Double Mortice (10 page)

McFarlane tossed back his whisky in one swallow, screwing up his face. ‘That hit the spot. I can feel the warmth comin’ back to my bones.’ He studied the faces of all the customers propping up the bar, then whispered to McWilliam. ‘Time we were makin’ a move.’ McWilliam downed his drink and got to his feet, following McFarlane into the toilets. Having checked to make sure they were alone, they emptied the contents of their pockets – wallets, keys, money, cigarettes – onto the ledge above the wash hand basin before stripping off their anoraks, trousers and shoes. Having exchanged clothes, they dressed quickly, then picked up their possessions before returning to the bar.

McFarlane surveyed the scene. The same uninterested customers. No one had entered or left the pub while they had been in the toilets. He nodded to Archie as he pulled up his anorak hood, tugging on the drawstrings and tying them tightly underneath his chin. ‘Do the trainers fit?’ he asked.

‘They’re a bit big, but I’ll manage.’ They strode from the pub and hurried back up the High Street, the wind behind them threatening to lift them off their feet. At the mouth of McWilliam’s close they shook hands and McFarlane went inside while McWilliam continued on up the High Street. McFarlane darted straight through the close to the back of the tenement building and, with the aid of a dustbin, clambered over the high brick wall. Dropping to the ground, he sprinted the fifty yards to the end of the muddy lane, the wind and rain stinging his eyes. When he emerged from the lane he slowed to a halting limp. ‘Why could you no’ take a size ten instead o’ a bloody nine, Archie,’ he muttered. When he saw a taxi approaching, he flagged it down.

‘Where to, pal?’

‘Dalgleish Tower.’

‘Where’s that?

‘It’s a new block o’ flats near the city centre.’

‘Is it yon big glass building down by the river?’

‘That’s it.’

The driver laughed. ‘That’s the one the Glasgow cabbies call Kenny’s Castle.’

Having spent most of the afternoon on another round of interviews with Anne Gibson’s relatives and friends, Charlie Anderson had another twenty pages of shorthand notes to show for his trouble, with not a single worthwhile bit of information coming to light.

He was about to go home when his phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

‘Is that you, Charlie? ‘Michael Gibson’s voice was hoarse.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s… it’s happened again.’

Unable to sleep, his brain wrestling to make sense of the previous evening’s events, Charlie got up at five-thirty and set off for Pitt Street, getting to his office not long after six o’clock. If nothing else, he thought, this would give him the uninterrupted time he needed to make some sort of impression on his paperwork.

It was still dark outside and the central heating hadn’t kicked in. Without taking off his overcoat, he lifted the heavy pile of correspondence from his drawer and placed it in the middle of his desk. He took his fountain pen and his propelling pencil from his inside jacket pocket and laid them neatly beside the papers.

Taking the biscuit tin containing change from his bottom left-hand drawer, he spilled the contents onto the desk. Having selected the coins he needed for a coffee, he swept the rest of the money back into the tin. On the way to the vending machines he stopped off at Pauline’s desk and left a hand-written note asking her to schedule an appointment with Dr Stephen McCartney as soon as possible.

When Charlie next looked up at his wall clock it showed half past seven. He got to his feet to stretch his spine. He was stiff and cold but was pleased with the progress he’d made. He eyed the two piles of paper. He’d managed to move more than half the correspondence to his out-tray.

As he sat down again and took the next item from the pile, he heard the welcome click of the central heating cutting in. He shrugged off his coat and was halfway through reading the memo when a sharp rap on the door interrupted his train of thought.

‘Yes?’ he spoke tetchily, peering over the top of his spectacles. ‘Who is it?’

Tony O’Sullivan pushed open the door. Charlie ripped off his spectacles and flung them down on the desk.

‘I gather you picked up my call, sir.’

‘Who lost him this time, Tony? I’ll have his guts for garters!’

‘McGinley was tailing him at the time. But it wasn’t his fault. McFarlane and McWilliam worked a switch.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Charlie gripped the edge of his desk and pulled himself to his full height. ‘What the hell’s the matter with McGinley? Didn’t he realise they were liable to pull a flanker?’

‘It was a filthy night, sir. McFarlane and McWilliam went into a pub in the High Street in Paisley where they must’ve swapped clothes. They headed back towards McWilliam’s flat, then split up. McGinley suspected they were up to something, but he didn’t spot the switch. He had to decide who to follow and he got it wrong.’

‘Christ, it’s not that difficult. You follow the one with the fucking big scar down the side of his face. What could be simpler than that?’

O’Sullivan stood with head bowed and bit his bottom lip. He knew from years of bitter experience that the worst thing he could do right now would be to try to defend McGinley’s mistake. Attempting to explain that McFarlane and McWilliam both had their faces covered by anorak hoods would only prolong the tirade.

Charlie ranted on for a while before flopping back down on his chair. Picking up his spectacles, he twirled them round in his fingers. ‘Well get this. Just as I was about to leave for home last night, I got a call from Michael Gibson to tell me he’d found his wife’s body – again. Only this time it wasn’t suicide – she’d been murdered. Tied to the bed in their bedroom and her throat slashed.’

O’Sullivan’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You have got to be kidding.’

‘If only. But it was the same old story. I rushed across to his flat, but there was no sign of a body – no evidence of a disturbance of
any kind. He must have been hallucinating. Just to be on the safe side, send a forensic team across to Dalgleish Tower this morning. Tell them to crawl over the Gibsons’ bedroom. The usual stuff – any sign of violence, any traces of blood on the floor or the bed, etc. It’s going to be a complete waste of time, but we need to confirm it. Get someone to talk to the caretaker and the other residents – there aren’t that many – in case anyone saw or heard anything suspicious last night.’

‘Has Gibson lost it completely?’

Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s playing games with us. Maybe he’s murdered his wife and he’s trying to throw up a smokescreen.’

‘Or maybe she’s walked out on him and he’s having a breakdown,’ O’Sullivan suggested.

‘There are too many maybes for my liking.’ Charlie folded his spectacles and slid them inside their case. ‘And to crown a perfect day yesterday,’ he added, ‘I had Niggle on my back bending my ear about our lack of progress on Anne Gibson’s disappearance. He’s going to love this morning’s update. A reported suicide without a corpse turns into a reported murder without a corpse – and we lose Jack McFarlane into the bargain – for the second time.’

The office soon warmed up. Charlie immersed himself in his paperwork, time passing quickly as he steadily reduced his in-tray. Just after nine o’clock his intercom buzzed. ‘It’s Pauline, sir. I’ve spoken to Dr McCartney’s secretary. He’s had a cancellation for ten o’clock this morning. Is that too soon for you?’

‘The sooner the better. Confirm with McCartney’s secretary that I’ll take that slot, then call the Marriott and leave a message for Michael Gibson. Tell him I’ll pick him up outside the main entrance at quarter to ten.’

By the time Charlie had emptied his in-tray it was half past nine. As he stood up to pull on his coat his intercom buzzed.

‘Superintendent Hamilton would like you to go up to his office straight away, sir.’ Charlie mumbled under his breath. ‘Pardon, sir?’

‘I said you just missed me, Pauline. I left the office five minutes ago.’

‘Er… yes, sir.’ Pauline sounded taken aback. ‘Five minutes ago…’

Just before ten o’clock, Charlie and Michael Gibson walked up to the psychiatrist’s reception desk, their footsteps making no sound on the red, thick-pile carpet. ‘We have an appointment with Dr McCartney,’ Charlie said.

The receptionist consulted her desk-diary. ‘Detective Inspector Anderson?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you’d care to take a seat, gentlemen.’ She indicated the row of black leather armchairs opposite. ‘I’ll let Dr McCartney know you’re here.’

They had been seated for only a few minutes when the receptionist called across. ‘He can see you now.’

Charlie strained to lever his bulky frame from the narrow chair and led the way down the corridor. He knocked discreetly on McCartney’s door and entered the oak-panelled office. Stephen McCartney, a tall, casually dressed man in his mid-forties, rose from behind his desk to greet them. He had a muscular build and his face was deeply tanned from his recent skiing holiday.

‘How are you keeping, Charlie? It must be at least a year since I last saw you.’

‘I’m fine, Stephen. This is Michael Gibson.’ McCartney smiled welcomingly as he took Michael’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Michael’s had a traumatic time of it over the past few days,’ Charlie explained. ‘His wife, Anne, has disappeared without trace and he’s had two bizarre experiences. Last Wednesday he imagined she’d committed suicide, then last night he imagined she’d being murdered. I thought it would be useful if he talked to you.’ McCartney nodded. ‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Charlie said, turning to leave.

‘Wait a minute,’ Michael said hesitantly. ‘Would it be possible for you to stay? Would that be all right, doctor? If Charlie were to stay?’

‘No problem from my point of view.’

‘Could you stay, Charlie? You’ve been through all this with me. I’d really like you to stick around.’

Charlie looked enquiringly at McCartney. ‘Is that a good idea?’

‘It might be helpful. If you’ve already heard Michael’s story, it could be useful to know if his recall of the events remains consistent – whether or not his memory’s playing tricks on him.’

‘If it might be of help, sure, I can stay.’ Charlie conjured up a mental image of Niggle sitting behind his desk – pursed lips sucking hard on his teeth – spindly fingers tapping rhythmically on his desk. ‘I’m in no rush to get back to the office.’ Pulling off his coat, he took the chair against the far wall.

‘Lie down and try to relax,’ McCartney said. Michael stretched out full-length on the couch. ‘I’d like to record our conversation, if that’s okay?’ Michael nodded. McCartney leaned across and activated his recording device. ‘Before we discuss what happened, tell me a bit about your wife; her personality, her interests – anything that comes to mind.’

‘Where do I begin? Anne was a couple of years younger than me. Convent educated, conservative, strait-laced in many ways – but she was fiercely determined about things that mattered to her. When things were going her way she was all sweetness and light, but if crossed, she could be a real vixen.’

‘How would you describe your marriage?’

‘We were together for more than twenty years. We met while we were at Glasgow University where she was studying European History. I was actually dating her sister at the time and it was she who introduced me to Anne. Anne got me involved in the University drama club, which was one of her passions. She was very talented, both in the production side of things and in acting. We started going out together and we soon fell head over heels in love. She was only nineteen at the time. Unfortunately, I got her pregnant. I wanted her to have an abortion, but she wouldn’t hear of it – strict Catholic upbringing and all that. So I married her. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.’

‘So she had the child?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have any other children?’

‘No. Just Paul. He’s grown-up now. Or I should say, he’s twenty-one. I wouldn’t say ‘grown-up’ is a good way to describe him.’

‘During the time you’ve been married, have you had any affairs?’

Michael hesitated. ‘That depends on what you call an affair. I had a couple of one night stands a while back, but the only thing I would really describe as an ‘affair’ would be my relationship with Philippa.’

‘Who is Philippa?’

‘A girl I’ve been seeing for the past year.’

‘Did your wife know about her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she know about your one night stands?’

‘She knew about one of them.’

‘And your wife? Did she have any affairs?’

‘Not that I know of. She could have, I suppose, though I wouldn’t have thought that likely.’

‘Despite your infidelity, would you describe your marriage as stable?’

‘Up until a few weeks ago, yes. Then I told Anne I was going to leave her. She blew up. She refused point-blank to even discuss the subject. She hardly spoke to me after that. We continued to live in the same apartment, but we led completely separate lives. She preferred to continue with a complete sham of a marriage rather than let me leave her.’

‘How did you react to that? Did you feel resentful?’

‘I was very angry. I desperately wanted to be with Philippa.’

‘Why didn’t you just walk out?’

‘Anne was… she was threatening me.’

‘With what?’

‘She had a hold over me.’ Michael looked anxiously at the recording machine and then across to where Charlie was seated. ‘I’d rather not say anything more about that.’

‘Okay, let’s move on. Tell me about the suicide incident.’

‘Last Wednesday, when I came home from work, I parked my car in the underground garage and took the lift. When I arrived at my floor, the apartment door was wide open. Brutus – that’s Anne’s cat – was out in the hall, miaowing noisily. I wasn’t expecting Anne to be home. Wednesday’s one of her bridge nights. I called her name out several times, but there was no response. I could see there was a light on in the main bedroom – the door was ajar. I thought there must be a burglar in the apartment so I picked up a walking stick from the hallstand and crept towards the bedroom.

‘Then I saw her – lying face up on the bed. There was an empty tumbler by her side. There was a half-full water pitcher on the bedside table and an empty pill jar on the bed. Her eyes were closed. She was pale, but she looked very peaceful.

‘I grabbed a mirror from the dressing table and held it against her lips. It didn’t steam up. She wasn’t breathing. I tried to call an ambulance, but my mobile wasn’t able to pick up a signal and the phone in the bedroom was dead. I was in a state of panic. I went down to the garage and drove as fast as I could to Pitt Street, to police headquarters. I couldn’t think what else to do. Charlie came back to the apartment with me but – and this is the incredible thing – when we got there, there was nothing. Anne’s body wasn’t there.’

‘Tell me about the bedroom. Apart from Anne’s body lying on the bed, was everything else normal?’

Michael looked perplexed. ‘What do you mean by ‘normal’?’

‘Was everything else as you would have expected to find it? For example, were the curtains open or drawn?’

Michael thought for a moment while he pictured the scene in his mind. ‘Drawn, I think. Yes, I’m pretty sure they were drawn.’

‘You said your mobile couldn’t pick up a signal. Could your battery have been flat?’

‘No. It was fine not long after, when Charlie came back with me to the flat.’

‘And you said the phone in the bedroom was dead. Was it in its usual place?’

‘Yes, on the bedside table, at my side of the bed.’

‘Were the phone wires cut?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t check. When there was no dialling tone, I just dropped the receiver and ran out.’

‘Can you remember what Anne was wearing?’

‘Yes. A white blouse and a green leather skirt.’

McCartney got to his feet and paced up and down the room. ‘The next part will be difficult for you, Michael. I’m going to ask you to tell me what happened last night, when you thought Anne had been murdered. Do you feel up to it?’ Michael nodded and closed his eyes. ‘Go ahead then, in your own time.’

‘It all started just as before.’ Michael’s tongue flicked over his lips. ‘I came home from the office around seven o’clock. When I got out of the lift the apartment door was wide open and the cat was out in the hall, screeching its head off. I felt like I was reliving a bad dream. I called out, but there was no reply. I didn’t go to the hallstand for a stick. There was no need. I knew there wasn’t a burglar in the apartment.