Double Mortice (15 page)

Charlie dropped the receiver onto its cradle and wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow.

‘Did we manage to check out Gibson’s movements on Tuesday?’ he asked.

‘I went to his office today,’ Renton said. ‘I spoke to Peter Davies, one of Gibson’s colleagues. He had a meeting with Gibson from – let me see.’ Renton flicked through his notebook. ‘From 17.37 to 18.24 on Tuesday afternoon. A stickler for accuracy, our Mr Davies. A man after your own heart, sir.’ Renton smirked.

‘Was Gibson in the office all day?’

‘I didn’t get a definitive answer to that. His secretary, Sheila Thompson, wasn’t there. Her mother’s ill and she took the day off to visit her in Falkirk. I spoke to the other secretary, Sandra. She checked Gibson’s diary and the meeting with Davies was the only one scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. It seems he spent most of the day ploughing through a backlog of paperwork, but Sandra’s desk isn’t outside his office so she couldn’t vouch for him being there all day. I’ve got Sheila Thompson’s home address and phone number. I’ve been trying to call her but she’s not back yet.’

‘Give me her address,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d like to talk to her myself. One more thing, Colin. Check out who this car belongs to.’ Charlie copied the registration number from his notebook onto a slip of paper. ‘It’s a red Ferrari. The owner is Philippa Scott’s latest squeeze.’

‘A Ferrari, no less? Miss Scott’s not exactly slumming it, then?’

Anderson, O’Sullivan and Renton were still locked in discussion when Stephen McCartney walked into the office. Charlie levered himself to his feet. ‘Tony, organise the coffees while I fill Dr McCartney in.’

By the time O’Sullivan returned with four coffees balanced on a tray, Charlie had described the day’s events. ‘We’ve now got two murders on our hands,’ he said, ‘and we’ve got both Gibson and McFarlane wandering around Glasgow like loose cannons. I need to know what’s going on inside Gibson’s head. What he’s likely to do next. He told us he had psychiatric treatment about twelve years ago. Remind me. What was the doctor’s name?’

‘Susan Trayner.’

‘I’d like to talk to her. Could you set up a meeting?’

McCartney raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re talking about confidential doctor / patient consultations.’

‘I’m talking about trying to nail a ruthless killer who’s struck twice and for all we know might strike again.’

McCartney hesitated. ‘It would have to be strictly off the record.’

‘I know the score.’

‘When would you like to see her?’

‘As soon as possible – tomorrow lunch time, if she can make it.’

McCartney took his mobile from his jacket pocket and went out to the corridor. ‘Susan? It’s Stephen McCartney.’

‘Stephen! I haven’t heard from you in ages. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘I’m looking for a favour. Someone I know would like to pick your brains over lunch tomorrow. Are you free?’

‘If it’s ‘One Devonshire Gardens’, I could be talked into it.’

‘I think it’s more likely to be a bowl of soup upstairs at the Chip.’

‘Oh, he’s a copper?’

‘Got it in one. DCI Charlie Anderson.’

‘How will I recognise him?’

‘He’s over six feet tall, hunched shoulders, bald as a coot with thick, jet-black eyebrows.’

‘No distinguishing features at all, then?’

‘I’ll ask him to wear a red rose in his lapel, roll his left trouser leg above the knee and carry a copy of the Sun.’

‘Don’t do that. He’ll merge with the crowd.’

Stephen chortled. ‘What time would suit you?’

‘How about twelve o’clock?’

‘That should be fine. I wouldn’t normally ask you to do this, Susan, but it’s a very serious business. Murder, in fact.’

‘Anything I should know in advance?’

‘I bumped into a guy called Michael Gibson this week. He told me he consulted you about twelve years ago. Do you remember him?’

‘Sure. I saw him several times over a period of years.’

‘Check your files on him. All strictly off the record, of course.’

McCartney returned to Charlie’s office. ‘Dr Trayner will meet you tomorrow at noon, upstairs in the Chip.’

‘Thanks for that, Stephen. Now for the next dilemma. How do we handle Paul? He’s still in shock following the news of the death of his friend. Should we break it to him that his mother’s body’s been found? And should we tell him there’s a possibility that Parker’s murder might have been a case of mistaken identity and there could be a killer out there who’s after him?’

‘Why do I get all the easy questions?’ McCartney picked up his coffee and swilled it round in the plastic cup. ‘On balance,’ he said, ‘I think it would be better to tell him everything. He’s going to have to find out sooner or later. It’s going to be really tough on him, but drip-feeding the information to him over the next few days won’t make it any easier. I’ll talk to him, if you like.’

‘Thanks.’ Charlie smiled wryly. ‘I was kind of hoping you might volunteer. Colin, go with Dr McCartney and make sure he gets anything he needs.’

As they left the office, Charlie pressed his intercom. ‘Pauline, find out who’s doing the forensic report on the Gordon Parker murder and get them on the line.’

Pauline called back within minutes. ‘It’s Sergeant McLaughlin. I have him for you.’

‘Eddie? Anderson here. What do you have on the Parker murder?’

‘The slashes to his neck are similar to Anne Gibson’s wounds. The white rope used to tie him up is identical, as is the brown tape across his mouth. Not much doubt that it was the same killer and almost certainly the same murder weapon.’

‘That’s what I thought. Tell me, could this killer have struck before? Have there been any other murders recently that fall into the same pattern?’

‘There’s been nothing remotely like this in Scotland in the past ten years. I make a point of studying all the pathology reports to try to spot any potential serial killer trends. It’s a sort of hobby of mine.’

‘I always knew you had a weird streak. You don’t, by any chance, support Queen’s Park?’

McLaughlin chuckled. ‘I’m strictly a rugby man. However, there is one thing you should be aware of concerning Parker’s blood sample.’

‘Don’t tell me it was mixed with sheep’s blood, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Not this time. But it looks like Parker was into hard drugs – probably speedballs.’

‘Remind me?’

‘A mixture of cocaine and heroin,’ McLaughlin said. ‘The stimulation of the cocaine suppresses the sedative effects of the heroin and gives the user an immediate, intense rush of euphoria. There were several puncture marks on his left forearm. All quite recent, so he hasn’t had the habit long. On the other hand, from the analysis of his blood, he must’ve injected a hell of a lot last night. The way he was carrying on I wouldn’t have given much for his life expectancy, even if he hadn’t been murdered.’

‘We’re uncovering a real can of worms with this one, Eddie. Let me know if you come up with anything else.’

When Stephen McCartney walked into the office, Charlie put down the memo he was reading. ‘How did it go with Paul?’

‘Not good. It was a traumatic shock, as you can imagine. I’ve given him a sedative. I’ve convinced him not to go back to his flat for the time being. I’ve booked him into Traquair House in Rutherglen. It’s a private clinic run by Mike Glen, a colleague of mine. Paul can stay there for as long as he needs to and we’ll be able to keep him under observation as there will inevitably be a delayed reaction. I’m going to drive him across to the clinic now and I’ll stay with him until he’s settled in.’

‘What do you reckon, Stephen? What kind of bloke are we looking for? What kind of mind does it take to commit two murders like that?’

‘Vindictive, ruthless and highly disturbed. But don’t necessarily assume the murderer is male. I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of
a female killer.’ Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve no particular reason to suppose the killer is female,’ McCartney continued. ‘However, knife slashes require no great strength and the victims could just as easily have been tied up by a woman who was threatening them with a gun, for instance. Or perhaps we’re looking for more than one person. Perhaps the killer is working in tandem with an accomplice.’

Charlie smiled ruefully. ‘I was sort of hoping you might help me to eliminate a few possibilities, not open it up to encompass the entire adult population of the west of Scotland.’

Maisie McWilliam answered the phone. ‘It’s Jack,’ the deep voice said. ‘Is Archie there?’

‘Hold on. I’ll get him for you.’

Archie McWilliam hurried to the phone. ‘How’s it goin’, Jack?’

‘Fine. How are things at your end?’

‘The cops are still watchin’ the building. It wouldn’t be safe for you to come back here.’

‘I thought as much. I’m callin’ from a phone box but I don’t want to stay on the line too long in case they’re tracin’ calls to your phone. Would you do me a favour?’

‘Fire away.’

‘Could you fling my things into my holdall and bring it up to Glasgow tomorrow?’

‘No problem. Where’ll we meet?’

‘You remember where we used to drink on Saturday nights?’

‘You mean –’

‘Wheesht! You know where I mean?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll see you there tomorrow night at seven – and make sure you’re not followed.’

‘Don’t try to teach your granny to suck what-nots.’ Archie laughed. ‘See you tomorrow. And don’t forget – you’re on the bell.’

Charlie Anderson twisted and turned in bed, unable to sleep. His brain was churning. He was convinced McFarlane was involved in the murders, but every time he closed his eyes his mind filled with unanswered questions. How was Michael Gibson able to describe his wife’s corpse so accurately? What was McFarlane doing at Dalgleish Tower on the night of the murder? Why had Gibson absconded from the Marriott? Why had Anne Gibson hidden out at her parents’ cottage? What was Philippa Scott’s role in all of this?

He rolled over and fumbled under his pillow for his watch, pressing the button on the side to illuminate the face for the umpteenth time. Almost four o’clock and he hadn’t managed to get a wink of sleep. Looking across, he could make out the shadowy outline of Kay lying on her side.

He slipped out from under the duvet, picked up his slippers and dressing gown and tiptoed out of the bedroom. He went down the stairs to the kitchen and put on the kettle. While waiting for the water to boil, he went to the hall and took a notepad and his propelling pencil from his briefcase. The kitchen was bitterly cold. He pulled his dressing gown tightly round his waist, re-tied the cord, then plugged in the electric fan heater and switched it on. Tipping two spoonfuls of instant coffee into a mug, he poured on boiling water and added three heaped teaspoonfuls of sugar, which he stirred in slowly.

‘Any chance of a cup?’

Charlie turned round with a start to see Kay standing in the doorway, huddled into her dressing gown. ‘What are you doing up?’ he asked.

‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘I couldn’t sleep, love, so I thought I might as well try to do something useful. He indicated his notebook. This Gibson case is getting to me. It’s a mass of contradictions. I need to write everything down in a structured manner to try to get my head round it.’

‘Well you might as well tell be about it. I’ll never get back to sleep now.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘As long as I get a coffee first.’

Charlie made a mug of coffee for Kay, then sat down beside her at the kitchen table, wrapping both hands round his mug to warm them while he organised his thoughts.

‘Let’s start with the assumption that Michael Gibson isn’t insane and he isn’t hallucinating. In which case the facts are as follows.’ Opening his pad at a clean page, Charlie started making notes as he spoke.

‘On the 9th of March Gibson ‘finds his wife dead’ in Dalgleish Tower – suspected ‘suicide’.

On the 10th, Anne Gibson goes into hiding near Aberdeen.

On the 15th, she travels back to Glasgow, telling her parents she’ll be returning to Aberdeen the following day.

On that same evening, Gibson ‘finds his wife dead’ in Dalgleish Tower – murdered.

Also on that day, Jack McFarlane is known to be in the vicinity of Dalgleish Tower around the time of the murder.

On the 17th, Anne Gibson’s body is found in the woods near Paisley – and the autopsy reveals sheep’s blood on her clothing.

The following day, Gordon Parker is murdered, presumably by the same person. Possible case of mistaken identity for Paul Gibson.’

Charlie put down his pencil and sipped at his coffee while studying the sheet of paper. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘If Anne Gibson turned up safe and well in Aberdeen on the 10th, then it sounds like she faked her suicide on the 9th,’ Kay offered.

‘I agree. It would’ve been perfectly feasible for her to play dead when Michael came home and then clear away the pill-jar, tidy up the room and make herself scarce before Gibson and I returned to Dalgleish Tower. Nothing else would explain what Gibson saw and also be compatible with Anne turning up at her parents’ house the following day. But I can’t for the life of me understand her motive.’

‘Why do you think she went back to Glasgow on the 15th?’ Kay asked.

‘I’ve no idea. And what happened to her when she got there?’ Charlie added. ‘Who did she fall foul of? McFarlane? Gibson? Someone else? Gibson says he found his wife’s body in Dalgleish Tower. If this is true, this time she wasn’t acting. And if he did find her body – who killed her?’

‘And what’s the sheep’s blood all about?’ Kay asked. ‘Did that get onto her clothing in Dalgleish Tower, or in the woods near Paisley?’

‘We don’t know.’ Charlie shook his head as he turned over to a fresh page in his notepad.

‘Let’s look at it on the assumption that Michael Gibson
did
murder his wife. It wouldn’t have been possible for him to have killed her in the bedroom in Dalgleish Tower and then to have cleaned up such a mess in fifteen minutes without leaving any trace of blood.’

‘Perhaps he killed her somewhere else,’ Kay suggested, ‘then took her body to the Gleniffer Braes?’

‘That doesn’t stack up with Gibson leaving his office at six-thirty and phoning me from the caretaker’s flat in Dalgleish Tower at five past seven.’

‘In which case, Jack McFarlane, or someone else, might have killed her and taken her body to the Gleniffer Braes.’

‘So how could Michael Gibson describe the corpse so accurately?’ Charlie put down his pencil, pushed his chair back and
swung both feet up onto the kitchen table. He closed his eyes. ‘I’m missing something, Kay. I’m missing something.’

Charlie walked up the crazy-paving path, lined with wilting daffodils, towards the modern apartment block. He pressed the bell push of the ground floor flat. There was no response. When he sounded the bell again, Sheila Thompson came hurrying to the door. Keeping the security chain in place, she eased the door ajar.

‘Who is it?’ She peered through the gap. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s Inspector Anderson, Miss Thompson. Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday morning. Could I possibly have a few minutes of your time?’

Sheila closed the door while she unhooked the chain, then opened it wide. ‘Sorry about the unwelcoming reception. I didn’t recognise you, Inspector. Come on in.’

‘No need to apologise. A very sensible precaution. I only wish more people would do that.’ Charlie stepped into the hall. ‘How’s your mother keeping? I heard she wasn’t well.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing serious. A touch of flu, that’s all. She’s over the worst of it.’ Sheila ushered Charlie towards the lounge. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Are you aware that Mr Gibson’s wife has been found murdered?’

‘Yes. It’s in the morning paper. It’s a terrible business.’

‘What you don’t know is that there was another murder yesterday. Gordon Parker, Paul Gibson’s best friend, was also killed. I’d like you to keep this information to yourself, but we suspect the killer’s intended victim may have been Paul.’

‘My God!’

‘Did you know that Mr Gibson has disappeared?’

Sheila looked incredulous. ‘Disappeared? What do you mean?’

‘He absconded from the Marriott Hotel on Thursday afternoon and hasn’t been seen since.’ Sheila shook her head in confusion. ‘When did you last see him?’ Charlie asked.

‘On Tuesday. He came into the office on Tuesday. I remember that clearly because it was the first time I’d seen him since his wife had… had… gone missing.’ Sheila’s voice tailed off.

‘Was he in the office all day?’

Sheila stopped to think. ‘Most of the day, apart from an hour or so in the afternoon.’

Alarm bells started ringing inside Charlie’s head but his outward demeanour gave no indication of surprise. ‘When, exactly, did he go out? Think carefully. It may be important.’

‘He arrived around nine o’clock and busied himself with his backlog of paperwork. He didn’t go out for lunch – he had a sandwich in the office. About four o’clock he told me he’d had enough and said he was going home. I reminded him that Peter Davies had scheduled a promotion review in his agenda at five-thirty. Mr Gibson didn’t want to defer that again – it had already been rescheduled several times – so he went out around four o’clock and returned around five-thirty for his meeting with Mr Davies. He left for home straight after that meeting.’

‘Do you know where he went between four and five-thirty?’

‘I didn’t ask – and he didn’t volunteer the information.’

‘Did he behave any differently when he returned to the office?’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Did he seem anxious, flustered, agitated?’

‘He was certainly on edge. But he’d been like that all day.’

‘Have you seen or heard from him since Tuesday?’ Sheila shook her head. ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’

Sheila closed the front door behind Charlie and slipped the security chain back in place. She stood leaning with her back to the door, her heart pounding. ‘You can come out now. He’s gone.’

Michael Gibson appeared in the bedroom doorway. He was unshaven and his eyes were red from lack of sleep. ‘Why did you tell Anderson that?’ he roared, thumping both his fists against the wall. ‘Why did you tell him I left the office at four o’clock on Tuesday?’

‘Because it’s the truth. That’s why. Why shouldn’t I tell the police the truth? What lies have you been telling them? How can you expect me to cover up for you if you don’t tell me what lies you’ve been telling?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off the handle.’ He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. ‘I need to work out what to do now.’ Going into the lounge, he poured himself a stiff drink.

‘Whisky’s not the answer, Michael.’

‘It helps me think.’ He took a long swallow, screwing up his face when the neat spirit hit the back of his throat. ‘What can I do?’ he muttered. ‘Now my alibi’s blown.’

Sheila looked at him in astonishment. ‘What alibi?’

‘I told Anderson I was in the office all day on Tuesday and that I didn’t leave until six-thirty. That would’ve meant it was it impossible for me to drive to Paisley and get back to Dalgleish Tower by seven. But now he knows I was out of the office between four and five-thirty, that changes everything.’

‘Where did you go? I need to know the truth. Did you drive to Paisley?’

‘Good God, no.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I went to see Pippa.’

‘You did what? I thought it was all over between you and her? Why did you go to see her?’

‘I needed to talk to her. She’d been avoiding me. She hadn’t returned my phone calls or answered any of my texts. I called her office on Tuesday morning, but I couldn’t reach her. Her secretary told me she was with a client. I scheduled a meeting with her at four-thirty under a fictitious name, then I got her phone number from her secretary on the pretext that I wanted to leave a confidential message on her answering machine concerning the meeting. I did leave a message – imploring her to meet me at her flat at four-thirty.’

‘Michael… You… You do know –?’

‘Know what?’

‘That Philippa’s involved with someone else.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘She’s seeing Jonathan Sharp.’

‘She can’t be! I don’t believe you.’

The realisation hit Michael like a blow from a sledgehammer. Was that all their relationship had ever meant to Philippa? The life style? The status of being with ‘the boss’?

‘Didn’t she tell you that – when you went to see her?’

‘I didn’t see her,’ Michael spluttered. ‘She didn’t turn up. I rang her door bell, but she wasn’t there. I waited in the car outside her apartment block for an hour but she didn’t show up. Finally I gave up and went back to the office.’

‘Why did you lie to the police?’

‘I panicked. I didn’t want to give them the impression that I was running back to my mistress as soon as my wife had gone missing. I didn’t want Anderson to think I’d anything to do with Anne’s disappearance.’

‘You’ve got to tell him the truth. He knows now that you lied about the time you left the office. You’ll only make things worse if you don’t give yourself up.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got to find McFarlane. He murdered Anne. And you heard what Anderson just said – he tried to murder Paul. If I don’t get to him first, he’ll kill me. I know he will.’

‘Stop talking like that! You’re no match for McFarlane. Even if you did find him, what would you do?’

‘I will find him.’ Michael’s eyes hardened. ‘And I’ll kill him.’

‘This is crazy talk. Stop it at once. Go to the police. They’ll give you protection until they find McFarlane.’

‘The same way they protected Anne? The same way they protected the poor sod who got killed in place of Paul? And let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, that they do catch him. What then? Will they be able to convict him? Even if they do – what’ll happen to him? Another stretch in jail; a life sentence for him –
and a lifetime of nightmares for me, living in dread of the day he gets out.

‘I’ve lived with it for the past twelve years – waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat wondering where and when he’s going to strike. There’s no way I’m going to go through all that again. I’m going to finish it once and for all.’

Michael picked up the bottle and poured neat whisky down his throat until he felt his eye sockets burn. ‘I’ve got to go. Thanks for not giving me away to Anderson.’ Crossing to the front door, he unhooked the security chain and opened the door a few inches, looking and listening, then slipped outside and pulled the door closed behind him.

Sheila sank down on the settee with her head in her hands.

Charlie climbed to the top of the spiral staircase in ‘The Ubiquitous Chip’ and looked around the crowded bar. When Susan Trayner half-rose, raising her hand tentatively in recognition, Charlie crossed to her table.

She looked to be in her mid-forties, her straggly, prematurely greying hair piled on top of her head and held in place by a wooden clasp.

‘What can I get you?’ Charlie asked. His first impression was that her strong features were forbidding, but her hazel eyes were soft and friendly and she had an engaging smile.

‘Nothing, thanks. I’ve got a mineral water,’ she said, holding up her glass.

‘Would you not like something to eat?’

‘No thanks.’

Charlie crossed to the bar to order a coffee. While waiting to be served, he glanced back over his shoulder and studied Susan’s profile; skin-tight jeans and a clinging polo-neck sweater which showed off her still youthful figure to advantage.