Double Mortice (16 page)

Charlie carried across his coffee and sat down on the bench seat beside her. ‘It’s good of you to see me on a Saturday. I’ll be as brief
as I can. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I’m hoping you might be able to straighten out a few things in my mind.’ Charlie paused while he stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. ‘We’re talking purely hypothetically, you understand.’ Susan nodded her assent. ‘If I were to take the case of, for example, an advocate who felt he’d let down a client. Do you think that would be enough to induce a nervous breakdown?’

‘Probably not in itself, though it could be a contributory factor.’

‘What else might it take?’

‘Perhaps personal problems – family problems – that sort of thing.’

‘Such as?’

Susan hesitated. ‘How important is this?’ She spoke tersely. ‘I’m not in the habit of going into such details.’

‘I wouldn’t be asking if lives weren’t at stake. It is that critical.’

She took a sip of mineral water. ‘Very well. As long as it’s clearly understood that we’re talking in complete confidence.’ Charlie nodded. ‘Let me paint a scenario for you. Imagine that our hypothetical advocate’s wife has gone away for the weekend to a bridge congress and he’s arranged an assignation with an old girlfriend, who happens to be his wife’s sister.’

‘Her sister!’

Susan nodded. ‘He gives his nine year-old son extra pocket money to go to the cinema with his pal. However, the boy forgets his money and when he runs back home to get it, he hears a noise coming from his parents’ bedroom. He walks in unannounced and finds them together.’

‘Actually sees his father screwing his aunt?’

‘Maybe he sees something even more traumatic. Something a bit kinky.’ Charlie raised an eyebrow. ‘The girl, naked, spread-eagled, tied to the bed.’

The coffee spoon fell from Charlie’s grasp.

‘Nothing aggressive or violent, you understand. She’s an old flame from his university days – a more than willing participant,
enjoying every minute of it. In fact the bondage game was initially her idea, but he finds it incredibly exciting. The feeling of power and domination turns him on enormously. When the son bursts into the bedroom he sees his father lying naked on the bed, fondling his aunt’s breasts. The boy stands frozen, wide-eyed in the doorway, his gaze locked onto his father’s erect penis, already encased in a condom.

‘The boy screams: ‘Stop it, Daddy! Stop it! Don’t hurt Aunt Carole!’ He rushes off to his room and locks himself inside. It takes the father the best part of two hours to coax him out. He tries to explain to the child that he hadn’t been hurting Carole – that they’d only been playing a game.

‘But it’s when he tries to make the boy promise never to mention this game to his mother that he realises he’s lost his son. A wedge has been driven between them. The child used to hero worship his father, but his respect for him crumbles and disintegrates. The sparkle of unquestioning trust dies in the boy’s eyes as he sits, tight-lipped, steadfastly refusing to make the promise.

‘His aunt becomes hysterical. She pleads with him to promise not to say anything to his mother. She even gets down on her knees and begs him. The boy starts wailing. Eventually, he makes the promise, then runs out of the house in floods of tears.

‘Over the next few days, the child doesn’t say a word to his father. The father tries to bribe his way back into his son’s affections by buying him the expensive baseball bat he’d been hankering after for months, but when he takes it to him the boy won’t even acknowledge the gift. The father leaves the bat on top of his son’s bookcase. Weeks go by and the boy still won’t go anywhere near it. He doesn’t even unwrap it from its polythene sleeve. Every time the father goes into the child’s bedroom, the bat is lying in exactly the same position. The permanent reminder – the rejected thirty pieces of silver – the phallic symbol of an engorged penis wrapped in a sheath.

‘The incident has a traumatic effect on the father. His work suffers dramatically – he loses his power of concentration. He spends
every waking minute fretting about whether the son will tell his mother about the incident, but his wife never gives any indication of having found out. He’s torn in two. He consults a psychiatrist who recommends him to confess everything to his wife in order to have a basis for re-establishing credibility with his son. Objectively, he agrees with the advice, but he can’t bring himself to tell her what happened.

‘Having previously tried to interest his wife in mild bondage games to enliven their sex life, he knows how much the very idea disgusts her. He shudders to think how she would react if she ever found out he had allowed their son to witness him indulging his fantasies with her sister. In the event, he does nothing – never broaches the subject again – neither with his wife nor his son. Time doesn’t heal. In the months that follow the mental anguish builds up. The boy becomes introverted and withdrawn. From being good at sports and a high achiever at school, he loses interest in everything and falls behind his peers. The wife’s sister is totally traumatised by what happened – to the extent that she applies for a teaching job in Canada because she can’t handle the way her godson looks at her every time he sees her.

‘The mother becomes concerned about her son’s welfare and she wants to consult a psychiatrist to try to find out what’s wrong with him, but the father dismisses the idea, telling her the boy’s just going through a normal, adolescent phase – while all the time he’s living in constant dread that his son might blurt out what had happened to his mother in a fit of pique over some unrelated, trivial incident.

‘That, Inspector, is the kind of pressure that might induce a breakdown.’

Charlie drained his coffee cup. ‘Jesus wept!’

As soon as Charlie got back to the office he summoned O’Sullivan and Renton. He noticed Sullivan was frowning.

‘Let me bring you up to date,’ Charlie began. ‘This morning I was convinced McFarlane was our man. It was only a matter of smoking him out and gathering the evidence. Now I’m not so sure. It seems that Gibson has been stringing us along with a pack of lies. His secretary told me he was out of his office between four and five-thirty last Tuesday. Ample time to drive to Paisley and back – and commit a murder.

‘You had the clue staring you in the face, Colin,’ Charlie said, turning to Renton. ‘But you missed it. You scoffed at Peter Davies telling you his meeting with Gibson had started at 5.37. Did you not ask him why?’ Renton looked puzzled. ‘Nobody schedules a meeting to start at 5.37,’ Charlie said. ‘It had to be scheduled for 5.30, so why did it start at 5.37?’

‘Davies might’ve turned up late?’ Renton suggested.

Charlie shook his head. ‘Totally out of character for such a precise man.’

‘Gibson’s previous meeting overran?’

‘He didn’t have any other meetings that afternoon.’

‘Gibson got caught short in the bog?’

Charlie laughed. ‘Nice try. Possible, but too much of a coincidence. Never trust coincidences. Facts and probabilities are our only friends. If you’d followed through and asked Davies why the meeting had started late, he’d almost certainly have volunteered the information that Gibson had been out of the office.
But on the other hand,’ Charlie said, rubbing his chin. ‘If Gibson did murder his wife, what the hell was McFarlane doing taking a taxi to Dalgleish Tower? There are too many loose ends, boys. I don’t like it.

‘You’re not looking happy,’ Charlie said, eyeing O’Sullivan’s worried expression. ‘What’s up?’

‘I just had a phone call from PC Chadwick in Partick. He told me that Mrs Donnelly – she’s the mother of Maureen, Gordon Parker’s girlfriend, had been to see him. She was in a right tizz. It seems that Maureen’s gone missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘I went across to the Western yesterday to break the news to her about her boyfriend’s murder. I spoke to her just as she was coming off shift. She insisted on knowing how Parker had been killed, so I told her. She was distraught – verging on hysterical. I offered to give her a lift home, but she said she wanted to walk. She only lives half a mile from the hospital. I watched her go off down the road towards her house, but apparently she never arrived.’

Archie McWilliam swung Jack McFarlane’s tartan holdall ostentatiously over his shoulder as he loped down Paisley High Street. He was sure he was being followed. Whoever was tracking him would know the holdall belonged to McFarlane and would deduce he was on his way to meet him. That would make it all the more satisfying for him, and frustrating for his tail, when he gave him the slip.

He checked his watch. Twenty-four minutes past five. Bang on schedule. The High Street was crowded with Saturday afternoon shoppers spilling out onto the pavement. McWilliam maintained a steady pace, weaving his way through the throng, knowing his tail would have no problem keeping up with him – and no problem staying hidden. That was fine. This wasn’t the time or place to make his move. He turned left before
Paisley Cross and strode down Moss Street towards Gilmour Street station.

When he walked into the station, he saw there were two people queuing at each of the three ticket booths. Ideal. He made a pretence of studying the departures board, although he knew the Paisley to Glasgow timetable like the back of his hand. The next train to Glasgow Central was the five thirty-six, leaving from platform 1.

As the town hall clock started chiming the half-hour, he joined one of the queues, fidgeting at first, then calling out loudly to the woman at the front to hurry up. He glanced towards the station entrance but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. When he reached the ticket window he pressed his face close to the glass. ‘Single to Glasgow Central, pal. As quick as you can.’ He pushed the correct money across, grabbed his ticket and ran up the staircase leading to the platforms.

Platform 1 was at the top of another flight of steps at the far end of the concrete corridor. His footsteps rang out as he put on a sprint when he heard the train rumbling to a halt above his head. Several people were hurrying to catch this train; breaking into a trot when they heard the engine apply its brakes. Which one of them was tailing him? When he reached the platform, he ran towards the back of the train while most of the other late passengers scrambled towards the nearest compartments. He pulled a carriage door open wide and clambered on board, then closed the door and wrenched down the window, watching while the guard checked everyone was safely on board. The piercing whistle sounded and the train started to trundle forward.

McWilliam waited until they had gathered some momentum, then he flung open the carriage door and jumped down onto the platform. The guard, leaning out of his window, swore at him and shook an angry fist. McWilliam stood chortling. He gave a flamboyant two-fingered salute to the guard – and to whoever else might be staring back at him in frustration.

Swinging the holdall over his shoulder, he skipped down the steps and out of the station. He jumped into the taxi at the head of the rank. ‘Govan Cross Subway, Jimmy,’ he announced as he pulled the cab door shut. ‘Put your foot down.’ He smiled contentedly as the taxi sped off.

McWilliam watched out of the rear window throughout the fifteen minute journey to Govan. Although he saw no sign of being followed, he couldn’t be sure he was in the clear. He was confident he’d shaken off whoever had followed him on to the train, but it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that someone else had been detailed to monitor the taxi rank.

He got out the cab at Govan Cross and paid his fare. Hurrying to the subway station, he bought a ticket and slipped it through the barrier before trotting down the staircase to the Inner Circle platform. While waiting for a train to arrive, he sat on the bottom step and studied the face of everyone who came down after him. Only half a dozen passengers had appeared by the time the train pulled in. Of these, none looked suspicious and only two were remote possibilities. He boarded the train near the front and stood beside the doors, waiting for the warning beep to sound. As soon as the doors started to close he stepped from the train onto the empty platform. He watched the faces through the windows as the train quickly gathered speed and rushed past him into the tunnel. He thought he detected a look of anger in the eyes of one of the men who’d followed him down to the platform. Perhaps he’d imagined it. No matter, he was confident he was now in the clear. Grinning broadly, he punched the air in triumph as he crossed to the Outer Circle platform. A train arrived almost immediately and he got on board.

McWilliam alighted at Hillhead. When he emerged from the subway station, darkness had already fallen. He bought a copy of the Evening Times from a street vendor. Crossing Byres Road, he turned up Dowanside Road, cut across Caledon Street to Highburgh
Road and from there he walked towards The Rock, the pub where he had his rendezvous with McFarlane.

He continued past the pub, almost as far as the Clarence Drive traffic lights, then spun on his heel and froze, looking for any tell-tale movement; anyone stopping suddenly, turning away, trying to hide in the shadows. There was nothing suspicious. Checking his watch, he saw he was twenty minutes early.

He retraced his steps and went into the lounge bar, where he ordered a pint of heavy and a large whisky, carrying his drinks across to an empty booth. He swallowed the whisky in two gulps and shook the dregs into his beer. He unfolded the Evening Times and turned to the sports results, cursing when he saw that St Mirren had lost. He had almost finished his pint when he saw Jack McFarlane enter the lounge. He stood up and waved.

‘Same again, Archie,’ Jack shouted across, pointing to the empty glasses on the table in front of him. McWilliam nodded in confirmation, holding up a thumb and forefinger spaced wide apart to indicate he was drinking doubles. McFarlane ordered at the bar and asked a waitress to bring the drinks across. ‘First things first, Archie. How did Thistle get on?’

‘I didn’t check their result. But St Mirren lost two-one at home.’

‘See’s the paper, then.’ McFarlane flicked to the sports pages. ‘A one-each draw at Motherwell. No’ bad, eh? Is it no’ about time you gave up supportin’ St Mirren and started to follow a decent team?’

McFarlane dodged the playful punch that came his way, bumping into the waitress in the process and causing one of the pints on her tray to wobble. ‘Sorry about that, dear. My fault entirely. Don’t worry about the pint that got shoogled. It was his.’ McFarlane smiled as he gave the waitress a generous tip.

‘Any problem getting here?’

‘Not at all. I enjoyed myself. I used the ‘steppin’ aff the train’ routine twice. It was just like the auld days.’

‘Thanks for bringin’ that, by the way,’ McFarlane said, eyeing his holdall.

‘How’ve you been getting’ on? Did you find somewhere to kip down?’

‘I’m stayin’ at Larry Robertson’s place. That’s why I suggested we meet here. He lives just round the corner in one of them flash, detached houses in Turnberry Road. He’s got it done out real nice. As they say, there’s no such thing as a poor bookie.’

‘Have you been able to get things sorted out?’

‘There was a wee hiccup yesterday, which might delay things for a day or two, but I’m still hopin’ to get everythin’ done in time to head back down to London next week.’

Michael Gibson thumbed through the notes in his wallet while waiting his turn in the slow-moving queue for the cashpoint. He counted a hundred and eighty pounds. He stuffed his wallet back into his inside jacket pocket and turned up his collar, both to protect his neck from the drizzle and to obscure his features from the people lined up behind him. When he eventually got to the head of the queue, he slipped his card into the slot. It seemed to take an age before a message appeared, requesting him to enter his PIN. Why was the machine responding so slowly? His imagination started running riot. Had the police instigated a check on his card? Had his account been blocked? Was a signal being transmitted at this very moment to the police, identifying where he was?

Glancing anxiously over his shoulder, he tapped in his number. The machine paused for what seemed like an eternity, before a dimly-lit message appeared on the screen. He bent forward and squinted at the display. ‘PIN invalid’, he read. ‘Do you wish to cancel or retry?’

He shook his head to try to clear his befuddled brain. He was sure he’d typed in the correct number. Was this a ruse to keep him here while a squad car was speeding across the city to intercept him? The queue behind was muttering impatiently as the drizzle gave way to a squally shower. Peals of thunder rolled in the far
distance and large raindrops came plopping down, bouncing high from the wet pavement. He felt the eyes drilling into the back of his skull as he pressed ‘re-try’. Licking his lips, he carefully re-entered his code. Again it seemed to take an inordinately long time before a message appeared asking how much he wanted to withdraw. He selected three hundred pounds and hopped from one foot to the other while he listened to the slow, mechanical counting of the money. Whipping out his card, he grabbed the notes as soon as they appeared and stumbled off down the street.

Having stopped off at an off licence to buy a half-bottle of whisky, Michael headed for Sauchiehall Street, shaking the rain from his sodden jacket as he entered the Lorne Hotel. He walked the length of the lounge bar, scanning the faces of all the customers. There was no sign of McGurk. Choosing an empty table at the far end of the bar, he ordered a whisky. He picked up the newspaper he found lying on an adjacent chair and held it up in front of his face, sipping at his drink and continually checking his watch. McGurk was late. Had something gone wrong? He put down the paper and caught the waitress’s eye. ‘Same again, please.’

She brought his drink across on a tray and set a bowl of peanuts down on the table in front of him. He shovelled a handful into his mouth. Realising this was the first thing he’d eaten all day, he wolfed his way through the bowlful, washing them down with whisky. How long should he give McGurk? He was already half an hour late. Five more minutes, he decided. He couldn’t risk sitting here any longer; someone might recognise him. He picked up the newspaper again and used it to shield his face.

Every time he heard the lounge door open, he stole a glance over the top of the paper. At last, he saw him. Bernie McGurk was in his late fifties, a small, wiry man with lank, grey hair and an unkempt pepper-and-salt beard. His crumpled, ankle-length black coat had seen better days. His left leg was shorter than his right and his shoe was built up to compensate. Despite that, he walked with a pronounced limp.

McGurk waved in Michael’s direction as he shuffled the length of the lounge and sat down opposite him. ‘Long time no see, Mr Gibson. Sorry I’m a wee bit late.’ His smile revealed his unlovely, yellow teeth.

‘What are you drinking?’ Michael asked.

‘Same as yourself, Mr Gibson,’ he replied, nodding towards Michael’s glass. Michael called across the waitress and ordered two more whiskies.

‘Did you manage to get it for me?’ he said in a whisper.

‘Of course.’ McGurk took a large brown envelope from the voluminous inside pocket of his coat and placed it on the empty chair between them. ‘Have you used one of these before?’ he asked in a low voice.

Michael shook his head. McGurk checked to make sure the envelope was out of sight of everyone in the bar before easing the pistol out and placing it on the chair.

‘It’s straightforward. It’s a basic semi-automatic pistol. Safety catch off,’ he said, easing across the switch. ‘Safely catch on.’ He flicked the switch back. ‘Understood?’ Michael nodded. ‘There are six rounds in the clip in the butt. You said that would be enough?’

‘More than enough.’