Double Mortice (19 page)

Charlie and Tony O’Sullivan drove back in convoy to Pitt Street. As usual on a Sunday afternoon, the city centre roads were quiet. When he got to his office, Charlie pulled off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and went back to the flipchart board. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere, Tony. Find Renton and tell him to join us. Let’s see where this leads us.’

As Renton entered the office, Charlie was adding to his list of ‘facts’ on the flipchart:

‘Before we go on,’ Renton said. ‘The red Ferrari belongs to a bloke called Jonathan Sharp – he’s a partner in Colesell and Sharp – the law firm where Philippa Scott works now.’

‘A partner? Interesting. First Gibson and now Sharp. Our Miss Scott doesn’t mess about with hoi polloi.’ Charlie turned back to study his flipchart. ‘Some bits of the jigsaw are beginning to fall into place, but there are still a lot of unanswered questions.

‘Let’s start with Anne Gibson’s fake suicide on 9th March. She steals the key for flat 14 from Kennedy’s safe. Harry can’t remember the date precisely, but it was sometime early in March. She sends Harry to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and while he’s out of the room she swaps her own door key with the one for flat 14. Harry’s not likely to notice the switch. He’s got no reason to try to use the key for flat 14 and, superficially, all the keys look the same.

‘The next step is to furnish the hall and the master bedroom in flat 14 so they look identical to number 15. That’s no easy matter in itself. There can’t be many suppliers of that type of furniture in Glasgow – and they can’t get too many orders for Charles Rennie Mackintosh reproduction bedroom suites. Get onto that first thing in the morning, Tony. Find out who supplies the stuff and what orders they’ve taken in the past few weeks.

‘The next problem is to work out how she got the furniture into the building. Kennedy never said anything about a furniture van
making a delivery to Dalgleish Tower, but check with him in case it slipped his mind.

‘The more you delve into this, the more you realise how well this fake suicide was planned – though I still don’t understand her motive. The apartment door being wide open when Gibson got out of the lift was beautiful. It would instantly engender a sense of panic, which may have been part of the plan. And, of course, it was necessary to have the front door open because Gibson’s key wouldn’t have unlocked it.

‘And the phone line being dead. Effective – and yet so simple. Again, it adds to the tension and all she needed to do was get a handset that had never been connected. That’s something else to check out, Tony. Get in touch with the telephone company and find out if the line to flat 15 was out of order at any time on either the 9th or the 15th of March. I’m prepared to bet it wasn’t.’

‘What about his mobile?’ Renton asked. ‘Why was that not working?’

‘Maybe his wife managed to jam the signal to their flat,’ O’Sullivan offered. ‘You can buy gadgets that will do that.’

‘Can mobile phone companies tell if their signal was jammed at a particular location at a particular time?’ Charlie asked.

‘I’ve no idea,’ O’Sullivan said.

‘Talk to his service provider and see if they can give us anything on that,’ Charlie said. ‘I remember Gibson telling Doctor McCartney,’ Charlie added, ‘that when he found his wife’s body, the bedroom curtains were drawn. Another important detail. Even a slight change in the angle of the view might have registered in Gibson’s subconscious. And what about the cat? That was a master stroke. Anne took her cat downstairs with her. He’d be unsettled. No matter how similar flat 14 looked, the smells would be wrong. The cat would know this wasn’t his house, so he’d complain loud and long. Another way to build up tension for Gibson.’

‘Wasn’t she taking a bit of a risk?’ interjected O’Sullivan. ‘What if Gibson had gone to one of the other rooms in the flat and found it empty?’

‘In that case, the scam would’ve been blown sky-high,’ Renton said. ‘But when you think about it, how likely was that? When you find what you think is a dead body, the instinctive reaction is to grab the phone and dial ‘999’. If the phone doesn’t work, I think most people would react as Gibson did – run out of the apartment and try to get help.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘That’s too much of a gamble. Gibson might well have gone to another room – the lounge, perhaps, to try to phone from there, or even to get a drink.’

‘So do you think she had a contingency plan to deal with that possibility?’

‘Probably. But we’ll come back to that later. For now, let’s stick with what did happen. Gibson runs out of the flat and as soon as he’s gone, all she has to do is pop the cat back upstairs and rewire the lift to its correct setting. In fact, she might well have been still hiding in flat 14 when I returned to Dalgleish Tower with Gibson. She might even have spent the night there. The next morning, she takes the train to Aberdeen and does her disappearing trick. But what’s her motive, boys?’ Charlie mused. ‘What the hell was she trying to achieve with all this palaver?’

‘Let’s consider what she did achieve,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘She caused her husband to start doubting his sanity – though it’s not immediately apparent what she stood to gain from that. Something’s just struck me,’ he added with a glint in his eye. ‘Let’s move on to March 15th – the day she came back down from Aberdeen – the day she was murdered.’

‘Yes?’

‘Let’s suppose her objective was to make her husband flip his lid. What would be the next step? To make him go through the nightmare again. To make him believe he was hallucinating. But not exactly the same scenario. If she replayed the suicide routine, he might well react differently. He might try to revive her or, as you said, he might go to the lounge to try to phone from there, or get a drink, or whatever. No, this time it would have to be more dramatic. This time, she would act
out a violent murder – and if you’re going to enact a gory murder, you’d want to get your hands on some blood, wouldn’t you? Maybe sheep’s blood?’

‘I like it!’ Charlie clapped his hands enthusiastically. ‘You’re on to something. Keep going.’

‘She sets up a murder scene. The same rigmarole with the lift and the cat and all that. Then she pours sheep’s blood over herself. But here’s the twist. Something goes horribly wrong. Gibson somehow rumbles the con and decides to give it to her for real. He ties her to the bed, gets his razor and slashes her throat to pieces. He throws up when he realises what he’s done, then he runs off to tell you he’s found his wife’s corpse. What do you think of that?’

Charlie scratched at his chin. ‘Ten out of ten for ingenuity. But too many holes. For a start – who reset the lift before I got to Dalgleish Tower? Who took the cat back upstairs? Who removed the corpse, disposed of the furniture and tidied up the flat?’

O’Sullivan shrugged. ‘Over to you, sir.’ He winked at Renton. ‘Give us your theory.’

‘Try this one on for size,’ Charlie said. ‘Anne Gibson is indeed planning to act out a murder scenario. But she has an accomplice. His job – assuming for the moment the accomplice is male – is to hide in the lounge and invoke the back-up plan, whatever that might happen to be, if Gibson tries to go to any other room in the flat. But before Gibson arrives, Anne and the accomplice fall out over something – I don’t know what. He ties her to the bed, slits her throat for real, then pours the sheep’s blood over her for good measure and leaves the body for Gibson to find. When Gibson runs off, he takes the cat upstairs and re-programmes the lift before I get there. Later, when the coast’s clear, he ships her body out to the Gleniffer Braes, cleans up flat 14 and disposes of the furniture.’

O’Sullivan nodded in admiration. ‘Not bad, sir. Not bad at all. And who do you have marked down as the accomplice?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘I sniff a boyfriend in the frame,’ Renton offered knowingly.

‘That’s not impossible,’ Charlie conceded.

‘Don’t forget one thing,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘Jack McFarlane got out of a taxi at Dalgleish Tower around six o’clock that evening.’

Charlie groaned and threw up his hands. ‘Jack McFarlane, the demon lover. In the name of the wee man! Give me a break, lads. Give me a fucking break!’

Michael Gibson was wakened by the sun’s rays piercing his closed eyelids. He blinked several times as he slowly regained consciousness. His gaze travelled round the room, but he didn’t recognise his surroundings. He felt his heartbeat quicken. Everything was blurred. When he tried to sit up in bed, the room began to spin. He immediately lay back down, breathing heavily. He rested for a few moments before raising his head gingerly from the pillow. The room was no longer going round, though he still felt queasy. As his eyes came into focus, he realised it wasn’t the first time he’d seen that pink, floral wallpaper. The leather bench seat in front of the dressing table was also familiar. It slowly dawned on him that he was in Philippa’s bedroom – in her bed. It looked totally different in the early morning sunshine. He’d only ever been here in the afternoons.

‘Pippa!’ His shout caused a sharp stab behind his eyes. He waited for the pain to subside before calling out again. ‘Are you there, Pippa?’ There was no reply. He eased his legs over the side of the bed. He was still fully dressed. He walked unsteadily through to the kitchen where he saw a sheet of paper propped up against a packet of cereal in the middle of the table. He unfolded the note.

Michael crumpled the paper in his fist and dropped it onto the floor. He opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of orange juice, sitting down at the kitchen table while he sipped at the cold liquid. The taste felt bitter on his tongue. As he pushed the glass to one side his eye caught the time on the kitchen clock. ‘Half-past nine!’ he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet.

He took the tenement stairs two at time, staggering to a halt on the bottom landing when he remembered the police car in the street outside. He raced out the back entrance and stumbled across the courtyard. He scrambled over the wall. He was confused and disoriented. He didn’t know in what direction he was running. He pounded along the pavement as fast as he could, head down, rocking unsteadily from side to side. When he rounded a corner he saw the brake lights of a taxi pulling up at a set of traffic lights. He ran into the middle of the road and waved his arms up and down, yelling at the top of his voice until the pain in his skull became unbearable.

When the lights changed, the taxi made a tight U-turn and drove back towards him. ‘Where to, mate?’ the driver asked, leaning back to fling open the rear door.

‘Junction of Great Western Road and Hyndland Road – as fast as you can.’ As the taxi sped off Michael checked his watch. Almost twenty to ten. Was he going to be in time? He fumbled anxiously in his jacket pocket, seeking the reassuring feel of the pistol. He stroked the smooth, cold barrel as he struggled to make some kind of plan. McFarlane would be walking along Hyndland Road towards Great Western Road. Should he wait at the corner for him? Not a good spot – busy traffic lights – too many witnesses. Better to head back up Hyndland Road and meet him as he came towards him. It would have been so much better if he could have hidden near the squash club, as he’d planned. That stretch of the road was much quieter. But it was too late for that now. He’d have to gun him down in the middle of the street.

The traffic was dense as the taxi crossed the city centre. When they pulled up at the traffic lights opposite the Botanic Gardens,
Michael sat forward on the edge of his seat, willing the lights to change. It seemed an eternity before they flicked through amber to green. Only a couple of hundred yards to go. He glanced at his watch. Five to ten. Had McFarlane passed by already? He threw open the taxi door before the cab had come to a complete halt. As he scrambled out he thrust a ten-pound note through the driver’s open window.

‘Keep the change.’

‘Thanks, pal.’

He stared along Hyndland Road, scanning both sides of the pavement for any sign of McFarlane. There was a stream of traffic coming towards him. As the cars whipped past, the sun reflected off their windscreens into his eyes – a succession of blinding flashes. He cupped his hands over his eyes to try to shield them. He could make out two women walking towards him on the far pavement, about fifty yards away. They were pushing a pram. There were no other pedestrians in sight. Was he too late? Had McFarlane decided to drive rather than walk? Had McGurk’s information been wrong?

He cursed and kicked at the base of the traffic lights. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He leaned back against a lamp post, closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly, attempting to slow his racing heartbeat while trying to figure out what to do. Would McFarlane come back this way later on? If so, at what time? Should he wait for him?

When he opened his eyes again, his heart skipped a beat. He saw a figure, wearing a black anorak, hurrying along the pavement on the other side of the road. Could this be him? He’d just overtaken the two women with the pram. He tried to make out the man’s features, but the sun was hurting his eyes – he couldn’t focus. He stumbled off the kerb and dodged between the moving cars as he lurched across the road. Tyres screeched. Horns blared. When he reached the far pavement he steadied himself, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket and releasing the safety catch. His fingers tightened round the butt of the pistol. If it was McFarlane, he was late for his meeting, so he’d
be hurrying. The dizziness returned. The sun’s rays were reflecting off car windscreens as they sped past – successive flashes of dazzling light stinging his eyes – like running alongside railings. He held his left arm up in front of his face to shield his vision as he tried desperately to make out the features of the person hurrying towards him.

He hesitated – doubt and confusion filling his brain. His fingers slackened on the gun butt. Had he made a mistake? He didn’t recognise the shaved head. Then he saw it – the unmistakable jagged scar that had haunted his dreams for the past twelve years. He tried desperately to lick some moisture into his swollen lips. How he’d waited for this moment. He’d only get one shot. He mustn’t miss. Wait until he gets right up to you, he told himself.

McFarlane was twenty yards away and closing fast. Michael’s heart was thumping against his ribcage – his head spinning. He could see the piercing, cold, blue eyes. For once, they weren’t locked onto his. Ten yards away. He clenched the pistol butt tightly and tugged the gun from his pocket. Five yards. Streaks of purple light filled his vision. The veins on the side of his neck bulged. His tongue seemed to be expanding and filling his mouth. He was choking. His heart felt as if it was about to explode inside his chest.

Michael Gibson keeled over and collapsed, face down, on the pavement.

Jack McFarlane threw a glance over his shoulder as he hurried past. He saw the tramp fall down in the street, but he didn’t have time to stop. He was late for his meeting.

Tony O’Sullivan walked into Charlie’s office just after ten o’clock. ‘How are things?’ he asked.

‘As well as can be expected after spending the last half hour listening to Niggle rabbiting on. I thought he’d be pleased with the progress we’d made over the weekend, but he was more interested in tearing a strip off me because I swore at his golf partner.’ Charlie shook his head in exasperation. ‘What’ve you got?’

‘I spoke to Harry Kennedy. There have definitely been no furniture deliveries to Dalgleish Tower in the past few weeks – and also the phone company confirmed there were no problems with the Gibsons’ phone line on either of the dates in question.’

‘As expected.’

‘With regard to the furniture, there appear to be only two suppliers of that make of Charles Rennie Mackintosh reproductions in the Glasgow area.’

‘And?’

‘And one of them took an order, on the fourth of March, for a bed, a dressing table, two bedside tables, a Victorian reproduction hallstand and a grandfather clock.’

‘Who placed the order?’

‘Gordon Parker.’

‘Who?’

‘Parker. The bloke who was killed in Paul Gibson’s flat.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘That was the name the secretary found in the order book. The salesman who took the order wasn’t there when I phoned. He’ll be in at half-past ten. I’m going across to talk to him. Do you want to come?’

Charlie was already pulling on his jacket before O’Sullivan had finished the question.

They parked in the large car park in front of the furniture showroom and as they entered the building a salesman walked across to greet them.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. What can I interest you in today?’ O’Sullivan flashed his I.D. ‘Has Mr Churchill arrived? When I phoned earlier I was told he’d be in at half-past ten.’

‘He’s in the office. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

William Churchill came trotting down the stairs. He was in his fifties, a heavily-built, round-faced man wearing cord trousers and a loud-checked sports jacket. ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

‘Do you remember taking an order recently, Mr Churchill?’
O’Sullivan asked. ‘On the fourth of March to be precise. For a bedroom suite of Charles Rennie Mackintosh reproduction furniture as well as a Victorian hallstand and a grandfather clock?’

‘Indeed I do.’

‘What can you tell me about the buyer?’

‘A young lad. Early twenties, I would say. He had long hair, tied back in a ponytail, but quite well-spoken nevertheless.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

‘Not offhand. But if you come up to the office I’ll pull out the file copy of the order.’ Charlie and Tony followed him up the narrow stairs to the cluttered den that served as an office.

‘Did he know what he wanted, or did he look around?’ Charlie asked as Churchill was searching through his filing cabinet.

‘He knew exactly what he wanted. It was the easiest sale I’ve ever made.’ He smiled at the recollection. ‘He had a list with a full description of everything he wanted to buy – dimensions, colours, etc. It was just a matter of flicking through the catalogue to find the items and filling out the order forms. He didn’t even try to haggle over the price. I only wish I could make commission as easily as that every day.’ Churchill pulled out an order book and thumbed through it. ‘Fourth of March, you said? Here it is. Gordon Parker. That was his name.’

‘How did he pay for it?’ Tony asked.

‘Slightly strange. There was a woman waiting outside in a black Volvo. She didn’t put in an appearance until after we’d completed the paperwork, then she came in and paid for the lot by credit card.’

‘Do you have her name?’

‘It’ll be in the file. Here it is. Anne Gibson.’

Charlie exchanged a glance with O’Sullivan. ‘Where was the furniture delivered to?’ O’Sullivan asked.

‘Another strange one. We didn’t deliver.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘For that size of order, we provide a free delivery service anywhere within a fifty mile radius. But Mr Parker didn’t want that. The order arrived on the seventh of March, that was a Monday, and he asked us
to hold it here, saying he would collect it, as he did, bit by bit, over the following couple of days. This type of furniture is shipped to us from the manufacturer in kits and normally we would assemble it for the customer before we deliver. However, Mr Parker specifically asked us to give it to him in kit form because he wanted to assemble it himself.’

‘Did you see how he collected it?’

‘Of course. I helped him load it into his van. He had a Ford transit with a logo painted on the side.’

‘Which was?’

‘Something to do with a band, I think. ‘Popular Band’? ‘People’s Band’? Something like that.’

‘‘Citizens Band’?’

‘Yes, I think that was it.’

‘The plot thickens,’ Charlie said when they got back to their car. ‘So Parker was aiding and abetting Anne Gibson. Kennedy told me the ‘Citizens Band’ van often used to turn up at Dalgleish Tower, but only when Michael Gibson was at work. Was it Paul Gibson visiting his mother? Or was it Gordon Parker delivering furniture? There would’ve been nothing to stop Mrs Gibson giving Parker the key to flat 14 and lending him her remote control so he could set up the bedroom for her ‘suicide’ and her ‘murder’.’

‘What was his angle?’

‘Toy boy, perhaps? That was Renton’s hunch.’

‘Do you really think Mrs Gibson was the type to have a toy boy?’

‘It’s not impossible. Anyone capable of putting together this elaborate little scheme must’ve been a very dark horse indeed.’

‘There’s an urgent message, sir,’ Pauline said when Charlie got back to Pitt Street. ‘Colin Renton phoned it in.’ She handed across the single sheet of paper.

‘Monday 21st March – 11.00 am,’ Charlie read, ‘Michael Gibson collapsed in Hyndland Road an hour ago. An ambulance was called and took him to the Western. I’m going across there now. I’ll wait
with him until I hear from you. Colin Renton.’

Charlie handed the note to O’Sullivan. ‘Gibson’s in the Western and Renton’s gone across there. Call him and find out if he’s got any more information about what happened.’

Charlie had his feet up on his desk with his eyes closed, deep in thought, when O’Sullivan returned. His discreet cough caused Charlie’s feet to slide off the desk and drop to the floor with a bang.

‘Didn’t mean to startle you, sir. I’ve spoken to Renton and to a Dr McCormick. There’s no more information about what happened to Gibson, apart from the fact he was clutching a gun when he collapsed.’

‘A gun?’

‘He keeled over in Hyndland Road with a pistol clenched in his fist. A passer-by called an ambulance. Dr McCormick told me Gibson’s condition is serious but stable, though he reckons he hasn’t eaten for days – it seems he’s been getting all his calories out of a whisky bottle. And before you ask,’ O’Sullivan added. ‘The doc said Gibson needs complete rest and can’t be questioned for at least twenty-four hours.’