Double Mortice (2 page)

Michael forced a smile as he pressed the button on his remote control to operate the garage doors. Blowing an extravagant kiss from her fingertips, Philippa dropped the car into gear and accelerated violently up the ramp. Michael blew back a kiss and waved, watching her car until the garage doors shuddered down and clanged shut.

Jack McFarlane pulled his scarf tight around his neck and zipped his anorak up to give himself some protection from the sleety drizzle as he walked through the doors of Peterhead prison. He slung his tartan holdall over his shoulder and waved in the direction of the white Rover parked along the street. The headlights flashed once in recognition as the engine burst into life and the car came smoothly towards him. When it pulled up alongside, the driver leaned back to fling open the rear door. McFarlane threw his holdall onto the back seat and clambered in after it.

‘Thanks for the reception committee, Malky,’ McFarlane said, wiping the sleet from his shaven head.

‘Compliments of Mr Robertson.’ Malky leaned over the back of the seat to proffer his hand which McFarlane clenched in a painfully firm grip.

‘Fancy a fag?’ Malky asked, producing a packet of Benson & Hedges and a book of matches and holding them up.

‘Thanks.’ McFarlane stretched forward to take the cigarettes. Having lit up, he inhaled deeply, then unzipped his anorak and settled back in his seat to gaze out of the window as the car accelerated away from the kerb.

Jack McFarlane was in his late-forties; tall, thickset, with shrewd, pale-blue eyes. His nose, twice broken during amateur boxing bouts, was crooked and permanently puffy. His face was indented with pock marks but his main distinguishing feature was the jagged,
purple scar running from the corner of his left eye to just under his ear – the legacy of a Glasgow razor fight.

‘Mr Robertson said to give you these,’ Malky said, picking up an envelope and two small packets from the passenger seat and handing them across. McFarlane ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. He scanned the hand-written note:

‘Give Morrison a bell?’ McFarlane mused, raising an eyebrow. If Larry had the top lawyer in Glasgow on his payroll, business must be going well. Having split open one of the parcels, he riffled the wad of new notes. Counting off two hundred pounds, he stuffed it into the hip pocket of his jeans and zipped the rest of the money into the inside pocket of his anorak. He tore open the second packet and checked the address of the flat before pocketing the keys and the train ticket.

The traffic was light as they headed towards Aberdeen city centre.

‘We’ve got bags of time before your train, Jack,’ Malky said. ‘Do you fancy a swally?’

‘I could fair molocate a pint.’ McFarlane glanced at his watch. ‘But the pubs won’t be open yet.’

‘Some of them are,’ Malky said. ‘A few things have changed for the better since you went inside.’

‘Lead me to it, then. I’ve got one hell of a drouth on me,’ McFarlane said, smacking his lips.

‘What are you for, Jack?’ Malky asked as they walked into the quiet bar.

‘A hauf and a pint o’ heavy.’

Malky ordered two Lagavulins and two pints of Belhaven at the bar and carried the drinks on a tray over to the table by the door where McFarlane had installed himself.

‘What was it like in Peterheid?’ Malky asked, sipping at his pint.

‘Have you no’ done time yersel’?’

‘Just six months, like, in the Bar-L.’

‘Then you ken fine weel what it’s like.’

‘Aye, but twelve years. That’s no’ like six months.’

McFarlane picked up his whisky glass and threw back the contents in one gulp. ‘At first I fair missed the bevvy,’ he said, grimacing as the neat whisky burned at the back of his throat. ‘But you get used to that after a while. Funnily enough,’ he said weighing his pint in his fist, ‘the thing that really got to me was not being able to walk. You get to dauner roun’ the exercise yard, of course, but that’s no’ walkin’. Walkin’ means grass and mountains and, aye, pissin’-doon rain.’

Raising his pint to his lips, McFarlane poured the beer down his throat in one long, slow, gurgling swallow. ‘Twelve years inside sure builds up a helluva thirst.’ He licked his lips. ‘That hit the spot. Same again?’ he asked, getting to his feet.

Malky shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’ll try to keep up with you, Jack. Not if you want me to get you to the station in one piece.’

McFarlane crossed to the bar and ordered another whisky and another pint of Belhaven. When he returned to the table he sipped his drinks slowly, savouring every mouthful, as his eyes travelled round the bar, studying the faces of all the other customers. ‘Take a shuftie at that one over there,’ he whispered in Malky’s ear. ‘The
punter in the blue pullover with his heid buried in the newspaper. My money’s on him. He came in just after us and ordered a half-pint shandy. He’s hardly touched it.’

When they’d finished their drinks, McFarlane gave the signal and they got to their feet and strode out of the pub. As soon as he got behind the wheel, Malky swivelled his rear-view mirror so he could see the pub door.’

‘Spot on, Jack. Your man came out right behind us and crossed the road to a silver-grey Ford Focus. He’s our tail all right.’

‘Good to know twelve years inside haven’t dulled the auld senses. I could always smell a pig a mile aff.’

As they headed towards the city centre the traffic was heavier, Malky continually checking his rear-view mirror. ‘He’s still there. About five cars back. Do you want me to try to lose him?’

‘Not at all, Malky. You wouldn’t want to get booked for speedin’, would you? He’s welcome to follow me anywhere he wants. I’ll bore the fuckin’ arse off him over the next few days.’ McFarlane guffawed.

Anne Gibson drained her coffee cup and dabbed delicately at the corners of her narrow mouth, taking care not to smudge her lipstick. Folding her linen napkin neatly, she slipped it back into its silver ring. ‘I really think we should be making a move, Dad,’ she said, pushing her chair back from the table and getting to her feet. She crossed to the window and gazed out. ‘It doesn’t seem to be easing off.’ The snow, already several inches deep, was falling steadily.

Peter Jackson folded his newspaper as he rose from his armchair. ‘I’m ready whenever you are, love. I only have to slip on my shoes. Jean,’ he called down the hall. ‘We’re leaving now. We want to give ourselves plenty of time to get to the station.’

Jean Jackson came bustling along the corridor from the kitchen with a coffee pot in her hand. ‘Do you not have time for another cup, Anne?’

‘No, thanks, Mum.’

‘I don’t like the look of that weather.’ Jean peered anxiously through the window. ‘Are you sure you can’t stay another night?’

Anne put a comforting arm around her mother’s shoulders. ‘I told you, Mum. I’ve arranged to play with Mary in a tournament at the bridge club this afternoon. But look on the bright side – at least I came up by train. If I’d brought the car I’d have to drive back to Glasgow now.’

Jean mimed a shiver. ‘Perish the thought. I only hope the weather’s better next weekend. Just about everyone’s coming up for your party.’

‘I’ll be here for that come hell or high water. It’ll take more than a few flakes of snow to stop me celebrating my fortieth.’

‘It’s a pity your sister won’t be here,’ Jean said. ‘It would have been lovely to have had the whole family together.’

‘It’s a long way to come from Vancouver for a party, Mum. Apart from that, there’s no way she could get time off during the school term.’

‘I realise that,’ Jean said with a sigh. ‘But it’s still a shame.’

‘She’ll be across in July. A good excuse for another party.’

Anne bent down and kissed her mother lightly on the forehead.

‘Are you ready, Anne?’ Peter coughed as he pulled on his driving gloves.

‘I’ll be right with you, Dad. I just have to nip upstairs and grab my things.’

Anne took the stairs to her bedroom two at a time. Little had changed in the room since she’d left home more than twenty years ago. The same single bed, the same patterned wallpaper, the same beige carpet, the same ornate crucifix positioned above the bed. On the bedside table, beside the reading lamp, stood the alabaster statue of Saint Anthony of Padua to whom her mother always prayed if she lost something of value.

‘I’m off now, Edward,’ she announced to her childhood teddy bear, which still had pride of place in the middle of the dressing table. Kicking off her slippers, she sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her knee-length boots.

Anne Gibson was a striking figure of a woman. Although close to six feet tall she chose to wear high-heeled boots to exaggerate her height. She was slimly built with long legs and a narrow waist. Her small mouth seemed out of proportion to her large, pale-blue eyes and long, straight nose. Her brown hair, cropped short, was streaked with blonde highlights.

When she’d zipped up her boots she stood up straight and ran her hands down her sides to smooth the skirt of her leather suit. She crossed to the wardrobe mirror to check her appearance, hitching up her skirt slightly so that it brushed against the tops of her boots. She tucked her blouse firmly into her waistband and slipped on her jacket. Her case was lying open on the bed, already packed. Pushing in her slippers, she closed the lid, then picked up her sapphire ring from the bedside table and slipped it on as she leaned across to kiss Edward on the forehead. ‘See you next weekend, old boy. It’ll be a big party. Everybody who’s anybody is coming. Till then, you’re in charge.’

She draped her cashmere coat over her arm and picked up her suitcase and her handbag. With a final glance round the room to make sure she’d hadn’t forgotten anything, she hurried downstairs.

Peter Jackson had opened the garage doors and was already sitting behind the wheel of his Jaguar, the engine ticking over.

‘Bye, Mum. Thanks for a lovely weekend. See you next Saturday’, Anne said, giving Jean a cuddle.

‘I do hope you’re going to be all right.’ Jean said, making the sign of the cross as she took a step back. ‘I’ll say a prayer for you.’

‘Don’t fret, Mum. I’ll be fine.’

‘Don’t forget to phone me as soon as you get home.’

‘I’m going straight from the railway station to the bridge club, so I won’t be home much before seven. But I will call you later this evening – I promise.’

Picking her steps carefully across the snow-covered path, Anne opened the car boot and dropped in her coat and her case before climbing into the passenger seat and clipping on her seat belt.
‘What do you think, Dad?’

‘No problem. I’ve got the chains on and I saw the snowplough pass by an hour ago. We’ll be fine as soon as we get to the main road.’ Peter Jackson slowly navigated the hundred yards of driveway that connected his cottage to the main road, the wheel-grip secure as the chains bit into the crisp snow. As he’d anticipated, the main thoroughfare was relatively clear.

‘You were very quiet this weekend,’ Peter said as he waited for a slow-moving van to pass by before turning into the road. ‘Is everything all right?’ Anne didn’t respond. ‘Is Michael still seeing her?’ he asked quietly.

Anne turned in her seat to look at him. ‘I think so.’

‘I don’t know how you put up with it, Anne. I really don’t. If your mother had any idea what he’s been up to, she wouldn’t allow him across the threshold.’

‘You musn’t tell her. You promised.’

‘Of course I won’t tell her.’ The traffic lights up ahead turned to red and Peter applied the brakes gently. ‘Why don’t you just walk out on him and be done with it?’

‘I don’t know what to do, Dad. I really don’t.’ Anne bit her lip. ‘The problem is – I still love him.’

‘I don’t know how you can, after what he’s put you through.’

‘Last year, when I first suspected he was seeing someone, I decided not to confront him because that could have forced him to choose between her and me – and I wasn’t at all sure I’d like the result. I hoped that, if I let the affair run its course, it would come to a natural end and then I might be able to convince him that we needed to see a marriage counsellor.’

‘Is it not too late for that, Anne? After all, it’s not as if it’s the first time he’s wandered off the straight and narrow. There was that girl from the squash club you told me about.’

‘That was just a weekend fling.’

‘For goodness sake, Anne, don’t start defending him! For all you know, there may well have been others.’

‘I realise that, Dad.’ Anne let out a sigh. ‘But before I give up on him, I have to do everything I can to try to save our marriage. For better or for worse, and all that.’

Peter snorted. ‘It’s been nothing but ‘worse’ for quite some time, as far as I can make out. Do you have any idea who she is?’

‘I’ve got a pretty good idea. I didn’t say anything to you before, but I suspected it might be someone from his work so I dropped in unannounced at the office Christmas party. There wasn’t much doubt about it. He followed one of his juniors around all night like a lovesick puppy.’

There was an awkward silence for the remainder of the journey

‘You’re going to be very early for your train,’ Peter said as he drew up outside the station. ‘I’ll wait with you.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort.’ Anne spoke firmly as she unclipped her seat belt. ‘This weather could turn a lot nastier very quickly. You head straight back home.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. Anyway, I could murder another cup of coffee. And I’ve got my book to read,’ she added, tapping her handbag. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ She leaned across to kiss him on the cheek. ‘See you next Saturday.’