Double Mortice Read online

  ‘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 an
d 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?’

  SIX

  Michael sank back down onto his chair. ‘I knew he was due to get out today. I often wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, thinking about what he threatened.’ Michael shuddered at the memory of the scene in the courtroom. McFarlane, a crazed look in his eyes, screaming at the top of his voice when the judge passed sentence: ‘When I get out I’m going to fucking-well kill you, Gibson! You – and your wife – and your kid!’.

  ‘That happened a long time ago, Michael. It’s possible he’s forgotten all about the incident. I’m told he was disruptive during his first two years in Peterhead, but he calmed down a lot after that. I’ve seen his file. He kept himself to himself and stayed out of trouble. He even earned three years’ remission for good behaviour. Just so you know, I got a call from the National Crime Agency a while back to let me know they’ll be keeping tabs on him when he gets out.’

  ‘What’s their interest in him?’

  ‘He got duffed up a few times while he was in Peterhead by Terry McNee and his cronies, apparently because they think he knows where the proceeds from the Bothwell Street job are hidden. The NCA have got Larry Robertson’s card marked for that one, and they’re pretty sure he was also involved in a multi-million pound jewellery store heist in London last year, as well as a bank robbery in Birmingham. As you know, the loot from the Bothwell street job was never found and if McFarlane knows where it’s stashed, it’s only a matter of time until he comes here looking for it. I’ll be staying close to the NCA on this one, so at least I’ll be able to tip you the wink if and when he comes anywhere near Glasgow.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Charlie. I don’t know if you know, but Anne and I moved house a few months back. Paul had decided to move into a flat – you know what it’s like when you’re twenty-one – independence is everything. After he left home, the house in Bearsden was too big for just the two of us and as neither of us was very keen on gardening, we decided to go for an apartment in Dalgleish Tower.’

  ‘Nice one!’ Charlie exclaimed, aware of the sort of money that entailed.

  ‘I must admit, when we decided on Dalgleish Tower, the security aspect was a major consideration.’

  ‘I hear the place is like Fort Knox.’

  Michael smiled. ‘Not quite. But the building does have a caretaker who lives on the premises, as well as reinforced steel doors and security access codes. I feel pretty safe there – a lot safer than I did in Bearsden.

  ‘Is that the time?’ Michael said, glancing at his watch and quickly getting to his feet. ‘I’d better be on my way. I’ve got a meeting with Madill at twelve-thirty to discuss tomorrow’s trial. I’ll get in touch with you this afternoon and let you know how we’re going to plead.’

  Harry Kennedy edged his way along the towpath, testing each footstep carefully before committing his full weight, while at the same time trying to avoid the deep snow cascading over the top of his Wellingtons. The wind, whipping off the river, was stinging his eyes and ridges of frost were forming on his thick moustache and his eyebrows. Through the falling snow, he could make out the jib of a crane swaying back and forth high above his head – like the shadowy beak of a giant flamingo searching the leaden skies for food. Harry gripped the guard rail tightly to make sure he didn’t stray off the invisible path. Ten feet below, to his left, the icy waters of the Clyde were lapping against the bank.

  When he reached the pub, Harry kicked his Wellingtons against a low wall to dislodge the wet snow before pushing the door open. Blinking his eyes to adjust to the dim light, he realised he was the only customer.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Harry Kennedy,’ the barman called out, folding his Sporting Life and getting to his feet.

  Harry tugged off his raincoat as he dripped his way across to the bar. Though small of stature, he weighed over thirteen stones and had the build of a rugby prop forward; legs and arms like tree trunks, broad, square shoulders and a barrel chest. His head seemed to connect directly to his body with no discernible sign of an intervening neck. His complexion was ruddy and a permanent, impish grin lit up his features.

  ‘It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,’ the barman said, ‘I was beginning to think you’d gone on the wagon.’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised, Tommy. I’ll have you know that I once went for seven years without touchin’ a single drop.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Och, it was a while back. Then I said to myself: ‘What the hell! Everybody else is enjoyin’ my seventh birthday party – why shouldn’t I?’’

  Tommy chortled. ‘Same old Harry. What are you having?’

  ‘A pie an’ a pint o’ heavy, please.’ Clambering onto a high bar stool, Harry draped his sodden coat over the adjacent stool and pulled out a tissue to dab the melting ice from his eyebrows and his moustache. He glanced round the bar. ‘It’s been quite a while since I’ve been in here, right enough. It was such a long drag from the school. But my new job’s just along the road, so you’ll be seein’ a lot more o’ me from now on.’

  ‘Delighted to hear it.’ Tommy wiped his hands on a bar towel before opening the glass display cabinet and sliding a mutton pie onto a plate, which he popped into the microwave. Crossing to the hand pump, he started to pull a pint of heavy. ‘New job, eh? So you’re not still working at the school?’

  ‘I retired from the janitorin’ last month. But I fell on my feet all right. I saw a job advertised for a Facilities Manager for yon new block o’ flats doon the road. You ken the one I mean? It’s called Dalgleish Tower. Fifteen floors o’ plate glass – beside the river.’

  ‘I’ve seen it. Hey, that was lucky – getting another job as quick as that.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there. I must tell you about the interview, but. It was a bloody scream.’ Harry’s eyes sparkled as he recalled his story. ‘About a week after I’d sent in my application I got a letter tellin’ me to go to the Viewpark Estate Agency in Hope Street for an interview wi’ a Mr Chalmers. So I gets myself all dolled up an’ I dauners doon to Hope Street. Chalmers turns oot to be wan of thae English chanty-wrastlers, frae Chichester, he telt me, wi’ a la-de-da accent you could cut wi’ a knife. You ken the kind I mean? Kelvinside, only worse.’

  ‘I know the type well.’

&nb
sp; ‘Anyway, Chalmers starts aff: Do you know why we decided to call the building Dalgleish Tower, Mr Kennedy? I comes back, quick as a flash. You’ll have named it after Kenny, I suppose. Then I added. You do realise, Mr Chalmers, that Kenny played for Celtic, so callin’ it Dalgleish Tower will alienate the Rangers’ fans. Did you notice that nice wee touch there, Tommy? – alienate. I’d decided to slip a few big words into the conversation so Chalmers wouldny think he was dealin’ wi’ some wee, ignorant Glesca keelie. An’ they’re the majority of your potential customers, I says. Good stuff, eh? – majority an’ potential – in the same sentence. Really floggin’ the auld vocabulary for all it was worth, I was. Might it no’ be better to call it Mo Johnston Tower?, says me wi’ a straight face, seein’ as Mo played for both Celtic and Rangers? I said that to him. I did. Honest. He just sat there lookin’ flummoxed. He hadn’t a bloody clue what I was witterin’ on aboot. No’ that I’m in any way bothered myself, I added. I’m a Thistle man through and through.’

  Tommy smiled as he set Harry’s pint down in front of him.

  Grinning broadly, Harry took a sip before continuing. ‘So Chalmers clears his throat an’ says, dead posh like: Actually, Mr Kennedy, we named the building after the fourth Earl of Dalgleish. It was on the tip o’ my tongue to say: Oh, aye? Whit team did he play for? But I couldny have done that withoot burstin’ oot laughin’. After that, I thought I’d better screw the nut. I mean, I did want the job, efter all. So I just nodded an’ said: Oh, the fourth Earl of Dalgleish, is it? That’ll be a’ right then. That shouldny upset anybody.