Double Mortice (3 page)

Peter hesitated. ‘Will
he
–‘Peter spat out the word, ‘be coming with you?’

Anne took her father’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Despite everything,
he
wouldn’t miss my fortieth birthday party.’

‘I think you should come up by train.’

‘You know Michael. He’d rather drive through a Himalayan blizzard than take a train. Anyway, I’ll need the car to carry back all my presents, won’t I?’ She tickled him playfully under the chin.

‘You behave yourself.’ He smiled at her. ‘And don’t forget to phone your mother when you get back to Glasgow.’

Getting out of the car, Anne hurried round to the boot to lift out her coat and her suitcase. The air felt bitterly cold in contrast to the warmth of the car. She slipped her coat over her shoulders
and stood waving until the Jaguar had disappeared from sight. The station clock showed five past ten – half an hour to kill. The snow was still falling steadily and the chill wind was piercing her coat. She picked up her case and marched briskly into the buffet where she ordered a black coffee and a tuna sandwich to eat on the train. Sitting down at the table nearest to the radiator, she took her book from her bag and flicked through it until she found her place.

The Volvo’s wiper blades were having difficulty coping with the driving sleet that was angling down, whipped horizontal by the northerly wind. Despite having the heater at full blast, Michael couldn’t find the control to direct the hot air onto the windscreen and his breath was freezing on contact with the glass. His temper was frayed as he crawled along, rubbing vigorously at the windscreen with the heel of his glove in an attempt to improve the visibility.

When he tried to merge with the slow-moving traffic on the Clydeside Expressway, he hit a patch of black ice and lost control. The car skidded sideways. He over-corrected the steering and instinctively slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The wheels locked and he slithered, almost in slow motion, into the back of an Audi in the inside lane. There was a jarring crunch as the two vehicles came together.

The Audi driver, a stocky, over-weight teenager, eased his car forward a few feet before applying the handbrake. Scrambling out, he lumbered round to the back of his vehicle to inspect the damage.

Michael pressed the button to lower his window. ‘I’m sorry,’ he called out. ‘My wheels locked. I couldn’t stop.’

‘This is ma faither’s car, mister,’ he bleated. ‘If it’s damaged I’m callin’ the polis.’

The youth was visibly shivering as he bent low and rubbed away the dirt on his rear wing to examine the paintwork. When he stood up straight his straggly hair was matted to the sides of his face. He
cupped both hands to his mouth and shouted through the sleet. ‘You came aff worst, Jimmy. You’ve broken your sidelight. I’m no’ even scratched.’ A broad grin broke out on his face. ‘That’s yer Vorsprung Durch Technik for you, pal.’

Without waiting for Michael’s response, he raised his right arm in a Nazi salute and goose-stepped his way back to his car door.

Michael was fuming as he followed in the Audi’s tracks, threading his way past several abandoned vehicles lining the route. By the time he got to his office, it was almost ten-thirty. The journey from Dalgleish Tower, normally fifteen minutes, had taken the best part of an hour. He’d missed his ten o’clock briefing and was in danger of being late for his meeting with DCI Anderson.

When he reached his office block, he drove down the steep ramp to the underground car park and swung towards his reserved parking bay, then slammed his foot on the brake. There, in his bay, stood his Mercedes. ‘You’re a complete pillock, Paul!’ He hammered his fist into the steering column. Glancing round the small car park he saw all the other bays were taken. The nearest parking was the multi-storey, half a mile away, and he’d brought neither a coat nor an umbrella.

By the time he’d sprinted back to the office, Michael was out of breath and soaked to the skin. His hair was sodden with sleet.

‘Good morning… Mr Gibson…’ Sheila stammered as the drenched figure swept past her into the office.

‘Come in here, Sheila.’ Instinctively grabbing her note-pad and pen, Sheila followed him into the office. ‘Don’t even ask,’ he seethed. He wrenched off his steamed-up spectacles and rubbed at them furiously with his handkerchief. ‘Is DCI Anderson still here?’

‘He left about ten minutes ago. He had to be back in Pitt Street at eleven o’clock to deliver a lecture to a graduate trainee seminar. Paul spoke to him to see if he could help, but Anderson insisted he had to talk to you. I told him I’d be in touch as soon as I knew when you’d be available.’

‘Do you know what he wanted?’ Michael asked, stripping off his jacket.

‘He told Paul he wanted to discuss a plea bargain for the Madill case. Do you want me to try to get him on the phone?’

Michael let out a sigh. ‘I know him. He’ll want a face-to-face meeting. Call his secretary and find out if we can find a slot sometime today. I’ll go over to Pitt Street if that’s more convenient for him. Then try to find a towel and something for me to wear while I dry off my suit on the radiator. After you’ve done that, ask Whyte and Davies to brief me on the Madill case and when I’m through with them, tell my bloody son to get his backside in here.’

‘Yes, Mr Gibson.’

Ten minutes later there was a knock on the office door and Sheila entered laden with a bath towel, a Paisley-pattern dressing gown, a pair of slippers, a clean white shirt, a pair of black socks, a hair dryer and a steaming cup of coffee. She placed all the items on Michael’s desk.

‘Inspector Anderson can see you at eleven forty-five,’ she said, referring to her notebook.’ I’ve ordered a cab for eleven-thirty to take you across to Pitt Street. A taxi will pick you up from there at twelve-fifteen to get you back here in time for your meeting with Madill and Whyte at twelve-thirty. Mr Whyte and Mr Davies are waiting outside – I’ll send them in as soon as you’ve changed out of your wet clothes. Paul is on standby to see you when you’re through with them. Is there anything else?’

Michael managed a weak smile. ‘That seems to be everything. Thanks. Tell me, Sheila,’ he added, nodding towards the pile of clothes on the desk. ‘Is there some poor bugger out there wandering around in his bare feet with no shirt on?’

Sheila blushed. ‘Of course not, Mr Gibson.’ Half-smiling, she turned to leave. ‘Buzz through when you’re ready to see Mr Whyte and Mr Davies.’

When her intercom sounded, Sheila whispered to Frank Whyte. ‘I’d better warn you. He’s in dressing gown and slippers this morning. Whatever you do, don’t laugh.’

Peter Davies led the way into Michael’s office. He was the senior lawyer in the firm having been the first person hired by Michael’s father when he’d set up the practice twelve years previously. He was a small, dapper man with sparrow-like features and a neatly trimmed moustache. ‘You managed to make it in then, Michael?’ Davies commented dryly.

‘Just about, Peter. One of the lucky ones, I guess. Well, gentlemen,’ he continued quickly. ‘What’s your opinion on the Madill case? What’s the chance of us getting an acquittal?’

‘Not the remotest,’ Davies stated. ‘You have read the brief?’

‘Actually… I didn’t manage to find time at the weekend.’ Davies tut-tutted and shook his head disapprovingly as Michael avoided eye contact. ‘Well,’ he continued grudgingly, ‘I suppose Frank had better summarise the situation for you.’

Frank Whyte was the latest trainee to join the practice and he was fired with enthusiasm at being given responsibility for his first case. Taking the chair opposite Michael, he opened his manila folder.

‘Madill is prepared to swear his innocence on a stack of bibles but the evidence against him is overwhelming. In essence, the prosecution’s case is as follows: Madill is an accountant with A.J. Smythe & Sons, a firm of builders’ merchants based in Glasgow with branches in Edinburgh, Perth and Inverness. An audit of the firm’s books last month revealed that twenty thousand pounds had disappeared from the accounts over the past two years, and during that period a corresponding series of deposits were made into Madill’s offshore bank account in the Isle of Man.’

‘Madill swears blind that he knows nothing about these deposits,’ Davies interjected. ‘He claims someone is trying to frame him. It just doesn’t hold water. He admits that he asked for monthly statements from his bank, but claims he never looked at them. He insists he didn’t know the twenty thousand was in his account. The Sheriff’s never going to buy that.’

‘I have to go across to Pitt Street now to see Inspector Anderson,’ Michael said. ‘He wants to talk to me about the case.’ Michael
turned to Whyte. ‘I’ll be back here for our meeting with Madill at twelve-thirty and we’ll take it from there.’

Paul Gibson was waiting apprehensively outside Michael’s office. Aged twenty-one, he was as tall as his father though much slimmer. He had his mother’s straight nose and blue eyes, a pale, almost anaemic, complexion and slightly concave cheeks. His shoulder-length, black hair was pulled back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck. He looked uncomfortable in a blue lounge suit, the jacket hanging loosely from his narrow, sloping shoulders. As he waited beside Sheila’s desk, he ran his fingers round the inside of his shirt collar.

‘I heard him ranting and raving from the other side of the office. Do you know what’s biting him?’

‘Not really, Paul. All I know is that he arrived half an hour ago like a bear with a sore head, soaked to the skin.’

As Davies and Whyte were filing out, the buzzer on Sheila’s desk sounded. She nodded to Paul. ‘You can go in now.’

Forcing a smile in Sheila’s direction, Paul walked into the office. Despite his nervousness, he couldn’t suppress a grin at the sight of his father sitting behind his desk, wearing a dressing gown. ‘A bit
Noel Coward
, Dad, don’t you think?’

‘Cut the wisecracks, Paul. I’m not in the mood. What the hell were you playing at? I let you borrow my car yesterday on the clear understanding that you’d bring it back before eight o’clock this morning, then when I go down to the garage I find my Merc’s not there and your clapped-out van’s sitting in its place. And to make matters a hundred times worse, I arrive at the office in your mother’s car only to find you’ve taken my parking bay and I end up getting soaked running half-way across Glasgow from the multi-storey.’

‘Hardly my fault.’ Taking the Mercedes’ keys from his jacket pocket, Paul placed them on the desk. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour by bringing your car here. I didn’t bring it back it last night
because I didn’t want to take the keys up to the flat and barge in on you while you were having it off with your bimbo. I assumed she’d drive you to the office this morning, so I thought you’d appreciate having the Merc here to get home tonight.’

Michael dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, so deep that his knuckles turned white. ‘Don’t ever refer to Philippa as my bimbo,’ he said in little more than a whisper.

‘Why not? That’s what everyone else in the office calls her,’ Paul retorted defiantly. ‘At least, that’s one of the nicer expressions. I’ve also heard ‘slut’, ‘gold-digger’ and ‘shag-bag’ – take your pick.’

‘Stop that right now, Paul.’

‘How do you think I feel out there? It’s fucking embarrassing. Don’t you realise everyone is sniggering behind your back? And what about Mum? You really don’t give a shit about her, do you?’ Michael glared, tight-lipped, across the desk. ‘For Christ’s sake, Dad, can’t you see what a fool you’re making of yourself? It’s pathetic – infatuated by a sexy little bit of skirt half your age.’

Michael pulled himself to his feet. ‘That’s enough.’ His voice was shaking. ‘I do my best for you, Paul. I give you a good job – a job you’re barely capable of holding down. I pay you a bloody good salary, which gets blown on that stupid rock group and God only knows what else. And this is the thanks I get? Well I’ve had it right up to here with you. I don’t want to see you again. Not in the office – not in the flat.’

All vestige of colour drained from Paul’s face and his eyes sank deep into their sockets. He turned and walked slowly towards the door, stopping with his hand on the handle. He spun round. ‘What’s so special about Philippa Scott?’ His voice was trembling with emotion. ‘Is she a better shag than Carole?’

Stomping from the office, Paul strode past Sheila’s desk without as much as a sideways glance.

Michael felt his knees go weak. He grabbed at the edge of his desk for support as he eased himself slowly down onto the chair, his heartbeat racing. He forced himself to breathe in and out deeply,
desperately trying to slow down his heart rate. During the past twelve years, Paul had never made any reference to Carole – to that disastrous episode. Michael had succeeded in blocking the incident out of his consciousness, but every horrific detail now came flooding back.

Michael was still sitting in a state of shock when Sheila buzzed through to tell him his taxi had arrived to take him to Pitt Street. He forced himself to his feet and changed back into his clothes. His trousers were crumpled and his shoes were still soggy, but his jacket had dried out reasonably. Throughout the cab journey, his head was reeling. He had to confront Anne tonight – tell her he was going to leave her. He’d promised Pippa that. So it wouldn’t be long before Paul found out. Would that be the trigger for him to tell his mother about what had happened with Carole?

DCI Charlie Anderson enjoyed delivering the ‘Experienced Officer’ module to the graduate trainee seminar. He always stuck to the same format – practical advice on criminal detection techniques, interspersed with war stories about his experiences.

Before the start of his talk he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing muscular, hairy forearms and thick wrists. As he prowled up and down in front of the class his shirt buttons strained to contain his paunch.

Glancing up at the clock on the lecture theatre wall, Charlie saw there were eight minutes to go. Good timekeeping epitomised an organised mind – an essential prerequisite for detective work. As always, he would set an example by ensuring his lecture finished right on time. He strode across to the flip-chart board, picked up a marker pen and dashed off some hieroglyphic squiggles, then turned towards the twenty expectant faces. ‘Does anyone know what that says?’ A girl’s hand shot up at the back of the room. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘It says
The Key Question
, sir,’ she responded confidently.

‘Excellent! Excellent!’ Charlie enthused. ‘So you can read shorthand?’

‘No, sir.’ A suppressed giggle ran round the class. Charlie looked puzzled. ‘Sergeant O’Sullivan gave us a talk earlier this morning,’ she explained. ‘He told us that sooner or later you’d write something on the board in shorthand – and that it was sure to be
The Key Question
.’

The class dissolved in laughter. It took a moment to sink in, then Charlie’s deep, belly laugh reverberated around the room. ‘So Tony O’Sullivan has actually taken something in, has he? It’s a relief to know my efforts over the years haven’t been entirely in vain. But seriously,’ he asked, ‘do any of you know shorthand?’ He scanned the blank expressions, shaking his head in disappointment. ‘It really is a shame. It’s a dying art – but it’s invaluable in this line of work.’

Charlie produced his notebook from his hip pocket and waved it aloft between thumb and forefinger. ‘This is what it’s all about. Don’t let anyone try to tell you the notebook’s redundant – that recording equipment has made it obsolete. This is where I jot down every word of every interview, in shorthand. Every question I ask, every answer I get.’ He paced up and down in front of the class. ‘Of course, you can record interviews and then have everything transcribed – each of you has to decide on your own preferred method of working. But there’s a huge psychological advantage in using a notebook. As soon as you produce any kind of recording equipment, you introduce a barrier. The person you’re interviewing goes on the defensive, he clams up, he measures every word. But if you pull out a notebook, he behaves naturally – he prattles on – and that’s when you find things out.

‘However, no matter what approach you choose to adopt, some things are fundamental. Good detective work has nothing to do with inspiration, genius or luck. It has everything to do with hard graft, analysing data and assessing probabilities. You have to have a rapport with minutiae – sifting facts, ploughing through seemingly boring details.

‘And each and every time –’ Charlie jabbed a crooked index finger at the shorthand on the flip chart. ‘There’s a
Key Question
, the answer to which will unravel the case. Whether you’re trying to track down a murderer, or nick a kid who’s pinched a tenner from a shop till, the principle’s the same. You ask all the questions you can think of, even though at the time you might not be quite sure
why you’re asking them, then you structure the data chronologically and sift through what you’ve got. Brainstorming is a useful technique at this stage – getting a group together to bounce ideas around. You make a series of assumptions and test the facts against each of them in turn, looking for a logical glitch, a non-sequitur. All the time you’re searching for
The Key Question
. Somewhere, there will be an anomaly – an inconsistency – there always is. And when you find that the whole case opens up like Pandora’s box and everything falls into place.

‘My all-time favourite quote is by Gary Player. Once, when he’d won a few golf tournaments in a row, a reporter asked him to what he attributed his lucky streak. Player’s reply was: ‘You know, it’s a funny thing, but the more I practise, the luckier I get’. That sums up detective work in a nutshell. Hard work, graft, determination. That’s what gets results.’

Charlie gathered up his notes. ‘That’s it for today. I hope you got something useful out of this morning’s session – and I’d like to wish all of you success in your new careers.’

As the wall clock flicked over to eleven-thirty, Charlie rolled down his shirt sleeves and pulled on his jacket.

Michael Gibson had recovered his composure by the time he arrived at Pitt Street, a few minutes early for his appointment. The officer at the reception desk recognised him.

‘You can go straight on up, Mr Gibson. DCI Anderson’s expecting you.’

Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Anderson was one of the longest serving members of the Glasgow CID. Well over six feet tall with correspondingly broad shoulders, he gave the appearance of being shorter on account of his pronounced stoop, the legacy of severe arthritis exacerbated by years of sitting hunched over an office desk.

Charlie peered over the top of his half-moon reading glasses when he heard the knock on his door. ‘Come in!’ His command echoed
round the office. When he saw who it was, his features broke into a welcoming smile. Pulling off his spectacles, he rose from behind his desk and enveloped Michael’s hand in his huge fist, pumping it up and down. ‘Sit yourself down, Michael, and take the weight off your feet.’

Deep crows’ feet splayed from the corners of Charlie’s eyes and tunnelled under the wisps of white hair at his temples before emerging as deep-rutted wrinkles furrowing round the back of his bald head. By way of contrast he had thick, bushy eyebrows that merged on the bridge of his nose.

Over the years, Michael’s father and Charlie had developed a strong, mutual respect. On many occasions they had been adversaries during criminal trials, but each held the other’s ability and integrity in high regard. Michael had often been counselled by his father to heed any advice Charlie Anderson had to offer.

Charlie’s desk reflected his organised mind. His fountain pen and matching propelling pencil, wide-barrelled and ridged for ease of grip, lay side-by-side, parallel to the top of his ink-blotter. His pending correspondence was arranged in order of priority in the in-basket on the left-hand side of his desk, the memos that had been dealt with stacked neatly in the out tray.

‘Your secretary told me you ran into a bit of trouble with the weather this morning,’ Charlie said.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘Couldn’t be helped. By the way, how is your father these days?’

Michael shook his head. ‘The news isn’t great. His dementia is getting a lot worse and his memory plays tricks on him. One minute he’s chatting away normally, asking about the family and the business, then all of a sudden he goes off at a tangent. The last time I saw him he seemed to think I was his brother, Vince, who died last year, and he started reminiscing about their schooldays. Nothing coherent – just disjointed thoughts.

‘I’m going to visit him this afternoon.’ Michael glanced out the window. ‘That is – if the weather doesn’t deteriorate too much. I don’t know how I’m going to find him.’

‘I’m really sorry to hear that. I always had a soft spot for old George.’

‘I know you did. Thanks for asking after him. What about you? Can’t be much longer now till you retire?’

‘Another fifteen months – and I’m counting the days, believe you me. Between us girls, I can’t keep up with the technology any more. Would you listen to me rabbiting on about ‘technology’? I can’t even get the hang of bloody emails.’ He tapped his knuckles against the computer screen on his desk. ‘I switch this damned thing on every morning and that’s the one and only time I touch it.’ Charlie splayed out his arthritic hands on his desk. ‘They don’t make keyboards for my kind of fingers. My secretary prints out all my emails, I hand-write the replies and she sends out the responses.’

Michael smiled. ‘Not necessarily the most efficient way of working.’

‘Let me tell you something. They might call it productivity – I call it encouraging sloppy thinking. Look at that lot.’ He waved his hand in disgust at his bulging in-basket. ‘I can guarantee that eighty percent of that correspondence will be emails. In my day, if you wanted to send someone a memo, you had to structure your thoughts and hand-write it or dictate it to your secretary, who typed it up. You then had to check it and sign it – and you didn’t go to all that trouble unless it was for something important. These days everybody and his wife fires off emails at the drop of a hat without even thinking through what they’re trying to achieve – and I’m expected to answer every damned one of them, no matter how trivial. It makes my blood boil. I tell you, the sooner I pack it in the better.’

‘The word on the street was you were leaving last year.’

‘Last June, actually,’ Charlie said, rocking back in his chair. ‘My early retirement package had been signed off and I was half-way to my allotment when the Assistant Chief Constable talked me into hanging on for another couple of years.’

‘What did Kay have to say about that?’

‘Not impressed. She’s retired now, so she has time to plan things for us to do together, but this job causes more wasted meals and
more missed concerts than you could ever imagine. It was bad enough when I had to opt out of the pantomime on Christmas Eve to sort out a hostage situation at the City Chambers, but last week was the final straw. Kay had invited a few of our friends round for a surprise dinner party for my birthday. It was a surprise all right. I didn’t get out of here until well after midnight. You can imagine how that went down.’

‘I can make a pretty good guess. How’s your daughter, by the way? Is she still teaching?’

‘Yes, but in Brussels of all places.’

‘What brought that about?’

‘Her best friend, Linda, moved to Brussels a couple of years ago. She wanted to make a clean break after a messy divorce so she upped sticks with her three young kids and got a teaching job in the International School. However, as luck would have it, she broke her hip in a skiing accident last month, which means she’ll be confined to bed for some considerable time. As she has no one out there to look after her kids, the solution she and Sue came up with was that Sue would take leave of absence until the summer and she and Jamie – he’s just turned seven, by the way – have gone over to Brussels to help Linda out. Sue’s got a part-time teaching job in the International School and she’s settled in well, but of course that means Kay has even more time on her hands as she doesn’t have her daughter and grandson to fuss over.’ Charlie sighed and glanced at his watch. ‘Now then, Michael, you didn’t drag yourself half way across the city in a snow storm to listen to an ageing copper wittering on. What can I do for you?’

‘The Madill case.’

‘Of course. Madill.’ Charlie referred to his papers. ‘You know how much I hate to see taxpayers’ money and police time going to waste. I mean, this one’s such an open and shut case I can’t believe you’re going to try for an acquittal. If we throw the book at him, which we will, the Sheriff’s sure to find him guilty and he’ll get at least two years.’

‘Is there an alternative?’

‘You’re not your father’s son if you don’t know there’s always an alternative. Here’s the deal. You get Madill to change his plea to guilty, with full restitution of the stolen money, and I’ll make sure the procurator fiscal only asks for twelve months. With good behaviour he’ll be out in six. That eejit’s no danger to society. Six months inside will be more than enough to teach him a lesson he won’t forget. That way the state saves the cost of keeping him in jail for an extra six months, we save the expense of a trial and I don’t have to have two of my officers tied up in the Sheriff court all day tomorrow. What do you say?’

‘I’ll talk to Madill. But I have to tell you, he swears he’s innocent.’

‘Of course he does.’ Charlie grinned broadly. ‘But I also know you can have a very persuasive tongue in your head – when it’s in your client’s best interest, of course.’

‘I’ll call you this afternoon and let you know our position,’ Michael said, getting to his feet.

‘Thanks.’ Charlie hesitated. ‘One more thing before you go. You do know Jack McFarlane was released this morning?’