Double Mortice (13 page)

McCartney buzzed through to his receptionist. ‘When’s my next appointment, Margaret?’

‘One o’clock. A therapy session with Mr McLeod.’

‘Is there anyone else who could see him?’

Margaret perused the diaries. ‘Dr Orr’s available. She’s familiar with Mr McLeod’s case. I could ask her to take the session.’

‘Do that. Something urgent’s cropped up and I have to go out for an hour or so but I’ll be back in time for my two o’clock appointment.’
Police Sergeant Norman Hudd turned off the road into the drive leading to the Jacksons’ cottage. ‘Why do we get all the best jobs, Sharon?’

‘This is the second time this month I’ve had to break the news to parents that their daughter’s been killed,’ Sharon said. ‘It doesn’t get any easier.’

Hudd pulled up outside the cottage and they both got out of the patrol car, their footsteps scrunching on the gravel path as they walked up to the front door. Hudd rang the bell, which clanged noisily. Peter Jackson came to the door.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. I’m Sergeant Hudd and this is Police Constable Hoggard. Could we possibly come in for a minute?’

Jackson looked puzzled. ‘What’s wrong?’

They both took off their caps as they stepped across the threshold. ‘Is Mrs Jackson here, sir? We’d like to speak to her as well.’

‘There is something wrong. It’s about Anne, isn’t it?’ he insisted. ‘It’s something serious.’

‘I’m afraid so, sir. Would you please call your wife?’

‘Jean!’ he shouted. ‘It’s about Anne.’

Jean Jackson appeared in the hall, wiping flour from her hands on her pinafore. ‘What is it, Peter?’ She stopped in her tracks when she saw the two uniformed officers. ‘Oh my God!’ She hurriedly made the sign of the cross. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I think it would be better if you sat down,’ Sharon said, crossing to Jean’s side and taking her by the arm to guide her onto a chair. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news, Mrs Jackson,’ she said quietly.

Hudd took out his notebook. ‘It concerns your daughter, Anne Gibson,’ he intoned gravely. ‘I’m very sorry to have to inform you that… that your daughter is dead.’

Jean Jackson stared blankly at Hudd for a moment, then started screaming hysterically. ‘It’s not true! I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it! No!’

Sharon put her arm around Jean’s shoulder to try to console her. Peter Jackson turned to Hudd. ‘What happened?’ he asked calmly.
‘How did Anne die?’

‘It looks as if she was murdered, sir.’

‘How?’

‘I believe it was knife wounds.’

‘Where was she killed?’

‘Her body was found this morning in some woods near Paisley.’

Peter Jackson stared across at his wife. ‘Jean.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘Jean,’ he repeated forcibly. ‘We’ll have to tell them. They’ll find out soon enough.’

Charlie Anderson and Stephen McCartney went up to the reception desk in the Marriott where Charlie showed his badge discreetly to the receptionist. ‘Police,’ he said quietly. ‘Who’s the duty manager today?’

‘Mr Graham.’

‘Could I have a word with him?’

‘I’ll get him for you.’

Charlie looked across the lobby towards the open-plan, sunken lounge that ran the full length of the hotel. Leaving McCartney at reception, he walked down the steps to where Colin Renton was sitting on the settee, flicking through a newspaper. ‘Is Gibson still here?’ he asked.

Renton nodded as he folded his paper. ‘He came down to the bar just after eleven o’clock. He’s over there, at the table facing the swimming pool.’ Renton indicated where Michael was sitting, reading a paperback. ‘He’s on his third pint of lager if I’m not mistaken.’

‘You can knock off now, Colin,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll take over.’

Charlie returned to reception as Keith Graham was coming across the lobby.

‘How can I help you?’

‘We need to talk to one of your guests and I’m afraid we’ve got bad news to impart to him. I’d like to do it in private rather than in the bar. Is there a room we could use?’

‘Of course. The office at the far end of the lounge,’ he said, pointing. ‘I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.’

Michael scrambled to his feet when he saw Anderson and McCartney approaching. ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded.

‘Come with us,’ Charlie said, leading the way to the office. ‘It’s bad news, Michael,’ he said, closing the office door behind them. He paused. ‘I’m afraid Anne is dead.’

Michael leaned on the window ledge for support. ‘I knew it,’ he said in barely a whisper. ‘I knew she was dead.’ He stared out of the window. ‘Where was her body found?’

‘In woods on the outskirts of Paisley,’ Charlie said.

‘Really?’ He shrivelled his brow. ‘How did she die?’

McCartney moved across Michael’s line of vision. ‘Exactly as you described, Michael,’ he said.

Michael stared right through McCartney. ‘Of course. Of course.’ He turned towards Charlie – his eyes still focused in the middle distance. ‘You think I killed her.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. Charlie didn’t respond. ‘I had a motive. I wanted to leave Anne and she was digging her heels in. An open and shut case, wouldn’t you say? There are a lot of things I have to do.’ His voice was trance-like as he continued to stare unblinkingly. ‘I’ll have to let Paul know, of course. Then I’ll have to tell Anne’s parents. They live near Aberdeen. They’re going to take the news very badly, especially Mrs Jackson.’

Charlie was about to interrupt but McCartney’s hand on his sleeve restrained him. ‘Let him talk,’ he whispered.

‘Then there’s the people at the bridge club. They’re going to have to be told. As well as the amateur dramatic society.’ Michael glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to find the time to fit all this in. And there’s the cat. Who’s going to take care of the cat? I don’t like cats.’ He started towards the door. ‘I really must go. I have to tell Paul straight away.’

Charlie glanced towards McCartney, who nodded. ‘If you like, we could do that, Michael,’ Charlie offered. ‘We’ve already arranged for someone to break the news to Mr and Mrs Jackson – we could tell Paul as well.’

‘Could you? That would be kind.’ Michael paused and blinked. ‘If you gentlemen would excuse me for a minute. I’ve been drinking lager all morning. I’ll burst if I don’t go to the bathroom.’

Charlie and McCartney accompanied Michael to the toilets and waited for him outside.

‘Where do we go from here, Stephen?’ Charlie asked.

‘That depends on what action you’re planning to take. Are you going to arrest him?’

‘I’ll certainly have to take him in for questioning. We’ve got to get to the bottom of where and when he saw his wife’s corpse.’

‘Don’t rush him. Take him in, by all means. In fact, it would be better if he wasn’t left on his own right now. But don’t pressurise him too much, especially during the next twenty-four hours. Whether or not he did it, he’s right on the edge.’ McCartney looked at his watch. ‘Can you handle things on your own from here, Charlie? I really do need to get back to the office.’

‘Sure. Thanks for your help.’

As McCartney was leaving, Michael emerged from the toilets.

‘I’d like you come with me to Pitt Street, Michael.’

‘Of course, Charlie.’ Michael’s voice was still dreamlike. ‘There are lots of things we need to get organised. Would it be okay if I go up to my room to collect my things?’

‘Sure. I’ll come with you.’

They crossed the foyer and Charlie held down the button to summon the lift. ‘What floor is it?’ he asked as the doors opened.

‘Number four.’

They went inside the lift and Charlie pressed the button for floor four. As the doors were closing, Michael stepped out into the foyer.

Charlie stomped into his office and slammed the door behind him. Stripping off his coat, he threw it onto the desk and collapsed in his chair. He flicked the intercom. ‘Find Tony O’Sullivan, Pauline. I need to see him straight away.’

‘I’m glad you’re back, sir,’ O’Sullivan said as he breezed into the office. ‘There’s been a development.’

‘Fire away.’

‘It’s concerning McFarlane. You recall that he gave us the slip in Paisley on Tuesday?’

‘How could I ever forget?’

O’Sullivan let the heavy-handed sarcasm wash over him. ‘A taxi driver’s come forward. He picked up someone answering McFarlane’s description in Paisley round about five-thirty – which was just after McGinley lost him. And – wait for it – he asked to be taken to Dalgleish Tower.’

Charlie let out a low whistle. ‘Dalgleish Tower? Tuesday evening? The night Anne Gibson was murdered?’

‘There’s more. I checked with the drivers who service the rank outside Dalgleish Tower. One of them recalls picking up someone answering McFarlane’s description outside the building later that same evening, round about eleven o’clock.’

‘To go where?’

‘He was dropped off in the city centre.’

‘Do we know where he is now?’

O’Sullivan shook his head. ‘He hasn’t been seen since. We’re still
watching McWilliam’s place but he hasn’t been back there.’

‘I want him found.’

‘We’ve got every man we can spare working on it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘That’s it.’

‘I’ve got a couple of things for you. First, there’s the Gibson boy – Paul. He needs to be told that his mother’s body’s been found. Would you handle that? I realise it’s not the nicest job in the world, but someone has to do it.’

‘I suppose so…’

‘You know where he lives?’

‘Yes. Saltoun Street. I dropped Renton off there last week when he went to talk to Paul about his mother’s disappearance.’

‘I want to break the news to Gibson’s girlfriend personally. What did you say her name was?’

‘Philippa Scott.’

‘Have you got her address?’ O’Sullivan reached into his pocket for his notebook and handed across the slip of paper with Philippa’s address and phone number. ‘What impression did you form of her?’ Charlie asked.

‘Sophisticated, intelligent, sexy – a right cracker, in fact. As Renton said – the longest pair of legs you’re ever likely to see. But there was something about her manner that didn’t quite gel. We got the impression she was holding back on something.’

‘One more thing,’ Charlie said. ‘Gibson told me he left his office at six-thirty on Tuesday evening. Get someone to check out what time he arrived in the office that morning – and also find out if he was out of the building at any time during the day. Also, get the word out,’ Charlie added casually, ‘that we’re looking for Gibson. He did a bunk from the Marriott and I want him picked up as soon as possible.’

O’Sullivan looked quizzical. ‘Did a bunk? How could that have happened?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I thought Renton was supposed to be keeping an eye on him?’

‘Renton didn’t lose him,’ Charlie growled. ‘I bloody-well did. Gibson told me he wanted to go up to his room to get his things. I went into the lift with him, then the bastard stepped out just as the doors were closing. By the time I fumbled around to find the button to hold the lift doors open, I was halfway to the first floor.’

‘Unlucky, sir.’ O’Sullivan did his best to suppress a grin. ‘Could have happened to anyone.’

‘I’m warning you, if one word of this gets out around the office I’ll have your stripes.’

‘My lips are sealed.’

‘Get out of here.’

As O’Sullivan was leaving, Charlie’s intercom buzzed. ‘Two messages for you, sir,’ Pauline said. ‘Sergeant McLaughlin from forensics would like to see you urgently. It’s regarding Anne Gibson’s autopsy. And there was a call from a Sergeant Hudd in Aberdeen. He asked if you would phone him back as soon as possible.’

‘What it is to be popular,’ Charlie sighed. ‘Tell Eddie he can come over now, then try to get Hudd on the phone for me.’

Pauline buzzed back straight away with Hudd on the line.

‘A bit of a strange one for you, sir. It’s about the Gibson case.’

‘Go on.’

‘I drew the short straw this morning. I got the job of breaking the news of Anne Gibson’s murder to her parents, Mr and Mrs Jackson. As you’d expect, they were distraught when they heard the news. However, it transpires that, during the period Anne Gibson was supposedly missing – that’s to say, from Thursday March 10th until Tuesday March 15th – she wasn’t missing at all. According to Mr Jackson, she was hiding out at her parents’ house near Aberdeen.’

‘What?’

‘She told her parents she needed to get away from her husband and she didn’t want him to know where she was.’

‘I don’t understand any of this, Sergeant.’ Charlie stopped to consider. ‘I think I’ll need to talk to the Jacksons.’

‘That would certainly be best, sir. I didn’t know what questions to ask.’

‘I’ll come up to Aberdeen as soon as I can. I’ll try to make it tomorrow. I’ll call you back when I’ve set up the arrangements.’

‘Very good, sir. I’ll wait to hear from you.’

Charlie’s thoughts were interrupted by the buzzer. ‘Sergeant McLaughlin is waiting to see you.’

‘Send him in.’

‘What have you got for me, Eddie?’ Charlie asked.

‘The post-mortem confirmed what I told you this morning. Anne Gibson was murdered between four p.m. and eight p.m. on Tuesday. The cause of death was twelve slashes to the throat with a sharp blade – it was a pretty frenzied attack.’

‘Could the wounds have been made by a cut-throat razor?’

‘Possibly. There are severe rope burns on the victim’s wrists and ankles which indicate that she struggled violently before she died. However, there was no sexual assault. And robbery wasn’t the motive either – her watch wasn’t taken and neither were her rings, which must be worth a small fortune. You asked me to establish whether or not the murder took place in the woods.’

‘And?’

‘As I said earlier, it’s not going to be possible to determine that with any degree of certainty. Based on the earth samples I took, I’d say the body was brought to the copse some time after the murder, but that’s just an educated guess, not something that would stand up in a court of law.’

‘Is that it?’

‘A couple more things. There was an inordinate amount of make-up mingled with the blood around her throat – hard to be sure, but it seemed to be some kind of theatrical make-up, mostly red and black. And if you think that’s weird, wait till you hear this. The blood samples I analysed – from her throat, her blouse and her skirt. They’re all a mixture.’

‘What are you talking about, man?’

‘They’re a mixture of bloods – her own blood and animal blood. It appears to be sheep’s blood.’