Double Mortice (4 page)

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.’

‘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.

‘Chalmers went on to ask me a few questions about what kind o’ work I’d been doin’ at the school, then he offered me the job – just like that. He said he liked my acerbic wit. I’m sure he did that on purpose, the sarky bugger. He kent fine weel I’d have to go an’ look that one up.’

‘You’ve made my day, Harry.’ Tommy laughed. ‘So tell me. How’s the job workin’ out?’

‘Och, it’s a doddle. You have to be gey fond o’ your own company, mind. You could easily spend all day in Dalgleish Tower an’ no’ see another livin’ soul. The money’s no’ bad, but the best thing aboot it is that a wee flat comes wi’ the job – furnished, an’ all. It’s toty – a livin’ room, one bedroom, a poky kitchen an’ a bathroom. It would be helluva cramped for a couple but wi’ me bein’ on my own, it’s just the job. I had to gie up my house at the school when I packed in the janitorin’ an’ I thought I would need to find somewhere to rent. Then this job turns up out the blue. Magic, eh?’

‘And you’re a Facilities Manager?’ Tommy enthused. ‘That sounds dead flash.’

‘Ach, it’s just a poncy name for a caretaker.’ Harry swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘But it’s a dead flash building all right. My flat’s on the ground floor, along with a gym, almost as big as the one at the school. Security’s the big sellin’ point though. At least it will be if they ever manage to sell any. They’re askin’ a bloody fortune for them – it’s no’ surprisin’ there’s hardly any selt. The higher up you are the dearer it gets. The flats near the top have stoatin’ views but they’re lookin’ for the best part of hauf a million quid for them.

‘Everythin’s the latest technology. All the flats have intercoms, double-glazin’, central heatin’ an’ air-conditionin’ – even mine. Can you imagine it? Air-conditionin’ – in Glesca! Never thought I’d see the day. Though apparently in summer, wi’ the buildin’ bein’ solid glass, we’re gauny need it.’

The ping of the microwave interrupted Harry’s flow. ‘That’s your pie ready. If you want a shuftie at the form, by the way, the Sporting Life’s over there.’ Tommy nodded towards the newspaper lying on the bar.

Harry mimed a shiver. ‘Don’t mention the gee-gees to me.’

‘I thought you were a bit of a punter?’

‘I was. That’s the problem. I got myself into a lot o’ trouble a few months back. Puntin’ on tick, like. You aye think the next bet’ll get you oot o’ trouble. Well I got myself in way ower my heid. I ran up nearly a thousan’ quid wi’ Larry Robertson, the bookie doon in Dumbarton Road. I couldny settle up money like that so I got a visit from one of Robertson’s heavies an’ an invitation to drop in an’ see the man himsel’. I was shittin’ myself, I don’t mind tellin’ you. I thought I’d be lucky to get oot o’ there wi’ my kneecaps intact. But, thank Christ, Robertson’s no’ into violence for the sake of it. I had to agree to pay him off over twelve months, with ten per-cent interest a month on top. It leaves me skint but I still consider myself lucky. I know a bloke in Govan who got his knuckles smashed in for owin’ a bookie fifty quid. I’ve learned my lesson, Tommy. Nae mair puntin’ for me.’

Tommy used a bar towel to take the steaming mutton pie from the microwave. Placing a knife on the plate, he pushed it across the bar. ‘Mind now, Harry. That pie’s bilin’.’

Harry produced a ten-pound note from his trouser pocket and placed it on the bar. He sliced the pie in half and waited until most of the hot liquid grease had spilled out onto the plate before picking it up and biting into it, quickly taking a swig of beer to cool his mouth.

‘What exactly does a Facilities Manager do?’ Tommy asked as he handed across the change.

‘All kinds o’ stuff. For instance, this mornin’ I spent two hours clearin’ the snow from the paths an’ the drive leadin’ doon to the garage. And if it keeps chuckin’ it down like that,’ he added, shaking his head ruefully as he glanced out the window, ‘that’s what I’ll be doin’ this afternoon as weel. But like I was sayin’, you hardly ever see anybody. They go doon in the lift from their flats to the underground garage an’ back up again. Nobody ever seems to get oot at my floor.’

‘You were saying there aren’t many flats sold?’

‘So far, just three. Number 15, the top floor, was snapped up by a bloke called Gibson. He’s a flash lawyer. No’ short o’ the readies.’ Harry rubbed his thumb and fingers together meaningfully. ‘I don’t think his missus works. There’s a right plonker, name of McFadyen, in number 13. He must be my age. He lives alone an’ he never seems to get any mail. I asked him why he bought number 13 when number 14 was the same price in the brochure, but has a better view. He said thirteen was his lucky number. His heid’s full o’ mince. He dauners aroun’ a’ day like a fart in a trance. Then there’s a couple called Leslie just moved into number 2. Seem nice enough. I think they’re both doctors.’

When he’d finished his pie, Harry downed the rest of his pint in one long swallow, wiping his moustache with the back of his hand.

‘Same again?’

‘No thanks. I just nipped oot for a quick one. I have to be gettin’ back because there’s a couple comin’ to see one o’ the flats at twelve o’clock. Normally Chalmers would do the sales blurb himself, but he had to go to a meeting in Edinburgh, so he’s lumbered me wi’ showing them round.’

Climbing down from his barstool, Harry pulled on his still-sodden raincoat. ‘Catch you later in the week, Tommy.’

Michael Gibson was sitting in his office, flicking through his mail, when Sheila buzzed through to let him know Frank Whyte and Archie Madill were waiting to see him. As they walked in, he indicated the two seats on the opposite side of his desk. Madill, a tubby man in his early fifties, was wearing a blue-checked shirt that clashed violently with his red sports jacket.

As soon as he sat down, Madill blurted out. ‘I know why you want to see me. You’re going to try to talk me into changing my plea to guilty. Well I’m not having any of it. I’m getting legal aid and you have to defend me.’

Michael glanced across at Whyte, giving him a slow wink on Madill’s blind side. Whyte had been well coached by Peter Davies.

‘Mr Madill,’ Whyte began reassuringly, ‘we’re not here to talk you into anything. We’re here to discuss what’s in your best interests and advise you accordingly. If you conclude that you want to plead ‘not guilty’, I will, of course, represent you in court tomorrow to the best of my ability. However, before you come to that decision I think we should discuss the pros and cons.’

Madill’s gaze flitted suspiciously between Whyte and Gibson. ‘What do you mean – pros and cons?’

‘Let’s consider the case from the Sheriff’s point of view,’ Whyte said. ‘The prosecution will produce copies of the monthly bank statements you received over the past two years showing a series of deposits into your Isle of Man bank account, totalling some twenty thousand pounds. Your defence, if I understand it correctly, is that someone else must have
paid this money into your account in order to frame you and that you never bothered to look at the bank statements because you thought you only had thirty pounds in the account. Is that correct?’

Madill shrugged. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

Whyte opened his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. ‘Let’s act it out, Mr Madill. You’re in the dock, on oath, and I’m the prosecuting counsel.’ Madill looked apprehensive and his left eye started to twitch. ‘Mr Madill, do you have an off-shore bank account in the Isle of Man?’ Madill nodded quickly. ‘Why did you open that account?’

‘I thought it might come in handy one day.’

‘So, because you ‘thought it might come in handy one day’, you opened an account with a deposit of thirty pounds. You then specifically asked the bank to send you monthly statements – we have copies of the relevant correspondence – which you then proceeded to throw in the bin without looking at them?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you open this account?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Approximately when?’

Madill licked at his lips. ‘About three years ago, I think.’

‘To be precise it was twenty-five months ago.’

‘If you say so.’

‘In fact, you opened the account in the same week as the first two thousand pounds was appropriated from A.J. Smythe & Sons. By some strange coincidence, two thousand pounds was credited to your account that very week, paid into an Edinburgh branch. Where were you working that week?’

Madill shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His forehead began to glisten. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Let me jog your memory. For all of that week you were based at A.J. Smythe’s Edinburgh office and you –’

Michael held up his hand to interrupt Whyte’s flow. ‘We can continue in this vein if you like, Mr Madill, but I think you’re getting the idea.’

Madill avoided eye contact. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he mumbled.

‘If you go ahead with this defence – and if you’re found guilty,’ Michael said, ‘the prosecution will press for at least two years’ imprisonment, which the Sheriff will almost certainly grant. However, if you were to change your plea to guilty you’d get off with a lighter sentence – perhaps twelve or fifteen months – and you would be eligible for remission for half of your sentence. It’s your call.’

Madill kept his head bowed for some time before raising his eyes. ‘I’ll plead guilty,’ he said in a whisper.

‘I think that’s a very wise decision,’ Michael said. ‘I’ll advise the prosecution accordingly.’

When they left the office, Michael buzzed through to Sheila. ‘Could you get Inspector Anderson on the phone for me, please. I need to talk to him.’

When Michael’s phone buzzed he picked up.

‘Good afternoon, Michael. What do you have for me?’

‘Madill’s seen sense. He’s going to plead guilty.’

‘Excellent. I knew that persuasive tongue of yours would work wonders. By the way,’ Charlie added, ‘if you do decide to visit your father this afternoon, be sure to send him my regards.’

‘Of course.’

Michael put down the phone and looked out of the window. Glancing at his watch, he pressed the intercom. ‘Sheila, I’m going to go to Crighton Hall. I’ll be back in time for my meeting with Peter Davies at four.’

Harry Kennedy was dozing fitfully in his armchair when he was roused by the ring of his doorbell. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he prised himself out of his seat and went to answer it.

‘Good afternoon,’ the tall, gangling figure said. ‘I’m Donald Moore.’ Moore held out a spindly wrist and offered Harry a weak handshake, fingertips only.

‘I’m Harry Kennedy, the Facilities Manager. I’m afraid Mr Chalmers isn’t here. He had to go to a meeting in Edinburgh and he asked me to show you round.’

‘He explained that to me on the phone. I’m sorry we’re late. We had to drive up from Gourock and the weather’s been absolutely foul.’

Donald Moore was in his sixties with curly brown hair and a wispy beard. He was wearing thick, black-rimmed spectacles. Harry took an instant dislike to him. He didn’t trust people with limp handshakes. Mrs Moore shook Harry’s hand, but with a much firmer grip than her husband’s. She was a small, stocky lady with a pleasant smile. Harry smiled back.

‘No problem. I’m glad you made it,’ Harry said. ‘Step inside for a minute an’ I’ll get the key to show you round.’ Harry went over to the combination safe on his lounge wall and twirled the dial back and forward three times. With a pronounced click, the safe door swung open. ‘It’s flat number 10 you’re wantin’ to see?’

‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘From the pictures in the brochure it looks lovely.’

‘It certainly is,’ Harry enthused. He took the key for flat 10 from its hook and dropped it into his jacket pocket before closing the safe door and spinning the dial. Picking up his information folder, he ushered the Moores out into the vestibule. As they crossed the hall towards the glass door, Harry opened his brochure and started reading from the notes. ‘Security is a prime consideration in Dalgleish Tower. In order to gain access to the lift or the staircase, a code must be entered via the control panel situated to the right of the access door.’

Harry ostentatiously stood between the Moores and the panel while he keyed in six digits. ‘Nobody gets to know the security code except the residents and me,’ he stated. ‘It’s my job to deliver the mail to the flats every mornin’ because even the postie doesn’t get telt the code,’ he announced proudly. Waving the Moores through ahead of him, he summoned the lift and when it arrived he pressed the button
for floor 10. The doors closed smoothly and the lift emitted the faintest of hums as it glided upwards. As they were ascending, Harry again referred to his notes. ‘Apart from the ground floor, all the floors of Dalgleish Tower have the same layout, comprising one four-bedroom apartment measuring a hundred and fifty square metres.’

The lift doors slid open and they stepped out onto the plush carpeting in the hallway. There was a single door facing them on which was displayed the number ‘10’ in gold numerals. Harry produced the key from his pocket and handed it to Donald Moore. Moore examined the six-centimetre cylindrical bolt, which bore no resemblance to any key he’d ever seen.

‘The keys in Dalgleish Tower are state-of-the-art,’ Harry read out. ‘I’m not exactly sure what that means,’ he confided as he took back the key. ‘Each key is individually tooled,’ he read, ‘and cannot be copied by conventional key-cutting equipment.’

Slipping the key into the lock, he rotated it three times anti-clockwise. He read again from his notes. ‘As the front door is unlocked you will notice that six bolts have been activated, four horizontal and two vertical, and you will also observe that the door is made of reinforced steel, seven centimetres thick. As you step inside you will notice the solid-oak parquet flooring that runs throughout the apartment. The walls of the apartment are all decorated in white French
tissu
, a fabric wall-covering that is both elegant and hard-wearing.

‘The corridor facing you runs east-west, the length of the apartment. The first door on the left leads to the master bedroom which, like all the bedrooms, has a capacious fitted wardrobe, an en suite bathroom and a balcony commanding a magnificent view. The first door on the right leads to the lounge which is forty-two square metres in size and –’ Harry broke off with an embarrassed look on his face. ‘This is the first time I’ve shown anyone round an’ there’s an awfy lot o’ this posy bumf to wade through.’ He held up the six pages of notes in his hand. ‘I can read it all out if you like, but if I’m borin’ the arse off you…?’

‘You’re doing fine, Mr Kennedy,’ Mrs Moore said reassuringly. ‘Tell you what. How about if we leave the sales blurb for now and Mr Moore and I have a look round the apartment on our own? If we’ve got any questions we’ll let you know.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ Harry agreed enthusiastically. ‘I’ll wait for you. Take as long as you like.’

Harry remained in the hall until the Moores had moved on from the master bedroom, then he wandered into the room and gazed out of the window. The sleet had turned to rain and he could make out the shapes of the snow-covered buildings on the far side of the river. He was still admiring the view a few minutes later when he heard a discreet cough behind him.

‘Okay, Mr Kennedy,’ said Mrs Moore, ‘I think we’ve seen everything we want.’

‘Have you got any questions?’

‘I think we have all the information we need in the brochure.’

‘What did you think of it?’ Harry asked as they rode down in the lift.

‘Wonderful.’ Mrs Moore looked at her husband. ‘We’ll probably be taking it, won’t we, Donald?’

‘Provided they’ll negotiate on the price, Nancy,’ he said sternly. ‘Do you know what they’d be prepared to accept, Mr Kennedy?’

‘I’ve no idea. You’d need to discuss that with the agent, Mr Chalmers. I can give you his number.’

‘That’s okay. I’ve got it. I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow.’

Mud and slush splattered the Mercedes’ windscreen as Michael Gibson overtook a line of slow-moving lorries on the M80 south of Stirling. He switched his windscreen wipers to maximum speed to try to clear his vision.

Suddenly, a pair of piercing, pale-blue eyes appeared on the other side of the windscreen – staring straight at him. He swerved instinctively, drifting dangerously close to the rumbling wheels of
a container lorry in the inside lane. The eyes were there for only an instant – swept away in the next flash of the wiper blades. A sustained blast on a horn hammered on Michael’s eardrums and headlights reflecting in his wing mirror dazzled him. He put his foot to the floor and accelerated away, weaving erratically in the fast lane as he shook his head to try to clear the pulsing pain. Why did he keep seeing those eyes? What was happening to him? Was he losing control? Or what scared him most – was he was going the same way as his father?

He saw the sign for his exit looming up ahead. As soon as he’d swung off the motorway he pulled over at the side of the slip road. Unclipping his seatbelt he stretched for the jar of paracetamol in the glove compartment and spilled several tablets into the palm of his hand – he didn’t count how many. Beads of perspiration were running from his temples as he rammed the pills into his mouth. The taste was foul and he had no water. He grimaced as he crunched into the dry pills, trying to generate enough saliva to swallow. Having forced down what he could, he wound down his window and spat the remainder of the pills into the bank of snow by the side of the road.

Leaving the car window open, he made his way slowly in the direction of Carron Bridge. The minor roads hadn’t been ploughed or salted and it took him fifteen minutes to negotiate the two miles to Crighton Hall.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Gibson. We weren’t sure if you’d make it today.’ The receptionist’s smile seemed forced.

Michael nodded curtly. ‘How is my father?’

She didn’t answer the question. ‘Dr Bell would like a word with you. If you’d care to take a seat I’ll let him know you’re here.’

Michael didn’t sit down. He stood by the window staring out at the falling snow until the receptionist called across to let him know Dr Bell was available.

Michael’s footsteps rang out on the marble floor as he strode down the oak-panelled hallway of what had once been a stately
home towards the office at the far end. Gavin Bell gestured towards a seat as he opened the folder on his desk. Michael noticed his right eye was bruised and swollen.

‘I’m afraid it’s not good news.’ Michael frowned. ‘Your father’s Alzheimer’s has reached an advanced stage and, together with his schizophrenia, this appears to be triggering unpredictable, irrational behaviour patterns. Yesterday was a case in point. Your father seemed to have got it into his head that we were trying to poison him. In the restaurant last night he grabbed one of the staff by the throat and tried to strangle her. We had to restrain him forcibly.

‘I spent the best part of an hour trying to reason with him, but to no avail. He would remain calm for a few minutes, but then the violence would suddenly flare up again.’ Bell touched the painful-looking swelling below his right eye. ‘Finally, I had to sedate him.’

‘How is he today?’

‘He seems to be a bit more relaxed.’

‘Can I see him?’

‘Of course. But do understand that your father’s condition has deteriorated significantly in the past couple of weeks, Mr Gibson. You’re going to have to reconcile yourself to the fact that in the near future it’s possible he won’t recognise you.’