Double Mortice (14 page)

Dusk was falling by the time Charlie pulled up outside Philippa Scott’s apartment block. A glass door had been installed at the entry to the Victorian tenement building and on the right-hand side of the door there was a row of buzzers alongside a list of names and floor numbers. Peering at the list, Charlie pressed the buzzer beside the name ‘Scott’.

There was a long delay before the intercom was activated.

‘Is that Miss Scott?’ Charlie spoke into the intercom. ‘Miss Philippa Scott?’

‘Yes. Who are you? What do you want?’

‘DCI Anderson – Glasgow CID. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘What about?’

‘Anne Gibson.’

‘I’ve already spoken to two of your officers.’

‘I realise that.’

‘Can’t this be done later? It’s not convenient right now. I’m getting ready to go out. I’m being picked up in half an hour.’

‘It’s important. I won’t keep you any longer than necessary.’

Philippa hesitated. ‘Oh, very well. If you must. It’s the third floor’

When the door release buzzer sounded, Charlie pushed it open. The building had no lift and he was wheezing by the time he’d climbed the stairs. He took out his warrant card and showed it to Philippa as she opened her apartment door. She was wearing a loose-fitting silk dressing gown and her hair was wrapped in a bath towel.

Charlie stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Philippa led the way to the lounge where she indicated a chair. ‘I don’t know how I can help you.’ She stood by the window, towelling her hair vigorously. ‘I’ve already told your men everything I know.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some serious news. Anne Gibson’s body has been found.’

Philippa stopped towelling her hair. ‘Was she –?’ She broke off.

‘Was she – murdered?’ Charlie offered. ‘Is that what you were about to ask?’

Philippa nodded, wide-eyed.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh my God!’ The towel slid from Philippa’s fingers as she clasped both hands to her face. ‘How? Where?’

‘Her throat was cut. Her body was found this morning in a copse near Paisley.’ Charlie paused to let the news sink in. ‘You told my officers that you and Michael Gibson split up several weeks ago?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Have you seen or heard from him since?’

‘I haven’t had any contact with him. I told your men that.’

‘That all sounds very final, considering that only a few weeks ago he was about to leave his wife so he could be with you.’

‘That’s water under the bridge. It’s all over between Michael and me.’

‘But with Anne no longer… How can I put this delicately? No longer… standing in the way. Won’t that change things?’

‘For God’s sake! What a horrible thing to say.’ Philippa thumped her fist down on the back of the settee. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Michael and I are no longer an item.’

‘Are you seeing anyone else?’

Philippa’s voice shook with temper. ‘I don’t see how that’s any of your damned business.’

‘Anything that might be connected with Anne Gibson’s death is my business.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this. You don’t have a warrant. You’ve no right to barge in here making totally unfounded insinuations. I’d like you to leave, Inspector – this very minute.’

Charlie stood up. ‘As you wish.’

Charlie turned up his jacket collar and belted his coat tightly as he huddled in the shadows of the apartment block opposite. He’d been waiting for almost half an hour when a red Ferrari drew up and a young man jumped out, pressed a buzzer, then disappeared into the building. He was tallish and Charlie could see his hair was tied back in a ponytail, but it was too dark to make out his features. Ten minutes later he reappeared with Philippa. Charlie jotted down the car registration number. He remained in the shadows until the Ferrari had roared off.

The following morning Charlie walked to the corner shop at the end of his street where he bought The Herald and a packet of strong mints. It was a bright, clear day and he was quite looking forward to the trip to Aberdeen. At least he’d be able to relax on the train for a few hours. He strolled back up his drive and turned his key in the lock. ‘I’m back, Kay.’

‘I’m in here!’ Whistling tunelessly, Charlie wandered down the hall to the kitchen where Kay was unfolding the ironing board, a basket of unironed clothes stacked on the chair beside her. ‘Why so cheerful this morning?’ she asked.

‘Because I’ve got a relatively quiet day in prospect.’

‘I hope I’m not about to spoil it for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s some kind of a panic on. Tony O’Sullivan called a couple of minutes ago. He wants you to phone him back straight away.’

Charlie snatched up the phone. ‘What’s up, Tony?’ he demanded
O’Sullivan’s voice was terse. ‘There’s been another murder, sir.’

‘What are you talking about, man? Who’s been murdered?’

‘Paul Gibson.’

‘Paul Gibson! What in the name of God happened?’

‘You asked me to break the news to Paul about his mother’s murder. I didn’t want to do that over the phone, so I went across to his flat a couple of times yesterday afternoon, but he wasn’t around. I drive past his place on the way to work so I stopped off this morning on the off-chance and when I went up to his flat, I found the door wide open. The lock had been forced. I found his body in the bedroom, lying on the bed. His throat had been slashed. His hands and feet were bound with white rope and his mouth was gagged with brown sticky tape.’ There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. ‘Are you still there, sir?’

Charlie spoke in a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m here.’

‘Will you still be going up Aberdeen?’

Charlie paused to collect his thoughts. ‘I think I have to. I need to talk to the Jacksons and find out what the hell Anne Gibson was up to. You take charge of things here. I’ll get back from Aberdeen as quickly as I can. We’ll meet up later this afternoon in my office. Tell Renton to be there. We need a council of war.’

Charlie climbed aboard the train and took a seat opposite a teenage girl with a crying infant in her arms. He eyed the baby nervously, wondering if it might cry all the way to Aberdeen.

Charlie balanced his briefcase on his knees and flicked it open, pulling out a folder of papers. He put on his glasses and scanned the
first memo, but by the time he got to the end of the first paragraph, he realised he’d taken nothing in. Going back to the top of the page, he started reading again slowly.

The rhythmic motion of the train and the warmth of the carriage were soporific. His eyelids were heavy and he allowed them to droop. His chin came to rest on his chest.

The girl with the infant tapped Charlie on the shoulder. He awoke with a start. ‘We’re in Aberdeen, mister. If you don’t get off now you’ll be back in Glasgow before you know it.’

It was half-past eleven when Charlie stepped off the train. He had a stiff back and there was a crick in his neck. He walked as briskly as he could to the end of the platform, twisting and stretching his spine as he went to try to loosen his knotted muscles. At the ticket barrier, he saw a uniformed officer scanning the faces of the passengers pouring off the train.

Charlie waved to him. ‘Sergeant Hudd?’ He nodded. ‘DCI Anderson,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘I didn’t know so many people commuted from Glasgow to Aberdeen. The train was packed.’

‘Would you like a coffee before we go to see the Jacksons?’

‘If we have time, I could murder one, but I do need to catch the 14.05 back to Glasgow.’

‘We should be okay,’ Hudd said, checking his watch. ‘I told Mr Jackson to expect us around twelve. We’ve got time to grab a quick coffee in the buffet.’

Charlie appreciated the warmth of the cup as he cradled it in both hands while sipping at his drink.

When he’d finished his coffee, Hudd checked his watch. ‘Time we were making a move, sir.’

‘What state are the Jacksons in?’ Charlie asked as they were walking towards Hudd’s car which was parked just outside the station entrance.

‘Not good. Mrs Jackson, in particular. She took the news very badly.’

‘I’m afraid there’s worse to come.’

‘Sir?’

‘I heard this morning that there’s been another murder. The Jacksons’ grandson, Paul Gibson, has been murdered.’

‘Good grief!’

‘What do you think? Should we break the news about Paul to the Jacksons today?’

Hudd looked dubious. ‘I think we should take medical advice before doing that. I’m not at all sure Mrs Jackson’s heart could stand the shock. She’s already in a bad enough state.’

‘I agree. We’ll say nothing about Paul’s death this morning. But I’m afraid that means you’ll have to discuss it with the medics and decide how and when to break the news to them about their grandson. I have to get back to Glasgow this afternoon.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Hudd said with a heavy sigh.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled up outside the Jacksons’ cottage. Peter Jackson came to the front door, his face waxen and stubbled as if he had neither slept nor shaved. ‘I heard your car coming up the drive,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’

‘Mr Jackson, this is DCI Anderson from Glasgow,’ Hudd said by way of introduction.

Jackson shook Charlie’s proffered hand. ‘Mind your head, Inspector,’ he said, eyeing Charlie’s height. ‘I have to duck to get through the doors in here and I’m only five feet ten.’

Jackson led the way to the lounge, Charlie bowing low as he passed under the lintel. Jean Jackson was sitting on the settee, a black shawl wrapped tightly round her shoulders. She didn’t acknowledge their presence. ‘Jean hasn’t spoken since we got the news about Anne,’ Jackson said quietly.

‘I’m sorry to intrude at a time like this, but I’m afraid I do need to ask you some questions.’

‘I understand. Sit down.’

Charlie took out his notebook. ‘When did you last see your daughter?’

‘Last Tuesday morning, the fifteenth. I dropped her off at the station in Aberdeen. She told me she was taking the train to Glasgow and she said she’d be coming back the following day.’

‘Did she say why she was going to Glasgow?’

‘She told me she was going to audition for a part in a production her am-dram group are putting on later this year.’

‘How long had she been staying here, prior to her trip to Glasgow?’

‘Since the previous Thursday, the tenth.’

‘Between the tenth and the fifteenth of March your daughter was reported as missing. There was a nationwide search going on for her. Were you not aware of that?’

‘Of course I was. Her picture was on the television and in all the papers.’

‘What were you playing at, Mr Jackson? Why were you hiding her?’

Jackson paused. ‘You have to understand what was going on. Anne was scared of Michael. Terrified wouldn’t be overstating it. She and Michael hadn’t been hitting it off for some time. That was patently obvious – he didn’t even come up here for her fortieth birthday party.

‘The day she supposedly went missing, she arrived here out of the blue. When I asked her what was going on she told me the reason she’d come here was to escape from Michael. He’d been putting her under intense pressure for some time to agree to a separation – and she was having none of it.

‘The previous evening he’d come home in a raging temper, blind drunk, and had ranted on about leaving her. When she tried to walk out of the room he attacked her – threw her to the ground and kicked her in the stomach. She showed me the bruises. Her rib cage and the small of her back were a mass of black-and-blue. I wanted her to go to the police, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

‘You have to understand what she was like, Inspector. Anne was very strong willed and she was used to getting her own way. She
could twist her mother – and me, for that matter – round her little finger.

‘She said she just needed to get away from Michael for a few days to think things through. She told us to ignore the fuss in the newspapers and on television – she said Michael had orchestrated all that. It would only be for a week or two at most, she said, then everything would be back to normal.’

‘Mr Jackson, did you not realise the seriousness of the situation? My men wasted days searching for your daughter – and all the time she was hiding out here.’

‘I’m sorry. Truly, I am. Jean and I pleaded with her to at least let the police know she was safe – it was such an awful waste of time and money to have those men searching for her. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She could be extremely stubborn.’

Charlie shook his head in exasperation. ‘What did she do while she was here?’

‘Not very much. She spent most of the time in her room, reading and listening to music. She never went out in case anyone saw her.’

‘Did anyone visit her or make contact with her while she was here?’

‘She got a letter, a couple of days after she arrived. It had a Glasgow postmark, but I didn’t recognise the handwriting on the envelope. I think it must have been bad news because she seemed very upset when she read it.’

‘Is the letter still here?’ Charlie asked.

Jackson shook his head. ‘As soon as she’d read it she crumpled it and threw it onto the fire, then she ran upstairs to her room.’

‘Were there any other contacts?’

‘She got a phone call on the morning of the fifteenth – the day she went back down to Glasgow. I answered the phone. The caller was a man, but I didn’t recognise his voice.’

‘So someone knew she was here?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Was the phone call the reason for her return to Glasgow?’

‘Almost certainly – she’d said nothing about going to Glasgow before she received the call. It was strange. Anne didn’t say a single word to the caller. I know that for a fact because I was in the room at the time. She took the phone from me, listened for a few seconds, then hung up and announced she was going to Glasgow.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?’

Jackson shook his head. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you catch the animal that murdered my daughter, Inspector, but that’s all I know.’

Charlie stood up and put away his notebook. ‘Thank you, Mr Jackson. Once again, I’m sorry to have intruded on your grief.’

Jackson led the way to the front door. Waiting until they were in the hall, out of his wife’s earshot, he spoke in a hushed voice. ‘Do you have any idea who did this, Inspector?’

‘There are some leads we’re following up, but nothing concrete.’

‘It was Michael, wasn’t it?’

Charlie looked him straight in the eye. ‘I understand you’re upset, but why do you say that?’

‘Anne told me he threatened to kill her if she refused to give him his freedom. There’s insanity in the Gibson family. You mark my words, Inspector. Michael’s father went mad and Michael’s gone the same way.’

There was a line of taxis waiting in the rank outside Queen Street station. Charlie got into the cab at the head of the queue and arrived back in Pitt Street just before six o’clock to find O’Sullivan and Renton waiting for him in his office, O’Sullivan in an obvious state of agitation.

‘There’s been an almighty cock-up, sir!’ O’Sullivan blurted out as soon as Charlie walked in. ‘Paul Gibson’s not dead.’

‘What?’

‘The news has just come through. Apparently it’s one of his friends who’s been murdered. A bloke called Gordon Parker.’

‘What the hell are you on about?’

‘I told you this morning that I’d found a body in Paul Gibson’s bed. A young guy – early twenties – long hair. I’d never actually met Paul – I just assumed it had to be him. However, this afternoon the forensic boys were in the flat, taking photographs and prints, when Paul breezed in, large as life, wanting to know what was going on. It transpires that he spent last night in Edinburgh. He’d been through there rehearsing with his mates and he’d given a key to his flat to Gordon Parker so Parker could spend the night there with his girlfriend. Apparently Paul often let Parker use the flat when he wasn’t coming home because Parker and his bird both live with their parents and they don’t get many opportunities to shack up together.’

‘You do realise,’ Charlie said, shaking his head in disbelief, ‘that I was within a whisker of telling the Jacksons that their grandson had been murdered – and that the shock might have killed Mrs Jackson?’ O’Sullivan stood grim-faced. ‘Do we know when Parker was killed?’ Charlie asked.

‘Around seven o’clock this morning.’

‘And the girlfriend? Where was she?’

‘I’ve spoken to her. Her name’s Maureen Donnelly. She’s a nurse in the Western. She became hysterical when I broke the news. I didn’t manage to get much sense out of her, other than the fact she left the flat around six-thirty because she was going on duty at seven. When she left, Parker was fast asleep.’

Charlie pressed his intercom. ‘Pauline, this is urgent, and I mean urgent. Get Sergeant Hudd in Aberdeen on the line. I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing, it’s imperative that I speak to him immediately.’

‘We’ve got another tricky problem on our hands,’ said O’Sullivan.

‘Tell me about it!’

‘Paul Gibson hasn’t been told yet about his mother’s death yet. He’s still in shock after finding out about Parker’s murder. I don’t know if he’s up to handling the news about his mother.’

‘Jesus wept! Neither do I.’ Charlie buried his face in his hands and rubbed hard at his eyes. ‘Where is Paul now?’

‘Downstairs. PC Freer’s with him. After I took his statement, I suggested he stay here for a while. I reckoned that if Parker’s murder was a case of mistaken identity – if the killer’s intended victim was really Paul – it might be better if he stayed away from his flat for the time being.’

Charlie grunted his agreement. He open his desk diary to check a number, then picked up the phone and dialled. A female voice answered. ‘This is Inspector Anderson. Would it be possible for me to speak to Dr McCartney?’

‘He told me a few minutes ago that he was about to go home, but I haven’t seen him leave the building yet. If you hold on, I’ll check if he’s still in his office.’ Charlie drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk while he waited. ‘You’re in luck. He’s still here. I’ll put you through.’

‘Stephen, I’m glad I caught you. There’s been a development in the Gibson case and I need your advice. Would it be possible for you to stop off at Pitt Street on your way home?’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

As soon as Charlie hung up, the phone rang. ‘I’ve got Sergeant Hudd on the line for you,’ Pauline said.

‘Hudd? This is Anderson. Have you broken the news about Paul Gibson’s death to the Jacksons?’

‘Not yet, sir. The doctor recommended that –’

‘Thank Christ for that!’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘There’s been a case of mistaken identity, Sergeant. Paul Gibson isn’t dead. I’ll explain to you later what happened. In the meantime say nothing to the Jacksons about another murder.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. That’s a hell of a relief. That was one job I really was not looking forward to.’