Double Mortice Page 11

  Charlie glared at Morrison. ‘He’ll go when I say he can go.’ He turned back to McFarlane. ‘Have you been back into Glasgow since Wednesday?’

  ‘Not until this afternoon. Archie and me were havin’ a quiet pint in my old local when your tame gorillas barged in.’

  ‘Have you seen Anne Gibson since you came back?

  ‘Who the fuck’s Anne Gibson?’

  ‘The wife of Michael Gibson, your ex-lawyer. Surely you remember threatening to kill her?’

  ‘What the hell are you tryin’ to pin on me now, Anderson?’

  ‘When you were sent down for the Bothwell Street job, you screamed from the dock that as soon as you got out you were going to kill Gibson and his wife and his son. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that?’

  ‘I never said anything like that. I –’

  ‘Anne Gibson went missing last Wednesday,’ Charlie interjected. ‘The story’s been in all the papers. We’ve reason to believe she may be dead, possibly murdered. She was last seen alive at six o’clock on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘That’s quite enough,’ Morrison spluttered. ‘This is ridiculous. You’re haranguing my client about someone who’s gone missing – possibly dead. My client has no connection with this person and he has a watertight alibi for his movements at the time in question. Mr McFarlane has been extremely cooperative and has freely agreed to answer your questions. I now must insist that you either produce a charge or else release him.’

  Charlie got to his feet. ‘You’re free to go. How long are you planning to stay around here?’ he asked as McFarlane stood up.

  ‘Haven’t given it a lot of thought. Depends what turns up.’

  ‘Will you be staying at McWilliam’s place?’

  ‘For the time bein’.’

  Charlie watched from his office window as McFarlane and Morrison crossed the street to Morrison’s parked car. ‘I hope you’ve got it organised properly this time, Tony.’

  ‘I’ve assigned three men to it on shifts to give us twenty four hour surveillance,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘They’ll stick to him like glue. He won’t give us the slip again.’

  ‘He bloody-well better not,’ Charlie growled. ‘Because if he does, you can have the pleasure of explaining it to Niggle.’

  Charlie stopped off at the vending machine to pick up a coffee before making his way along the corridor towards his office, twisting and stretching his spine as he went, trying to ease the nagging pain in the small of his back. He sat down on his chair and pressed his intercom. ‘Call Paisley Police Station, Pauline. Try to get hold of Bobby Rooney for me.’

  When Charlie’s phone sounded, he picked up. ‘I’ve got Sergeant Rooney on the line, sir.’

  ‘Hello, Bobby. How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine, Charlie. I thought you’d retired?’

  ‘Not long to go now, I’m delighted to say.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Does the name Archie McWilliam mean anything to you? Wife’s called Maisie. Has a flat at the top of the High Street.’

  ‘Sure, I know him well. Small time crook. A few burglaries – a bit of shop-lifting – but nothing I’d have thought merited the attention of the Glasgow CID.’

  ‘We’re not interested in him, but he’s got Jack McFarlane staying with him. Remember him? Bothwell Street bank robbery – about twelve years back?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘McFarlane claims to have been with the McWilliams on Wednesday evening from the back of six onwards. Do me a favour. Nip round to McWilliam’s place and take a statement from him and his missus. They’re going to corroborate McFarlane’s alibi of course, but give me a call off the record and let me know if you think they’re at it. It might all be kosher, I just don’t know. Wednesday was the night Anne Gibson went missing and I’ve got a hunch McFarlane’s mixed up in it somehow.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s a pint I owe you.’

  Charlie disconnected, then called Michael Gibson.

  ‘What happened?’ Gibson’s voice was slurred. ‘What did you get out of McFarlane?’

  ‘Next to nothing. He’s got an alibi for the time Anne disappeared. I don’t know how genuine it is, but we’re not likely to break it. I looked him straight in the eye when I mentioned your name, but not a flicker. If he’s lying, he’s a very cool customer. We’d no reason to hold him so I had to let him go.’

  ‘I realise you’re doing everything you can, Charlie. Sorry about flying off the handle earlier on. It’s all getting to me.’

  ‘I understand. Are you going to go into the office this week?’

  ‘I couldn’t face it. I’ve left Peter Davies in charge until further notice.’

  ‘It might be a good idea if you were to go in. It would help to take your mind off things – and it would keep you away from the bottle,’ Charlie added.

  ‘Wise counsel, Charlie, as always. I’ll give it a try tomorrow and see how it goes.’

  Frank Morrison dropped McFarlane off outside Central Station. ‘I haven’t seen anybody trying to follow us, Jack,’ he said, leaning across to check his rear-view mirror again.

  McFarlane got out of the car and looked back along Gordon Street. ‘I haven’t seen anyone either, but there’s someone there all right. I can sense it. Thanks for the lift, Frank.’

  McFarlane walked into the station and crossed to a ticket booth where he handed across a twenty pound note. ‘Single to Paisley Gilmour Street, Jimmy.’ Picking up the ticket and his change, he strolled across the concourse to study the departures board. The next train to Paisley was the six thirty-seven. He checked the station clock – twenty minutes to kill. He wandered into the buffet and ordered a pint of heavy. He stood by the door as he sipped at his beer, his eyes scanning the crowds of commuters scurrying towards the platforms. ‘I might not be able to see you, pal,’ he mumbled under his breath, ‘but I know you’re out there.’

  It was after half-past seven when McFarlane rang Archie McWilliam’s bell.

  ‘I was hoping it would be you, Jack,’ Archie said. ‘How did it go? Did the bastards give you a hard time?’

  ‘Nothin’ I couldn’t handle. They didn’t manage to pin anythin’ on me. Not for want o’ tryin’, mind. By the way, you’ll probably get a visit from the pigs. They’ll be wantin’ to know where I was last Wednesday from six o’clock on. You and Maisie and me spent the whole evenin’ here, bletherin’ and drinkin’. Right?’

  ‘Of course we did!’ Archie slapped his thigh and laughed uproariously. ‘I’d better remind Maisie, but.’

  Tuesday 15 March

  The following day McFarlane and McWilliam spent most of the afternoon in a bookmaker’s in Well Street, neither of them coming out in front.

  ‘I think I’d better pack it in now,’ Archie said, looking disconsolate. ‘While I’ve still got enough for a bevvy.’

  McFarlane checked his watch. ‘High time we were out of here anyway.’

  They both cupped their hands to light up cigarettes as they walked to the top of Well Street. The rain had eased, but when they turned into the High Street they had to bend almost double into the chilling wind. They went into the Bruce Arms and McWilliam went up to the bar to order two large whiskieswhich he took across to the table by the door where McFarlane was waiting.

  McFarlane tossed back his whisky in one swallow, screwing up his face. ‘That hit the spot. I can feel the warmth comin’ back to my bones.’ He studied the faces of all the customers propping up the bar, then whispered to McWilliam. ‘Time we were makin’ a move.’ McWilliam downed his drink and got to his feet, following McFarlane into the toilets. Having checked to make sure they were alone, they emptied the contents of their pockets – wallets, keys, money, cigarettes – onto the ledge above the wash hand basin before stripping off their anoraks, trousers and shoes. Having exchanged clothes, they dressed quickly, then picked up their possessions before returning to the bar.

  McFarlane surveyed the scene. The same un
interested customers. No one had entered or left the pub while they had been in the toilets. He nodded to Archie as he pulled up his anorak hood, tugging on the drawstrings and tying them tightly underneath his chin. ‘Do the trainers fit?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re a bit big, but I’ll manage.’ They strode from the pub and hurried back up the High Street, the wind behind them threatening to lift them off their feet. At the mouth of McWilliam’s close they shook hands and McFarlane went inside while McWilliam continued on up the High Street. McFarlane darted straight through the close to the back of the tenement building and, with the aid of a dustbin, clambered over the high brick wall. Dropping to the ground, he sprinted the fifty yards to the end of the muddy lane, the wind and rain stinging his eyes. When he emerged from the lane he slowed to a halting limp. ‘Why could you no’ take a size ten instead o’ a bloody nine, Archie,’ he muttered. When he saw a taxi approaching, he flagged it down.

  ‘Where to, pal?’

  ‘Dalgleish Tower.’

  ‘Where’s that?

  ‘It’s a new block o’ flats near the city centre.’

  ‘Is it yon big glass building down by the river?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  The driver laughed. ‘That’s the one the Glasgow cabbies call Kenny’s Castle.’

  Having spent most of the afternoon on another round of interviews with Anne Gibson’s relatives and friends, Charlie Anderson had another twenty pages of shorthand notes to show for his trouble, with not a single worthwhile bit of information coming to light.

  He was about to go home when his phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

  ‘Is that you, Charlie? ‘Michael Gibson’s voice was hoarse.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s… it’s happened again.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Wednesday 16 March

  Unable to sleep, his brain wrestling to make sense of the previous evening’s events, Charlie got up at five-thirty and set off for Pitt Street, getting to his office not long after six o’clock. If nothing else, he thought, this would give him the uninterrupted time he needed to make some sort of impression on his paperwork.

  It was still dark outside and the central heating hadn’t kicked in. Without taking off his overcoat, he lifted the heavy pile of correspondence from his drawer and placed it in the middle of his desk. He took his fountain pen and his propelling pencil from his inside jacket pocket and laid them neatly beside the papers.

  Taking the biscuit tin containing change from his bottom left-hand drawer, he spilled the contents onto the desk. Having selected the coins he needed for a coffee, he swept the rest of the money back into the tin. On the way to the vending machines he stopped off at Pauline’s desk and left a hand-written note asking her to schedule an appointment with Dr Stephen McCartney as soon as possible.

  When Charlie next looked up at his wall clock it showed half past seven. He got to his feet to stretch his spine. He was stiff and cold but was pleased with the progress he’d made. He eyed the two piles of paper. He’d managed to move more than half the correspondence to his out-tray.

  As he sat down again and took the next item from the pile, he heard the welcome click of the central heating cutting in. He shrugged off his coat and was halfway through reading the memo when a sharp rap on the door interrupted his train of thought.

  ‘Yes?’ he spoke tetchily, peering over the top of his spectacles. ‘Who is it?’

  Tony O’Sullivan pushed open the door. Charlie ripped off his spectacles and flung them down on the desk.

  ‘I gather you picked up my call, sir.’

  ‘Who lost him this time, Tony? I’ll have his guts for garters!’

  ‘McGinley was tailing him at the time. But it wasn’t his fault. McFarlane and McWilliam worked a switch.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Charlie gripped the edge of his desk and pulled himself to his full height. ‘What the hell’s the matter with McGinley? Didn’t he realise they were liable to pull a flanker?’

  ‘It was a filthy night, sir. McFarlane and McWilliam went into a pub in the High Street in Paisley where they must’ve swapped clothes. They headed back towards McWilliam’s flat, then split up. McGinley suspected they were up to something, but he didn’t spot the switch. He had to decide who to follow and he got it wrong.’

  ‘Christ, it’s not that difficult. You follow the one with the fucking big scar down the side of his face. What could be simpler than that?’

  O’Sullivan stood with head bowed and bit his bottom lip. He knew from years of bitter experience that the worst thing he could do right now would be to try to defend McGinley’s mistake. Attempting to explain that McFarlane and McWilliam both had their faces covered by anorak hoods would only prolong the tirade.

  Charlie ranted on for a while before flopping back down on his chair. Picking up his spectacles, he twirled them round in his fingers. ‘Well get this. Just as I was about to leave for home last night, I got a call from Michael Gibson to tell me he’d found his wife’s body – again. Only this time it wasn’t suicide – she’d been murdered. Tied to the bed in their bedroom and her throat slashed.’

  O’Sullivan’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You have got to be kidding.’

  ‘If only. But it was the same old story. I rushed across to his flat, but there was no sign of a body – no evidence of a disturbance of any kind. He must have been hallucinating. Just to be on the safe side, send a forensic team across to Dalgleish Tower this morning. Tell them to crawl over the Gibsons’ bedroom. The usual stuff – any sign of violence, any traces of blood on the floor or the bed, etc. It’s going to be a complete waste of time, but we need to confirm it. Get someone to talk to the caretaker and the other residents – there aren’t that many – in case anyone saw or heard anything suspicious last night.’

  ‘Has Gibson lost it completely?’

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s playing games with us. Maybe he’s murdered his wife and he’s trying to throw up a smokescreen.’

  ‘Or maybe she’s walked out on him and he’s having a breakdown,’ O’Sullivan suggested.

  ‘There are too many maybes for my liking.’ Charlie folded his spectacles and slid them inside their case. ‘And to crown a perfect day yesterday,’ he added, ‘I had Niggle on my back bending my ear about our lack of progress on Anne Gibson’s disappearance. He’s going to love this morning’s update. A reported suicide without a corpse turns into a reported murder without a corpse – and we lose Jack McFarlane into the bargain – for the second time.’

  The office soon warmed up. Charlie immersed himself in his paperwork, time passing quickly as he steadily reduced his in-tray. Just after nine o’clock his intercom buzzed. ‘It’s Pauline, sir. I’ve spoken to Dr McCartney’s secretary. He’s had a cancellation for ten o’clock this morning. Is that too soon for you?’

  ‘The sooner the better. Confirm with McCartney’s secretary that I’ll take that slot, then call the Marriott and leave a message for Michael Gibson. Tell him I’ll pick him up outside the main entrance at quarter to ten.’

  By the time Charlie had emptied his in-tray it was half past nine. As he stood up to pull on his coat his intercom buzzed.

  ‘Superintendent Hamilton would like you to go up to his office straight away, sir.’ Charlie mumbled under his breath. ‘Pardon, sir?’

  ‘I said you just missed me, Pauline. I left the office five minutes ago.’

  ‘Er… yes, sir.’ Pauline sounded taken aback. ‘Five minutes ago…’

  Just before ten o’clock, Charlie and Michael Gibson walked up to the psychiatrist’s reception desk, their footsteps making no sound on the red, thick-pile carpet. ‘We have an appointment with Dr McCartney,’ Charlie said.

  The receptionist consulted her desk-diary. ‘Detective Inspector Anderson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you’d care to take a seat, gentlemen.’ She indicated the row of black leather armchairs opposite. ‘I’ll let Dr McCartney
know you’re here.’

  They had been seated for only a few minutes when the receptionist called across. ‘He can see you now.’

  Charlie strained to lever his bulky frame from the narrow chair and led the way down the corridor. He knocked discreetly on McCartney’s door and entered the oak-panelled office. Stephen McCartney, a tall, casually dressed man in his mid-forties, rose from behind his desk to greet them. He had a muscular build and his face was deeply tanned from his recent skiing holiday.

  ‘How are you keeping, Charlie? It must be at least a year since I last saw you.’

  ‘I’m fine, Stephen. This is Michael Gibson.’ McCartney smiled welcomingly as he took Michael’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Michael’s had a traumatic time of it over the past few days,’ Charlie explained. ‘His wife, Anne, has disappeared without trace and he’s had two bizarre experiences. Last Wednesday he imagined she’d committed suicide, then last night he imagined she’d being murdered. I thought it would be useful if he talked to you.’ McCartney nodded. ‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Charlie said, turning to leave.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Michael said hesitantly. ‘Would it be possible for you to stay? Would that be all right, doctor? If Charlie were to stay?’

  ‘No problem from my point of view.’

  ‘Could you stay, Charlie? You’ve been through all this with me. I’d really like you to stick around.’

  Charlie looked enquiringly at McCartney. ‘Is that a good idea?’

  ‘It might be helpful. If you’ve already heard Michael’s story, it could be useful to know if his recall of the events remains consistent – whether or not his memory’s playing tricks on him.’

  ‘If it might be of help, sure, I can stay.’ Charlie conjured up a mental image of Niggle sitting behind his desk – pursed lips sucking hard on his teeth – spindly fingers tapping rhythmically on his desk. ‘I’m in no rush to get back to the office.’ Pulling off his coat, he took the chair against the far wall.