Double Mortice (17 page)

‘Minimum recoil, so just aim and fire,’ McGurk said slipping the pistol back into the envelope.’

‘Two hundred and fifty, you said?’

‘That’s right.’

Michael put the envelope into his jacket pocket and took out a wad of notes which he pushed under the newspaper lying on the table. ‘It’s all there. You can count it.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it. If I can’t trust a gentleman like you, who can I trust?’ McGurk said, taking the money, which quickly disappeared into his coat pocket. ‘What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about? The thing that was too hush-hush to mention on the phone?’

Michael remained silent while the waitress placed their drinks on the table in front of them. He waited until she was well out of earshot. ‘I need some information. Jack McFarlane’s in town and I want to know where I can find him.’

‘McFarlane?’ Bernie let out a low whistle as he picked up his whisky and swilled it round the glass. ‘He’s bad news. You don’t want to be messing with the likes o’ him.’

‘That’s my problem. All I want you to do is find out where he’s hanging out.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ McGurk took a sip from his drink and put the glass down on the table. Taking a packet of cigarette papers from his coat pocket, he unfolded his tobacco pouch and started to roll a cigarette. ‘If word ever got back to McFarlane that I’d been asking questions about him, my life wouldn’t be worth a monkey’s.’ He stuck the unlit cigarette into his mouth and sucked on it hard.

‘I’ll pay well. Five hundred. A hundred up front and four hundred when you get me the information.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t like it.’

‘Here’s a hundred.’ Michael slid another wad of notes under the newspaper. ‘And there’s four hundred more when you let me know where I can find him.’

McGurk picked up his whisky glass and cradled it in both hands before swallowing the contents. He snatched up the money and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.’

‘Fine.’

‘Where can I contact you?’

‘You can’t. I’ll get in touch with you. How much time do you need?’

McGurk shrugged. ‘Not a lot. My contacts either know where he is or they don’t. Phone me at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning and I’ll let you know what I’ve got.’

‘Thanks. Stay here and have another drink. We don’t want to be seen leaving together. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ Michael crossed to the
bar and paid for another whisky for McGurk before walking out of the door into the cool evening air.

The rain had eased off as Michael walked back along Sauchiehall Street towards the Kelvingrove Art Gallery. Cutting into the park, he found a quiet bench beside the river. In the gloom he opened the brown envelope and took out the pistol which he balanced it in the palm of his hand. It felt comfortable. He checked to make sure the safety catch was on, then tucked it carefully into his right-hand jacket pocket.

Picking up some loose pebbles, he started lobbing them in the general direction of the river Kelvin. He couldn’t see them land, only the splash told him when they hit the water. He drank from the whisky bottle until he felt drowsy. Tugging off his jacket to use as a blanket, he stretched out on the park bench and soon passed out in a drunken stupor.

Michael slept fitfully, confused images churning in his brain. He was in the master bedroom of his house in Bearsden – he recognised the chintzy decor. Carole was tied to the bed, spread-eagled – naked apart from a red silk scarf blindfolding her eyes and a black velvet choker round her throat. He was lying beside her, also naked, caressing her breasts as she moaned softly in anticipation.

Suddenly the blindfold slipped from her eyes. But the eyes weren’t Carole’s – they were Anne’s. Cold, blue eyes – glazed and staring unblinkingly at him – dead eyes. The furniture and the wallpaper began to swim out of focus and the room transformed itself into the stark black-and-white decor of his bedroom in Dalgleish Tower. The choker round her neck began to unwind all by itself and blood started weeping from an open wound in her throat. A bloodstained, ivory-handled, cut-throat razor appeared from nowhere on the pillow beside her head.

Michael tried to re-tie the choker to stem the flow, but the blood kept seeping through his fingers; at first, a trickle, then it oozed and bubbled, splashing onto his bare arms and chest. He tried to roll
away from the crimson flow but it followed him, gushing from her throat and pouring towards him in a deluge.

He scrambled from the bed and ran towards the bedroom door. It was locked. He couldn’t wrench it open. Blood was everywhere now, filling the room; ankle-deep and rising inexorably. The body on the bed started to twitch and jerk violently, arms and legs flailing frenziedly against their restraining bonds. He stood by the bedroom door, petrified, tugging with all his might at the unyielding handle.

Suddenly the head detached itself from the writhing corpse and floated up towards the ceiling, torrents of blood spurting in all directions from the severed neck. The head started moving rapidly across the room towards him. Two shafts of blue light sprang from the dead eye-sockets and locked onto him while the features twisted into those of McFarlane. The jagged purple scar appeared, engorged with blood, pulsing like a living organ on the side of his face, growing larger all the time, coming closer and closer, pounding louder and louder…

A strangulated cry died in Michael’s throat. Throwing his arms in the air, he rolled over and crashed head first from the park bench onto the gravel path, splitting his forehead on a jagged stone. He lay there, stunned and disoriented, a rhythmic, pounding crescendo hammering at his eardrums. He struggled groggily to his feet. He saw the half-empty whisky bottle lying on the ground and instinctively grabbed it by the neck to use it as a weapon. The footsteps receded. The two joggers disappeared into the distance, totally unaware of his presence.

Michael’s forehead was stinging, his mouth parched. Blood from his head wound was trickling into his eye. He limped down to the river’s edge and cupped the icy water in both hands, splashing it onto his face and into his mouth.

He scrambled back up the bank, pulled on his jacket and sat down on the bench. Suddenly remembering the pistol, he tugged it from his pocket to check it wasn’t damaged. Fortunately, he hadn’t
fallen on the gun. He unscrewed the top of the whisky bottle and his hands were shaking as he lifted it to his mouth, whisky spilling round his swollen lips as he gulped to swallow. He put the bottle down on the bench and pressed the palm of his hand hard against his forehead to try to stem the flow of blood. He felt nauseous. Reality and nightmare were merging. What was happening to him? Was he going mad? He stared fixedly at his upturned, bloody palm. Was this the hand that had slit Anne’s throat?

It was a spring-like morning and Charlie Anderson had to tug down his sun-visor to keep the low early morning rays out of his eyes as he drove towards Dalgleish Tower. He parked in the shadow of the building and plodded up the steps to ring Harry Kennedy’s bell.

‘Sorry to disturb you so early on a Sunday morning.’

‘No problem, Inspector. Come on in. I’m always up and about by seven. I often have a wee catnap in the afternoon, mind you, but I’m not one for lyin’ in bed in the mornin’. What can I do for you?’

‘I need your help, Harry. Every time I think I’ve taken a step forward in the Gibson investigation, five minutes later I find I’ve gone two steps backwards. When that happens, the only thing to do is go back to square one and start all over again. So, if you’ll bear with me, I’d like to ask you a few questions – most of which you’ve probably answered already.’

‘Fire away. Would you like a wee cup of tea or a coffee before we start?’

‘Coffee sounds good.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Black – three sugars.’

Charlie settled into an armchair while Harry busied himself in the kitchen. When Harry returned, he handed across a steaming mug, then took the chair opposite.

Charlie opened his notebook and rolled down the lead in his propelling pencil. ‘First question. How difficult would it be for someone to get into this building undetected?’

Harry sat forward on the edge of his seat. ‘There are only two ways to get in,’ he said, stroking his moustache. ‘Anyone can walk through the front entrance, as you just did, but that only gets you as far as my door. To get access to the lift or the staircase, you have to go through the connectin’ door and for that you need the security code. There’s an intercom for each apartment beside that door, as well as a camera. If you ring an apartment bell, the resident can see who it is and open the door if he wants to let you in.’

‘The only other way in is through the garage. You’d need a remote control gadget to open the garage doors, then you’d need the security code to get through to the lift or the stairwell.’

‘How many people have door keys and remote controls?’

‘Let’s start from the bottom,’ Harry said, numbering off on his fingers. ‘On the second floor, there’s the Leslies. They moved in recently. There’s just the two of them – husband and wife – both doctors. They’ve got keys and remote controls. The tenth floor flat has been sold to a Mr and Mrs Moore. They’ve got one door key for now, but not a remote control. They haven’t moved in yet.’

‘Know anything about them?’

‘Just that they come from Gourock. Apart from that I don’t know anything.’

‘Okay, go on.’

‘On the thirteenth floor, there’s McFadyen. He’s got a door key but he didn’t want a remote control because he hasn’t got a car. To tell you the truth, I think he’s a bit glaikit, Inspector. He hardly ever comes out of his apartment – once a week to the best of my knowledge, to go the messages. Apart from that, he stays put all the time and he never seems to get any visitors.

‘The only other occupied flat is number 15, the Gibsons. Mr Gibson has a key and a remote control, as has –’ Harry lowered his eyes. ‘As
had
, Mrs Gibson. Their son, Paul, has a key and a remote control as well. He used to come round a lot – there’s no mistakin’ his van – it’s got ‘Citizens Band’ in big letters plastered on the
side. But recently he only ever came here during the day to see his mother – never when his father was at home.

‘Mr Gibson ordered an extra key and a remote control. Very hush-hush, it was. He gave me a good bung to keep quiet about it. For a ‘friend’, if you get my meanin’.’ Harry tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘The young lady seemed to have the run of the place whenever Mrs Gibson was away for the weekend.’

‘If somebody wanted to get a spare key, what would they have to do?’

‘There’s a form that has to be filled in and countersigned by Mr Chalmers – he’s my boss. He manages the estate agency that handles everythin’ to do with the building. When Chalmers has signed off the authorisation, I send the form to London where the keys are cut. It takes a couple of weeks.’

‘Has anybody else got keys that you know of?’

‘I’ve got a complete set in there.’ Harry pointed to his wall-safe. ‘And Mr Chalmers has a set in his office. As far as I know, that’s it.’

Charlie noted down the information and put away his notebook. ‘I’d like to talk to the Leslies and McFadyen in case they heard or saw anything.’

‘Your blokes have already taken their statements.’

‘I know. But I’d still like to talk to them.’

‘Fine. But you’ll have to come back later on to see the Leslies. I saw them goin’ out just before you arrived. I think they’re church-goers. McFadyen’s sure to be in, but whether or not he’ll open his door to you is a different matter entirely.’ Harry chortled as he got to his feet. ‘I’ll open the access door for you so you can get to the lift.’

Charlie got out of the lift at the thirteenth floor and pressed the doorbell.

‘Who’s there?’ a gruff voice barked through the intercom.

‘Police, Mr McFadyen. DCI Anderson, Glasgow CID. I’d like a word with you, if you don’t mind.’

There was a pause. ‘Show us your badge. Hold it up to the spy hole.’ Charlie took out his warrant card and held it against the
door. ‘Not that close. I canny see it right.’ Charlie stepped back a pace and held it up again. ‘Are you on your own?’ McFadyen demanded.

‘Yes.’

There was a further delay before Charlie heard bolts being withdrawn and locks being turned. A small, wiry figure in his sixties appeared in the doorway. He was going thin on top and wore heavy black-framed spectacles. His dressing gown and bedroom slippers looked to be several sizes too big for him.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about your neighbours.’

‘I’ve already had your lot nosin’ around asking all kinds of damn fool questions.’

‘I won’t keep you long.’

McFadyen eyed Charlie up and down. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Mind and wipe your feet.’ Charlie wiped his feet very deliberately on the doormat before stepping across the threshold. McFadyen locked and bolted the door behind them before leading the way to the lounge, which was cluttered with furniture of every conceivable shape and size. It reminded Charlie of Steptoe’s junkyard. ‘I won’t offer you a seat because you won’t be stoppin’.’

Charlie produced his notebook. ‘How well do you know your neighbours, Mr McFadyen? In particular, the Gibsons on the fifteenth floor?’

McFadyen snorted. ‘I don’t have any truck with the neighbours. I keep myself to myself and mind my own business.’

‘I’m sure you do. However, could you tell me if you’ve seen either Mr or Mrs Gibson during the past fortnight?’

‘Gibsons, you say? Fifteenth floor? Is that their name? Wouldn’t know them from Adam. Doubt if I’ve clapped eyes on them in my life. If you want to know anythin’ about the neighbours, you should ask the caretaker. He’s a nosy wee bachle.’

‘Do you know the Leslies on the second floor?’

‘The only ones I even know exist are those noisy buggers upstairs. If they ever make a racket like that again, you’ll be hearin’ from me, an’ no mistake. I’ll be filin’ a complaint.’

Charlie’s fingers slackened on his pencil. He couldn’t control the surprise in his voice. ‘Who on earth are you talking about?’

‘I don’t know what they’re called. You’d have to ask the caretaker. All I know is that they had one hell of a barney one night last week. Whit a shirrackin’. Both of them at it. Right above my bedroom it was too. It sounded like he was giein’ her laldy. He was shouting the odds and she was screamin’ blue murder – while I was trying to have a kip. I’m tellin’ you, I’m no’ goany stand for it. Any more of that nonsense and I want your lot round here smartish to sort them out. I paid a bloody fortune for this place and I’m no’ gauny have my peace and quiet ruined by those yobs.’

‘Do you remember which night this was?’

‘I’m no’ sure. Tuesday or Wednesday, I think.’

‘Had you heard any noise from upstairs previously?’

‘Only when they flitted in two or three weeks ago. Not a lot of noise then. Just furniture being shoved around – that kind of thing.’

‘And after the shouting and screaming last Tuesday or Wednesday – have you heard anything since?’ McFadyen shook his head. ‘Did you mention this to the police officer who came to take your statement?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Did he not ask you about it?’

‘He asked me if I’d seen or heard anything suspicious. Rowdy neighbours are a bloody nuisance, but hardly what you would call ‘suspicious’.’

Charlie put away his notebook. ‘I think that’s all for now, Mr McFadyen. Thanks for your time.’

‘Before you go, leave me your phone number. I’m goany call you if I get any more trouble from that lot. I want your personal number, mind. I don’t want to get fobbed off with some spotty-faced kid hardly out o’ short breeks.’

Charlie handed across his card. ‘That’ll get you straight through to my office.’

‘Right. Thanks,’ he said, thrusting the card deep into his dressing gown pocket. Charlie stood back while McFadyen undid the locks and bolts on the front door. The lift was still at the thirteenth floor. He descended to ground level and pressed Harry’s door bell.

‘Any joy, Inspector? Did auld misery-guts let you in?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me someone had moved into number 14, Harry?’

‘Number 14? That’s rubbish. There’s nobody in number 14. Nobody’s even looked round that flat since I’ve been here.’

‘Old misery-guts swears blind that someone moved in two or three weeks ago and that there was a barney in the flat last Tuesday or Wednesday. He’s threatening to have them done for breach of the peace. You said you’ve got keys for all the flats?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get the key for number 14. You and I are going up to have a look around.’

Harry bustled to his wall safe, dialled the combination and took out the key for flat 14. He tapped in the security code at the connecting door and they rode up in the lift to the fourteenth floor. When Harry inserted the key into the lock, he started to frown.

‘Something’s no’ right here.’

‘What’s wrong?

‘The key won’t turn.’

‘Is it stiff? Let me try.’

‘It’s no’ stiff. These locks are never stiff. The key’s just no’ turnin’.’

‘Then you must’ve picked up the wrong key. Go back down and get the right one.’

Harry shook his head. ‘I never make a mistake with keys,’ he protested. ‘When I was the janitor at the school I had lots of keys to look after and I never misplaced one in my life. I’m tellin’ you, I took this key from hook 14.’

Charlie was getting fractious. It showed in his voice. ‘Harry, is that, or is that not, the key for this apartment?’

Harry was flustered. ‘It must be. I checked the keys the day I started. They all worked perfectly. I’ve no idea what could’ve happened. Ah!’ Harry snapped his fingers. ‘The serial number! I’ve got a list of the serial numbers of all the keys and the corresponding apartment numbers. I can soon find out if this is the right key or not.’

When they arrived at the ground floor, Harry unlocked his front door and hurried to his desk. He pulled out a single sheet of paper and ran his finger down the column, stopping when he reached flat 14. He screwed up his eyes to read the serial number on the key. ‘It’s the wrong key, Inspector. In fact,’ he said, referring back to the serial number list. ‘This is a key for flat 15.’

‘Then you’ve mixed the keys up, man. You’ve put the key for flat 15 on hook 14 and vice versa.’

‘That’s not possible. I use the key on hook 15 every day to go up and feed the Gibsons’ cat.’ Harry opened up his wall safe and took the key from hook 15 to study the serial number. ‘This is also a key for flat 15. I’ve got two keys for flat 15, but none for flat 14.’

Charlie shook his head in frustration. ‘You said all the keys worked perfectly when you first arrived. Are you sure you opened up flat 14?’

‘Definitely. There’s no doubt about that.’

Five minutes later Harry had painstakingly checked off all the keys in his safe against the list of serial numbers. Everything else matched. He confirmed he had two keys for flat 15, but none for flat 14.

‘I want to get into flat 14 – pronto. How can we get another key?’

‘I’d have to get in touch with the estate agency.’

‘Which one is it?’

‘Viewpark. Their office is in Hope Street. That’s where Mr Chalmers works.’

‘You have his number?’

‘I’ve got his office number. But he’ll not be there on a Sunday.
I have his mobile as well, but I’ve been told to use that only in an emergency.’

‘Give me his number,’ Charlie said, pulling out his phone.

Jason Chalmers answered the call.

‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, Mr Chalmers. This is DCI Anderson, Glasgow CID. I’m calling from Dalgleish Tower – from the caretaker’s flat. I want to have a look round flat 14, but for some reason the key seems to be missing. I believe you have a spare set?’

‘In the office, yes. But it’s not convenient right now. I’m just about to set off for the golf club. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No, it can’t.’

‘Could Kennedy not show you round one of the other flats? Apart from the view, they’re all identical.’

‘Mr Chalmers, I think we may be at cross purposes. I’m not thinking of buying a flat. I’m conducting an investigation and I specifically need to get into flat 14.’

‘This really is terribly inconvenient,’ he said stiffly.

‘I don’t have time to debate this with you. I’ll have someone meet you at your Hope Street office in fifteen minutes to collect the key. And if you’re not there, I’ll arrange to have flat 14 opened. And it will not be subtle. We’ll blow the door off its fucking hinges.’ Charlie snapped his phone shut. ‘I think I might have upset your boss, Harry.’

Charlie called O’Sullivan’s mobile. ‘Urgent job for you, Tony. Go across to the Viewpark Estate Agency in Hope Street straight away. A bloke called Chalmers will meet you there in fifteen minutes and give you a key. Bring it to me at Dalgleish Tower. I’ll be with the caretaker.’