Double Mortice (7 page)

Anne Gibson sat on the settee in her lounge, totally stunned. Having told Paul about Michael’s fling with Saoirse, she’d asked him what he wanted to talk to her about. It had taken a supreme effort on her part to hold it together while he recounted what had happened with Carole, but somehow she’d managed it.

When he’d finished, she’d started to weep, silently at first, then louder and louder as a succession of anguished sobs racked her entire body. Then the tears came in floods. Tears of realisation at the enormity of what had happened mingled with tears of utter frustration – emotions colliding as her world imploded. Everything had fallen into place.

She now understood what had caused the dramatic changes in Paul’s personality. She realised why Michael had refused to allow her to get psychiatric help for Paul – and she knew the reason for Michael’s breakdown. At the time, she’d thought it had been brought on by work-related stress.

It was all too horrible to contemplate. It should never have been allowed to come to this. If only he’d been honest with her at the time – they could have tackled it together.

Then anger took over. Seething, virulent, all-consuming anger. Michael must have realised the consequences of what he’d done. They were staring him in the face, each and every day for the rest of his life, but still he did nothing.

Harry Kennedy had spent most of the afternoon tidying up the gardens in front of Dalgleish Tower and he was settling down to a welcome cup of tea when his doorbell rang. Whistling tunelessly, he pulled himself to his feet and opened his door. ‘Och, it’s yourself, Mrs Gibson. Come on in. I was expectin’ it to be the Moores.’

‘Who are they, Harry?’

‘The couple who’re buyin’ number 10. They had a look round the flat a couple of weeks back and they phoned the estate agent this mornin’ to confirm they’re takin’ it. They’re comin’ round today to take a few measurements. So, what can I do for you, Mrs Gibson?’

‘Harry, you’ve got spare keys for all the flats, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you do me a favour and lend me your key for my flat? I left my coat at the bridge club and my house keys are in the pocket. My husband won’t be home for another couple of hours and I don’t want to drag all the way back to Sauchiehall Street in the rush hour as I’ll be going there tomorrow anyway.’

Harry’s brow furrowed. ‘I’d really like to help out, but there’s a wee problem.’ Anne looked perplexed. ‘I’ve got strict instructions never to let any of those keys out o’ my sight. It’s written into my contract.’

‘Surely you can make an exception just this once? I’ve got a splitting headache and I couldn’t face the prospect of driving back across town. And there’s no point in me phoning Paul to ask him to bring his key across,’ Anne added. ‘He’s gone across to Edinburgh.’

‘Tell you what,’ Harry said, brightening up considerably. ‘What I could do is come upstairs with you and open your front door for you. Then Mr Gibson can lock up in the mornin’ and you can collect your key from the bridge club.’

‘Brilliant, Harry. I knew you’d think of something.’ Resuming his tuneless whistling, Harry crossed to his wall safe and started twisting the dial. ‘One more favour, Harry. Would you be an absolute angel and get me a glass of water?’ Anne took a bottle of pills from her handbag. ‘I’ve had a migraine all afternoon and I’ll die if I don’t take a Disprin straight away.’

‘No bother at all. Nothin’ in my contract that says I canny give people a glass of water.’ He started whistling again as he bustled to the kitchen.

When Harry returned with the water, Anne was zipping up her handbag. She dropped two soluble tablets into the glass Harry handed her and swilled them round until they dissolved. Grimacing, she swallowed the contents in one gulp. ‘Thanks, Harry. You’re a lifesaver,’ she said, handing him back the glass.

‘All part of the service.’ Harry took the key for flat 15 from its hook and closed the wall safe, spinning the dial. Locking his front door, he followed Anne across the hall.

‘You do the code, Harry,’ she said when they came to the internal door. ‘I can never remember the damned thing.’

Harry grinned as he tapped at the control panel. ‘And I can never forget it. I was allowed to choose the code, so I picked the first six digits of my National Insurance number.’

‘So it’s all your fault? Why couldn’t you have picked something simple for us all to remember? Like ‘HARRY’, for example?’

‘That would have been too easy. You canny be too careful about intruders these days, Mrs Gibson.’

Jack McFarlane’s days followed a regular pattern. Rising late, he walked for miles every afternoon, no matter the weather, usually on Hampstead Heath. The early evenings were spent playing darts in a pub not far from Larry Robertson’s flat and then he either ate in one of the nearby ethnic restaurants or bought something to take back to the flat, always making sure he was home by eleven o’clock.

This evening he stayed longer in the pub than usual before picking up an Indian take-away and making his way up the hill. He sensed he was being followed all the time, but made no attempt to slip his tail.

When he’d polished off his chicken Madras, he helped himself to a generous glass of malt whisky from the supply he’d found in the kitchen cupboard, then kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed to read the newspaper. Dozing, he was jerked awake by the strident ring of the telephone. He rubbed at his eyes and checked his watch, but made no move to answer the phone. After six rings, the caller hung up. McFarlane lay on the bed with his hands cupped behind his head, waiting. Five minutes later the phone rang out again. This time three rings, followed by silence. He sat up and grinned. Six rings, followed by three rings – exactly five minutes apart – between eleven and eleven-thirty. Larry Robertson’s signal that he could now go up to Glasgow. No telephone connection – no voice communication on a line that was almost sure to be tapped. He waited a further five minutes before dialling Robertson’s number, disconnecting after
the fourth ring. The answering code: ‘message received and understood’.

Having studied the railway timetables, McFarlane knew there was a train to Glasgow at eight o’clock on Wednesday mornings. He drained his whisky and packed his few possessions into his holdall. Setting his alarm for six o’clock, he stripped off and climbed between the sheets.

The insistent techno beat was pounding in Philippa Scott’s ears. She felt completely uninhibited as she moved gracefully and sensually, swaying towards him when he rocked back on his heels, her breasts brushing lightly against his silk shirt, the contours of their bodies moulding together as they moved in time to the driving music.

Arching back her head, she ran the fingers of both hands through her long, loose, auburn hair, glistening with perspiration, while the strobe lights criss-crossing the crowded disco played multi-coloured patterns across their gyrating bodies.

Philippa luxuriated in the heady effects of the champagne and the pulsating rhythm. When the tempo slowed, she clasped both hands behind her neck and moved even closer to him, thrusting her hips forward and grinding into his body. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she slid off the band holding his pony tail in place and ran her fingers through his hair. She closed her eyes and felt her moist, warm sweat trickling down between her breasts. She wanted this night to last forever.

Jack McFarlane slept fitfully and was already wide awake when the alarm sounded at six o’clock. On the first ring his hand snaked out to silence the bell. Without switching on the light, he dressed quickly. There was sufficient moonlight filtering through the
lounge window to allow him to glance round the room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He swung his holdall over his shoulder and slid open the kitchen window at the rear of the building, which gave access to the fire escape leading to the courtyard five floors below. Clambering through, he tugged the window closed behind him and descended quickly to ground level.

McFarlane’s every move was followed by the night binoculars trained on him from the attic apartment on the far side of the courtyard. His observer snapped open his mobile phone and connected with the driver of a black Citroën. ‘Subject is on the move. He’ll be in your line of sight within a minute.’

McFarlane strode down the narrow passageway between the two blocks of flats towards the main road. When he marched past the Citroën, the passenger waited a few moments before slipping out and falling into a matching stride pattern, some twenty yards behind him.

Charlie Anderson had had a boring day. Unless there was a panic on, Wednesday was his day for catching up with his backlog of paperwork and on this particular Wednesday there seemed to be twice as much as usual to wade through. As he slotted the last memo into his out-tray, he glanced up at his wall clock and saw it was after eight o’clock. ‘Is that the time?’ he mumbled, screwing the top onto his fountain pen and clipping it into his inside jacket pocket. He got to his feet and massaged his aching spine with both hands, then crossed to his filing cabinet and flicked through the top drawer until he came to a bulging manila folder labelled ‘Crown versus McArthur’. Pulling it out, he stuffed it into his briefcase. He took off his reading glasses and slipped them into their case, rubbing at his tired eyes as he picked up the phone to call home.

‘It’s me, love. I’m about to leave the office.’

Charlie pulled on his coat and picked up his briefcase. He was leaning across to switch off his desk lamp when his intercom buzzed.
‘Damn!’ He flicked the switch across. ‘What is it?’ he barked.

‘There’s a Mr Gibson at the front desk, sir. He says he has to see you urgently. I told him you were off duty and asked if someone else could help, but he insists he has to see you. He seems pretty distraught.’

‘Send him up.’ Charlie let out a weary sigh as he peeled off his coat and hung it back on the peg on the back of the door. He heard footsteps hurrying along the corridor. Michael Gibson stumbled into the office without knocking, pale-faced and visibly shaken. He lurched towards Charlie’s desk, almost falling.

‘Michael, what on earth’s the matter?’ Charlie grabbed him by the arm and guided him onto a chair.

‘It’s Anne.’

‘Anne? What about Anne?’

‘She’s… she’s… killed herself.’

‘What!’

Michael slumped forward and tugged at his tie knot. ‘When I got home from work I found her lying there – on the bed,’ he gasped. ‘There was an empty pill jar by her side. She’d taken an overdose.’

‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

‘I checked. She wasn’t breathing.’

‘Did you call an ambulance?’

‘I tried to. There was something wrong with my mobile – I couldn’t get a signal, so I tried to use the phone in the bedroom, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t think what else to do, so I drove straight over here.’

Anderson banged on his intercom. ‘This is an emergency. Send an ambulance to Dalgleish Tower on Clydeside – suspected overdose – possible suicide. Which floor, Michael?’

‘Fifteen. It’s the only flat on that floor.’

‘Fifteenth floor,’ Charlie shouted into the intercom. ‘Tell the ambulance crew I’ll meet them there with the keys. Get me a squad car out front straight away.’ Charlie turned to Michael. ‘You don’t have to come. You can wait here. Just give me the key to your flat.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Are you sure?’ Michael nodded as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

As soon as they’d scrambled into the back seat, the squad car raced off, siren blaring, catching up with the ambulance a few hundred yards from Dalgleish Tower. Both vehicles screeched to a halt outside the building and two paramedics, carrying a stretcher and
an oxygen mask, raced up the steps with Michael and Charlie in close pursuit.

‘There’s a code,’ Michael panted, pushing his way to the front and tapping feverishly at the control panel. As the lift was climbing, Michael fumbled in his jacket pocket for his key. His hands were trembling as he unlocked the front door.

‘Which room?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Quick.’

‘First door on the left,’ Michael said, leading the way.

Charlie put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Leave it to these guys, Michael. They know what they’re doing.’ Charlie nodded to the paramedics, who hurried towards the bedroom.

Michael slumped to his knees at Charlie’s feet. ‘Why? Why would she do it?’ Burying his head in his hands he started to sob uncontrollably.

One of the paramedics appeared in the bedroom doorway. He caught Charlie’s eye and shook his head slowly from side to side.

‘Too late?’ Charlie mouthed. The medic continued to shake his head, signalling to him to come across. Charlie stopped in the bedroom doorway. The room was empty, the bed was made and there was no sign of any disturbance. He glanced over his shoulder to where Michael was kneeling in the hall, sobbing heavily. ‘Check out the other rooms – quickly,’ he whispered.

‘Nothing, Inspector,’ the paramedic reported back a few moments later. ‘There’s no one in the apartment. Just a frightened cat in the kitchen.’

‘Michael,’ Charlie said, helping him to his feet, ‘come over here.’ He led him towards the bedroom. ‘There’s something very strange. There’s no sign of Anne.’

Michael stared open-mouthed, pointing at the bed in amazement. ‘But – half an hour ago – Anne was lying there. Oh my God! What’s happening?’

‘Calm down. I think you could use a drink.’

Charlie turned to the paramedics. ‘Sorry about the false alarm, boys. I’ll stay with him and try to get to the bottom of this. Do me a
favour. When you go downstairs ask Phil, he’s my driver, to wait for me? Tell him I don’t know how long I’ll be.’

‘No problem, Inspector.’

Charlie took Michael by the arm to lead him to the lounge and sat him down on the settee. He crossed to the bar and poured two stiff whiskies. Taking the chair opposite, he handed Michael a tumbler. ‘In your own time, tell me what happened here this evening.’

Charlie produced his notebook and his propelling pencil as Michael sipped at his drink. ‘I got home just before eight o’clock. I’d been playing squash and I’d had a couple of pints and a sandwich with Tom Crosbie after the game. I wasn’t expecting Anne to be home. Wednesday’s one of her bridge nights and she usually leaves the house around seven.

‘The first strange thing was when I got out of the lift. The apartment door was wide open. Brutus – that’s Anne’s cat – was out on the landing screeching his head off. From the hall, I could see the bedroom door was ajar and there was a light on. I shouted out Anne’s name – several times – but there was no reply. I thought there must be a burglar in the flat so I picked up a walking stick from the stand in the hall and tiptoed towards the bedroom.

‘When I got to the door – I saw her. She… she was just lying there – face up – on the bed. I dropped the walking stick. There was an empty pill bottle on the bed beside her and a half-full pitcher of water on the bedside table. Oh yes, and an empty glass lying on the bed. She was ghostly white and her eyes were closed.

‘I went to the dressing table and grabbed a mirror to hold in front of her lips. Nothing. She wasn’t breathing. I tried to call an ambulance, but my mobile wasn’t getting a signal and the phone in the bedroom was dead – not even a dialling tone. I didn’t know what to do. I took the lift down to the garage and drove across to Pitt Street as fast as I could.’

Michael downed the rest of his whisky in one. ‘Do you want another one?’ he asked, getting to his feet. Charlie shook his head.
Michael replenished his drink with a shaking hand and came back to the settee. ‘This is crazy, Charlie. What’s going on?’

‘I’ve no idea. Let’s take things slowly. Assuming you didn’t imagine something, or –’

‘I didn’t imagine anything. I saw her. She was lying there.’

‘Take it easy. Michael. As I was saying, assuming you didn’t imagine anything.’ He repeated the phrase slowly but forcibly. ‘Then we need to try to establish what happened here tonight. There must be a logical explanation, so let’s consider the options. You say Anne normally plays bridge on Wednesday evenings?’

‘Yes.’

‘In which case we’ll start by phoning her bridge club and check if she went there.’

‘I told you. She’s dead.’

‘That may or may not be the case, Michael. Perhaps Anne had fainted, or was in some kind of a coma when you found her? If you want me to help you, you have to let me do things my way. That means checking the facts and eliminating possibilities.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to fly off the handle.’

‘Do you have the bridge club number?’

‘It’ll be in that book beside the phone. It’s the St Andrew’s Club.’

Charlie found the number and dialled. ‘I’m trying to get in touch with Anne Gibson. Do you know if she’s been to the club tonight?’

‘I haven’t seen her,’ the female voice replied, ‘but let me check.’ Charlie sat back in his chair and loosened his tie knot while he waited. ‘No, she hasn’t been here at all today.’

‘Thanks.’ Charlie replaced the receiver. ‘She didn’t go to her club. By the way, the phone seems to be working all right. Was this the one you tried to use earlier?’

‘No – it was the one on the bedside table.’

Charlie went to the bedroom, returning a few moments later. ‘That one seems to be working fine too. Perhaps you panicked and didn’t hear the dialling tone?’

‘I’m telling you – the line was dead.’

‘What was the problem with your mobile?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t get a connection.’

‘Has that happened here before?’ Michael shook his head. ‘Try it now.’

Michael took his phone from his pocket and studied it. ‘It seems okay now. It’s getting a strong signal.’

‘If Anne didn’t go to her bridge club, where else might she have gone?’

Michael paused to consider. ‘Perhaps to visit Paul? I had a run-in with him at the office a while back and I haven’t seen him since, but I’m sure Anne goes round to his flat quite often.’

‘Does she have any brothers or sisters?’

‘One older sister.’

‘Might she have gone to see her?’

‘Not unless she caught a flight to Vancouver.’

Charlie tapped his pen on his teeth. ‘How long has she been out there?’

‘Since nineteen ninety-nine. I remember the date because she’d had some relationship problems and she wanted to start a new life for the new millennium.’

‘How about Anne’s friends closer to home?’

‘There are several girlfriends she meets up with regularly.’

‘Try calling around,’ Charlie handed across the phone and the telephone book. ‘Check if anyone’s seen Anne today.’

Michael dialled a number, with no response. ‘Paul’s mobile’s switched off,’ he said, ‘and there isn’t a landline in his flat. I’ll try Mary.’ Mary McDonald’s phone rang out unanswered. He made several other calls. Of those who answered, no one had seen Anne.

‘Would you have said Anne was the suicidal type?’ Charlie asked.

‘Not even remotely. I couldn’t imagine the idea entering her head.’

‘Was she under any particular stress that you know of?’

Michael hesitated. ‘Our marriage has been pretty rocky recently – not that it has been great for some time. I told Anne a couple of
weeks ago – maybe it was three – that I wanted to end it. She went ballistic. No way she would even consider it.

‘Since then we’ve been living in the same flat but we’ve hardly exchanged a civil word. But suicide?’ Michael shook his head. ‘I can’t get my head round that.’

‘Let’s go back to the facts. You said the door to the flat was open when you got out of the lift. That’s very strange in itself. Someone planning to commit suicide wouldn’t normally leave the front door wide open.’

‘What are you driving at?’

Charlie took a sip of whisky. ‘Let’s consider all the possibilities.’ Charlie put his glass down on the coffee table and started counting off on his fingers. ‘One. Anne fell ill and passed out on the bed, then recovered after you had left the apartment.’

‘What about the pill jar and the glass of water?’

‘Two. Anne took some pills because she was feeling unwell, possibly too many, and passed out. Three, she deliberately tried to take an overdose, but came round after you’d left.’ Charlie picked up his whisky glass and took a sip before continuing. ‘And four – I’m afraid I can’t think of any delicate way to put this. If it wasn’t illness, an accidental overdose or an attempted suicide, that only leaves murder.’

‘What?’ Michael rasped. ‘That’s not possible.’

Charlie’s mobile started to ring. Tugging his phone from his jacket pocket, he quickly switched it off. ‘You told me you saw Anne’s body lying on the bed. If she was ill, or had attempted suicide, I concede it’s just about feasible that she could’ve come round after you left the apartment and somehow managed to stagger out. However, it’s stretching the bounds of credibility to believe that, on her way out, she tidied away the pill bottle, the water jug and the glass, to say nothing of smoothing down the bed and repairing the phone. There must’ve been someone else involved. Someone who fixed it to look like suicide, and then removed Anne’s body. Could there have been someone else in the flat while you were here?”

‘I… I don’t know.’

‘Did you go into any of the other rooms, apart from the bedroom?’

Michael shook his head in confusion. ‘No… No, I don’t think so. Just the bedroom.’

‘So someone could’ve been hiding in the apartment while you were here?’

‘Well… yes… I suppose so. But this is crazy. Why would anyone murder Anne and then try to make it look like suicide? And why would they then remove her body and tidy up the flat?’

‘These are all good questions. I have no answers.’ Charlie reflected for a moment. ‘There is something else you ought to know, though I doubt if it has any connection with what happened here tonight. The London boys phoned me today to let me know Jack McFarlane caught a train to Glasgow this morning.’

Michael turned ashen and the veins on his neck bulged. He clenched his whisky tumbler in a trembling fist.

‘Don’t get too uptight about that.’ Charlie did his best to sound reassuring. ‘There’s no way McFarlane could be involved in Anne’s disappearance. My men have been tailing him from the moment he stepped off the London train.’

Charlie finished his drink and stood up. ‘There’s nothing more we can achieve here tonight. I’ll go back to the office and file a ‘missing persons’ report and we’ll take it from there. I’ll send someone round to Paul’s place to check when he last saw his mother. What’s his address?’

‘Saltoun Street – number thirty-one.’ Charlie made a note. ‘Do you have a recent photo of Anne I could borrow?’

Michael went to the bedroom and returned with a small silver frame. ‘This was taken in Paris last summer. Is it okay?’

Charlie studied it. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, slipping the photo from the frame and tucking it into his jacket pocket. ‘I realise this is difficult for you, Michael, but try not to get paranoid about McFarlane. We’ll be keeping close tabs on him. I’ll call you tomorrow
and let you know what progress we’ve – Damn!’ Charlie interrupted himself.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve just remembered,’ he said punching his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘I’m stuck in the High Court all day tomorrow. Don’t worry, though. I’ll set things in motion tonight and I’ll make sure you’re contacted as soon as there’s any news. In the meantime I suggest you try to get some sleep.’

‘Thanks, Charlie.’

‘And I also suggest you don’t have too many of these before you turn in.’ Charlie waved his empty whisky tumbler in the air before placing it on the coffee table.

Charlie pulled open the rear door and got into the waiting squad car.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘Drop me off back at Pitt Street, Phil.’

As the car pulled away from Dalgleish Tower, Charlie switched on his phone and saw he had a voice message from DS O’Sullivan. Having listened to it, he cursed under his breath.

As soon as he got to his office, Charlie summoned O’Sullivan.

Charlie leapt to his feet when O’Sullivan walked through the door. ‘How the hell did you manage to lose him? The London boys managed to keep tabs on McFarlane for three weeks without any problem – and you lose him in Glasgow in less than a fucking hour!’

Tony O’Sullivan stood to attention at the other side of the desk, his eyes riveted to the floor. He was in his early thirties though he could have been taken for a lot younger. Solidly built with short, crinkly red hair, he was blushing furiously, which only served to intensify his normal high colouring and highlight the mass of freckles covering his cheeks and forehead.