Double Mortice Page 23
‘Sorry about that.’ Michael managed a weak grin.
‘You’d think I’d have known better. It’s definitely time I packed it in and headed off to potter about in my allotment.’
‘I’ve got some information for you, Charlie.’ Michael’s whisper was urgent. ‘I know where McFarlane’s hiding out.’
‘Where?’
‘He’s staying at Larry Robertson’s place at the top of Turnberry Road.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Bernie McGurk found out for me.’
‘McGurk?’
‘You must know Bernie. He’s the best source of information in Glasgow.’
Charlie let out a low sigh. ‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
Charlie pulled The Herald from his coat pocket and tugged his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. Putting on his spectacles, he flicked through the paper until he found the article he was looking for. He read aloud:
A man’s body was recovered from the River Clyde late last night, near the weir in Glasgow Green. He has been identified as fifty-eight year old Bernard McGurk.
Mindful of Michael’s condition, Charlie skipped over the paragraph describing the fact that McGurk had been blinded in both eyes before being shot by a single bullet through the temple.
The police are appealing for anyone who saw McGurk within the past twenty-four hours to come forward, etc, etc.
Charlie pulled off his glasses. He folded the newspaper and stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘A pound to a pinch of shit McFarlane got wind of the fact that Bernie was asking questions about him,’ Charlie said, shaking his head. ‘I doubt very much if he’ll go anywhere near Robertson’s place now.’ Michael felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. ‘I’m told you were carrying a gun when you collapsed in the street. What in the name of God was that all about?’
‘I was going to kill McFarlane. It’s the only way of dealing with him.’
‘You have got to leave these things to us,’ Charlie snapped. ‘You can’t take the law into your own hands and wander round Glasgow brandishing a gun. You’re descending to his level.’
Michael struggled to sit up straight. ‘He murdered Anne. He tried to kill Paul. Now it’s him or me.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Michael. Spare me the B-movie melodrama. You’re talking about going after one of the most ruthless bastards ever to walk the streets of Glasgow. Leave it alone, for God’s sake.’
Dr McCormick strode down the ward towards the bed. ‘What’s all this commotion about?’ he hissed. ‘Do I need to remind you, Inspector, that Mr Gibson needs complete rest. Shouting and arguing is not conducive to his recovery, to say nothing of the disturbance you’re causing to the other patients on the ward.’
‘I’ll be the one having a coronary if I can’t talk sense into this pig-headed idiot.’
McCormick glared at Charlie. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
Charlie took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. ‘Sorry, doctor,’ he said getting to his feet and holding up a hand in apology. He turned back to Michael and spoke quietly. ‘If McFarlane murdered Anne, we’ll find him – and we’ll deal with him. Trust me.’
As soon he got back to Pitt Street, Charlie summoned O’Sullivan. ‘It appears that McFarlane was staying at Larry Robertson’s place in Turnberry Road. I don’t have the address, but it’ll be on file. He’ll almost certainly have shot the crow by now but check it out anyway.’
After a light lunch, Michael Gibson had been given his second nitroglycerine treatment. For the first time in months, his headache was almost gone, even when he lifted his head from the pillow. A plan was forming in his mind. He tugged open the locker beside his bed to check his clothes were inside, then he picked up his watch from the bedside table and timed the two nurses who were busying themselves collecting lunch trays. They were nearing the far end of the ward, six beds to go. He reckoned it would be about two minutes before they would turn round and come back down the ward. He looked around to make sure no one was paying any attention to him. Most of the patients were settling down for an after-lunch nap. Snatches of snoring were already in evidence.
Pulling the adhesive tape from his forearm, he eased out the drip needle and got out of bed. He tucked his clothes and shoes under his arm and walked as steadily and as confidently as he could towards the top of the ward.
As soon as he got to the toilets, he stepped out of his hospital pyjamas and pulled on his clothes. Glancing back up the ward, he saw the nurses stacking the last of the trays. He headed for the wide staircase and gripped the banister tightly as he made his way down.
It was dusk by the time Philippa Scott left her office. Balancing her briefcase on her head to protect her hair from the light drizzle, she trotted as fast as her tight mini-skirt would allow, across Bath Street, towards her parked car, cursing when she saw the folded plastic envelope sticking out from under the Peugeot’s windscreen wiper. ‘Not another bloody ticket! I’m barely ten minutes over the time, for God’s sake.’ She snatched the envelope from under the wiper.
Unlocking the car door, she threw her briefcase onto the passenger seat and got in. ‘How much this time?’ As she was taking the sheet of paper out of the envelope, she realised it wasn’t a parking ticket. She recognised Michael’s handwriting. She started to read:
Pippa, I have to see you. It’s a matter of life and death. I know who killed Anne and Gordon Parker but I need your help to prove it. I can’t risk going to your place. Meet me in Dalgleish Tower tonight at seven o’clock. Whatever you do, don’t mention a word of this to anyone, especially not the police. You have got to trust me. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Michael.
Philippa’s mind was in turmoil. What should she do? Should she go to meet him? She checked her watch – ten past six – she had half an hour to make up her mind. She stuffed the note into her handbag and got out of the car. She hurried along the street as far as the nearest pub and ordered a gin and tonic at the bar. Having re-read the note, she decided to call Jonathan. He would give her sensible advice, maybe even come with her to Dalgleish Tower. She took her mobile phone from her bag and clicked onto his number, but only reached his messaging service. She clicked onto another number.
‘This is Philippa Scott,’ she said to Jonathan Sharp’s secretary. ‘Would it be possible for me to talk to Mr Sharp? It is rather urgent.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Scott, but he’s still in the board meeting. It was scheduled to finish at six but they’re running late. I don’t know how long they’ll be. Can I take a message?’
‘No message. Thanks.’
Charlie Anderson paced up and down his office. The pieces of the jigsaw didn’t fit. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, something significant. He sensed it, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He needed help to get his thoughts straight. He buzzed through on his intercom. ‘Pauline, find out if O’Sullivan is still in the building.’
A few moments later Pauline was back on the line. ‘He’ll be with you in a couple of minutes, sir.’
‘Thanks. I need peace and quiet to do some thinking, Pauline. Hold any calls. I don’t want to be disturbed for the next hour.’
‘Close the door and grab a seat,’ Charlie said when O’Sullivan walked into the office. Taking his propelling pencil from his jacket pocket, Charlie wound down the lead. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a blank sheet of paper. ‘I need your help to get everything down in writing, Tony,’ he said. ‘Dates, times, places, people. It’s a slog, but it’s the only way to find The Key Question.’ Referring to his notebook, he started to compile a chronological list of events.
Philippa depressed the button on the remote control and waited while the doors shuddered open before driving down the steep ramp to the underground garage in Dalgleish Tower. Michael’s Mercedes and Anne’s Volvo were sitting in their usual parking bays, both covered in a thin film of dust. She drew up alongside the cars. Her high-heels clicked on
the stone floor as she hurried across towards the control panel to tap in the security code. As she was riding up in the lift to the fifteenth floor she rummaged in her handbag for her key.
When she unlocked the apartment door, she saw the hall was in darkness, except for a pool of light seeping from under the closed door of the master bedroom. She shut the front door as quietly as she could and tiptoed towards the bedroom. ‘Michael!’ she called out in a hoarse whisper. ‘Are you in there?’
She could feel her heartbeat flutter as she turned the handle and eased open the door. The top light was on and the curtains were drawn. ‘Michael, where are you, for God’s sake?’ She pushed the door open wide and stepped inside, then squealed in fright when the bedroom door slammed behind her.
Spinning round, she saw a tall figure standing with his back against the door, blocking her escape. He was dressed from head to toe in black with a woollen hood covering his face and neck. Wild eyes stared at her through narrow slits. He was brandishing an ivory-handled, cut-throat razor. ‘I see you found my note,’ the muffled voice whispered. ‘Thanks for coming.’
Philippa’s scream was throttled as he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to the floor. He dropped to his knees behind her and held her neck in a vice-like grip in the crook of his arm, the blade poised – inches from her eyes. ‘Shut up!’ he commanded. ‘Or I’ll slit your throat. Do you understand?’
Choking back her scream, Philippa tried to nod her head. ‘You’re choking me,’ she gasped, struggling to twist from his grasp.
Without warning, her assailant sprang to his feet, his arm still locked around her throat. She was dragged up by him. He dropped the razor onto the floor and spun her round to deliver a sickening punch to her solar plexus. She folded in two and collapsed in a crumpled heap, groaning and clutching at the pit of her stomach.
Yanking her up by the hair, he threw her violently on her back onto the bed. He grabbed her right arm and, before she realised what was happening, he’d pulled her wrist through a loop of white rope that was already attached to the bedpost. He tugged the noose closed. He went quickly to the other side of the bed and grabbed her other wrist. When she glanced over her shoulder she saw another noose waiting. She struggled to pull her arm back, but she was no match for his strength. Inch by inch, he dragged her wrist towards the rope and forced her hand through the loop, pulling the noose tight. He grabbed her left ankle and flicked off her shoe. Looking down, she saw the ropes attached to the bottom of the bed. She kicked out frantically with both legs, catching him a glancing blow on the side of the head and forcing him to release his grip.
‘You little bitch!’ he cursed hoarsely as he took a step back, massaging his bruised jaw through the hood. He swept the razor up from the floor and held it under her chin. She looked down in terror. Her eyes couldn’t focus on the blade but she could feel the cold steel pressing against her throat. ‘You do exactly as I say, or I’ll cut you.’ She froze. ‘Stretch your legs out towards the corners of the bed,’ he demanded. She didn’t move. ‘Do it!’ he yelled applying pressure to the blade. The razor stung painfully as it bit into Philippa’s flesh and she felt a trickle of warm blood running down her neck. ‘I said – do it!’ he screamed in her face. ‘Now!’
Slowly, she stretched out her legs as he had commanded. He went to the bottom of the bed and grabbed her left ankle to pull it through a noose, then he stretched her right leg to the other corner of the bed and flicked off her shoe before fastening her ankle securely, her leather mini-skirt riding up her thighs as she lay, spread-eagled, gasping for breath. He paced up and down beside the bed, peering closely at his victim, a stalking lion examining his prey. He picked up a roll of brown adhesive tape from the bedside table and sliced off a length with the razor. Philippa’s mind started racing. Desperately, she tried to recall what she could remember about such situations – theories she’d read about in magazines, never dreaming she’d ever have to put them into practice. Jumbled phrases came flooding into her brain – ‘even if you’re physically overpowered, don’t concede the mental initiative’ – ‘never show fear’ – ‘stay calm’ – ‘talk to him’ – ‘discuss and debate’ – ‘try to win his confidence’ – ‘most important of all, make him talk to you – and keep him talking’.
She realised that if she allowed him to gag her, she was finished. She had to communicate with him. She had to get him talking. As he stretched across the bed to fasten the tape over her mouth, she made a superhuman effort to keep her voice steady. ‘You don’t need to do that.’ She spoke as calmly and as confidently as she could. ‘I’m all right now. I’m not going to scream.’ Cramp was seizing the calf muscles in her left leg. She mustn’t let the pain show in her face – he might interpret it as fear. She was in agony as she looked him straight in the eye. How was he was going to react? He stared back at her. She tried not to blink. Before, she’d thought the glaring eyes were those of a maniac. Now they just looked cold and cruel.
‘You promise not to scream?’
‘I promise.’
‘You wouldn’t lie to me?’
‘No.’ She summoned all the willpower she could muster to keep her voice steady. ‘I wouldn’t lie to you.’ He gazed at her in silence for a full minute – to Philippa, it seemed like an eternity – then he crumpled the tape in his fist and dropped it onto the floor. She swallowed hard. At least there was a vestige of hope. Get him talking, her brain screamed at her. Communicate with him.
‘Who are you? Why are you doing this?’ She pressed the sole of her left foot against the bed post and tensed her ankle as best she could to try to control the cramp. Thankfully, the pain was easing.
‘You really don’t know who I am?’ His laughter was muffled by the hood. ‘Well, you might as well know, because it won’t make the slightest bit of difference. You won’t be leaving here alive.’
He tugged the hood from his head.
THIRTY-ONE
Charlie Anderson rocked back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He lifted up the sheet of paper and studied what he’d written:
At the start of March: Anne Gibson switches her key to flat 15 for the key to flat 14 in Harry Kennedy’s safe.
Friday, March 4: Anne Gibson and Gordon Parker order a duplicate set of Charles Rennie Mackintosh furniture.
Wednesday, March 9: McFarlane travels from London to Glasgow (gives O’Sullivan the slip) / Michael Gibson reports his wife’s ‘suicide’ in Dalgleish Tower / Anne Gibson disappears (and hides out in Aberdeen).
Tuesday, March 15: Anne Gibson returns to Glasgow from Aberdeen / McFarlane takes a taxi to Dalgleish Tower / Michael Gibson reports his wife’s murder (which happened in flat 14).
Thursday, March 17: Anne Gibson’s body is found in the Gleniffer Braes / Michael Gibson absconds from the Marriott.
Friday, March 18: Gordon Parker found murdered in Paul Gibson’s flat.
Charlie scanned the page several times, his eye finally settling on the first line. ‘Okay, Tony, let’s see what we’ve got here,’ he said. ‘Anne Gibson switches keys. That’s logical enough, she needs access to flat 14 to set up the suicide and murder scams. However, that means that, from then on, she no longer has a key for her own flat – she had to leave her key in Harry Kennedy’s safe when she did the swap. She didn’t order a replacement – Harry would certainly have mentioned if she had.’
‘But she continues to go in and out of her flat during the following week,’ O’Sullivan said, ‘so she must have had a key.’
Harry told me there were only four issued,’ Charlie said. ‘Michael had his – and she’d hardly ask Philippa Scott if she could borrow hers. Ergo, she must have borrowed Paul’s. Funny, he didn’t say anything about that.’
Furrowing his brow, Charlie leaned across his desk and picked up his notebook, thumbing through the pages until he came to the shorthand notes of his interview with Paul in Traquair House. He read them out loud:
‘When was the last time you saw your mother?’
‘Did you go to Dalgleish Tower at all during the time your mother was missing?’
‘A couple of times. But only when I was sure my father wouldn’t be there. I went there to make sure Brutus was all right. He’s Mum’s cat. He needs a lot of t.l.c.. Mum idolised him, but if it was left to Dad, he’d be lucky if he didn’t starve.’
Charlie’s eyes flicked back to the top of the page. He drew a circle round the first question and answer:
‘When was the last time you saw your mother?’
‘A few days before she disappeared. I went round to the flat one morning for a coffee.’
‘Eureka, Tony! That’s The Key Question.’ Charlie slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Paul Gibson told me that the last time he saw his mother was ‘a few days before she disappeared’. That was a lie. He must have seen her on the day she left – and he must have known she was leaving – because she had to give him back his key so he could get into the flat to take care of the cat.’ Charlie allowed himself a wry smile. ‘The Key Question. Quite literally. I must remember to include that in the next graduate seminar.’
Charlie’s train of thought was broken by the ring of his phone.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, sir,’ said Pauline. ‘I know you said you weren’t to be disturbed, but there’s a girl on the line who insists she has to talk to you straight away. She says she knows who killed Gordon Parker, but she won’t speak to anyone but you.’
‘Put her through.’
‘Is that Inspector Anderson?’ the hesitant voice was trembling.