife, well, let’s say she was never keen on the dog.”

“Sad. What happened? It wasn’t Covid was it?”

 “I’m sorry to tell you Mr McKinnon had cancer. So, you were only vaguely acquainted then?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Well, Mr McKinnon has left you a bequest in his will. He’s actually left you these.”

Judworth handed Gabriella an envelope and watched as she poured over the contents - the tiny yellow plastic llama, a key and a handwritten note that made no sense.

“£500 as well, which we will need to get your bank details for, unless you would prefer a cheque.”

Gabriella read the note and smiled, tucking it into her pocket. She picked up the key and studied it for a moment, then secreted that with the note. The llama she picked up and held tight in her hand.

“Thank you, Mr Judworth.”

“I was wondering, perhaps, if you understood the bequest, that you might see your way clear to explaining it? It’s caused much intrigue.”

As she gave some vague response regarding a life-long dream to go llama trekking in Peru, he shivered, he knew she was lying to him, but something about her, he wasn’t about to challenge her on it.

#

After the solicitor had left, Gabriella stayed under the bandstand for a while longer watching the people in the park dashing through the shower, hopping over puddles. She hoped the solicitor wouldn’t become an issue later, he’d seemed nice.

She looked again at the items Mac had left her, turning them over in her hand. The key: to a gym locker where he had everything she’d need to continue the business without him. The cheque: payment for a job, reduced rate of course but you always had to take payment, it was part of the code. The note: details of the job to be done - never why, just when, where, who. The pig: his signature, confirmation that it was real, a private joke between them, the best day of her life when Mac had saved her, in more ways than one.

 ‘So, Mac’s really dead then,’ she ached, they’d become so close, as colleagues then friends, and had worked well together the last couple of years.

               Checking again no one was paying her any attention, she packed away the chairs, removed the dark wig and glasses and put them, together with the thermos flask into her rucksack, alongside her Glock 26 Gen 4, 9mm handgun.

#

She collected the large black holdall from the gym where Mac kept his locker, of course it had always been open when they’d been there before, but getting into buildings was part of their expertise. Four months it had been closed, but still smelt of stale sweat and chlorine. She paused by the silent, dark café remembering waiting for him, unable to accompany him inside the men’s locker room. They did a passable latte here, but he always had mocha. The bag had everything she needed. A new name, new life, control over the business he’d built from scratch and had now passed to her; The business bank account details, the crucial list of clients and contacts, and of course, the rifle.

She kept the tiny yellow plastic llama in the rifle case, a reminder of lessons learnt and a friendship savoured. She looked at it for a few moments, then lifted Mac’s Enfield L42A1 and attached the sighting scope. ‘An oldie but a goodie’ he’d often told her during her training, ‘reliable – the most important thing in our game. People, weapons, tools – all must be 100% reliable.’ She read the note one last time then sighted on the target, wondering very briefly who the handsome dark-haired, ivory-skinned woman was. She had a long elegant neckline, but hard features.

 ‘Job complete Mac,’ she thought as she pulled the trigger.