Double Mortice (12 page)

‘George cracked up a couple of years back. It started as eccentric behaviour – he would suddenly burst out laughing in court at the most inappropriate moments. He would ask witnesses bizarre personal questions – totally unrelated to the case in hand. He got argumentative with the Sheriff, once even accusing him of bias when he disagreed with a verdict. Because of his years of distinguished service he was given a fair amount of latitude, but eventually it got out of hand and he was suspended for contempt of court. Michael managed to persuade him to seek medical help. I believe schizophrenia was diagnosed.

‘Round about the same time a spate of fires started breaking out in the district. One day, one of my officers caught George red-handed, kindling a fire behind Bearsden railway station. We were going to prosecute but Michael persuaded me to drop the charges. The deal was that Michael would have George committed to Crighton Hall on a voluntary basis.

‘As there was little to be gained by dragging a sick old man through the courts and ruining his reputation, I went along with it. What do you think? Could this be at the root of Michael’s problem? Could there be something hereditary?’

‘Certainly, there could be. But it’s the combination of circumstances that’s worrying. The guy’s enduring repetitive, terrifying nightmares; he seems to have a drink problem; he’s living in constant fear that McFarlane is out to kill him; he’s suffering from debilitating headaches and he’s convinced his wife’s been murdered. Add to that his previous breakdown and the possibility of inherited schizophrenia and you’ve got a walking time-bomb on your hands. There’s no way to predict what he might do next.’

When Charlie got back to Pitt Street he found a note on his desk from Pauline, requiring him to report to Superintendent Hamilton as soon as he got back. He trudged up the staircase and tapped
lightly on the door, hoping Hamilton might still be at lunch. His hopes were dashed by the summons to enter.

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘What’s going on around here, Anderson?’

‘Going on?’

‘Who the hell managed to lose McFarlane this time?’

‘I don’t have the details. I’ve been with Michael Gibson all morning, visiting a psychiatrist. Gibson imagined he’d found his wife’s body again last night – this time with her throat slashed – but once again the corpse had disappeared into thin air.’

‘It’s not just the air that’s thin around here. My patience is wearing
very
thin.’

‘Gibson’s a sick man. He’s unstable and his testimony’s unreliable. It’ll take time to diagnose his condition.’

‘Diagnose his condition?’ Hamilton feigned incredulity. ‘For Christ’s sake, Anderson. Do I have to spell everything out in words of one syllable? We’re not running the fucking National Health Service. I don’t give a monkey’s about the state of Gibson’s health. There are two things, and two things only, that interest me right now. Number one is Anne Gibson. She’s been missing for a week. If she’s alive, I want her found to kill off the speculation that’s building up in the press – and if she’s been murdered, I want the body found and the culprit brought to book. Am I making myself clear?’ Charlie ignored the rhetorical question as he stared out of the window. ‘And the other priority is the whereabouts of McFarlane. The NCA are biting my arse on this one. They’re on the blower to me every five minutes, wanting to know if he’s made a move towards recovering the proceeds of the Bothwell Street job – and all I have to report is that we don’t even know where the hell he is!

‘It’s not good enough. This not the quality of work I expect from my senior officers. I want to make myself very clear. If Anne Gibson’s body isn’t found within the next twenty-four hours – dead or alive – there will be repercussions.’

Charlie was seething when he stomped back to his office. He’d never been closer to punching a senior officer in his life. He buzzed through to Pauline and asked her to find O’Sullivan and Renton, then sat behind his desk, breathing in and out deeply, trying to compose himself while waiting for them to arrive.

‘What do you have?’ he asked as they walked in together.

‘As expected,’ Renton said, ‘forensic drew a complete blank at Gibson’s place. No trace of vomit or bloodstains. No sign of a forced entry. No evidence of a disturbance of any kind.’

‘And McFarlane?’

O’Sullivan shook his head ruefully. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got nothing on him yet. We’re watching McWilliam’s flat and we’ve issued McFarlane’s description to all the Paisley cabbies in case someone picked him up after he gave us the slip. So far, no one’s come forward with anything.’

‘Well you should both be aware that Niggle is not at all a happy bunny,’ Charlie stated. ‘In fact, he thinks we’re a complete bunch of wankers and he’s threatening to have us for breakfast if we don’t get a result on the Gibson case within the next twenty-four hours. Quite frankly, I don’t give a bugger what he thinks about me. The guy’s a bloody politician, not a copper. All he’s bothered about is covering his arse. But, like it or not, he’s the boss around here and you’re going to have to work with him for the foreseeable future, so pull out all the stops.’

The following morning Charlie again arrived early at Pitt Street. At eight o’clock his phone rang. He picked up the receiver. ‘DCI Anderson?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Bobby Rooney, from Paisley, Charlie. You’d better get some of your blokes across here sharpish.’

‘What’s up?’

‘A body’s been found in the woods. I think it’s the missing woman.’

‘The missing woman? Anne Gibson?’ Charlie demanded.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I can be – the body fits her description.’

‘Where was she found?’

‘In the Gleniffer Braes. There’s a small copse of trees near a drinking fountain, just back from the road. The body was found in there. From the description I’ve been given it looks like it was a particularly brutal murder. My guys are up there now, cordoning off the area.’

‘Have you notified forensics?’

‘Not yet. I decided to call you first.’

‘Leave everything with me, Bobby. I’ll handle it from this end. Tell your boys I’ll be across as soon as I can get there – should be in about half an hour.’ Charlie replaced the receiver and flicked his intercom switch. ‘Do you know if Tony O’Sullivan’s in yet, Pauline?’

‘I saw him at the coffee machine ten minutes ago.’

‘Ask him to come to my office straight away.’

‘I’ve just had a call from Bobby Rooney,’ Charlie said when O’Sullivan stuck his head round the door. ‘It seems that Anne Gibson’s body’s been found in the Gleniffer Braes on the outskirts of Paisley. You and I are going over there right now. Tell the duty officer to send a forensic team across and organise an ambulance. I’ll pick up my car and meet you out front.’

There had been a welcome change in the weather overnight. The rain clouds had vanished and the sun was rising in a clear blue sky
as Charlie filtered onto the M8 in the direction of Paisley. A couple of miles down the road he ran into road works and progress was slow while three lanes of traffic funnelled into one. When he switched on the car radio the painfully cheerful voice on Radio Scotland was advising everyone to avoid the westerly direction on the M8 for the rest of the morning.

‘Thanks a bunch.’ Charlie flicked off the radio. By the time he reached the exit for Paisley the traffic flow had improved, though the commuter traffic was still heavy as he made his way towards the town centre. Turning off the main road, he cut through the side streets.

‘You seem to know this part of the world well,’ O’Sullivan commented.

‘This is my home territory. I was brought up in this neck of the woods.’

It was almost nine o’clock by the time they crossed the Glenburn housing estate and started to climb. The sight of the Gleniffer Braes brought happy memories flooding back to Charlie. It had been a long time since he’d last driven towards these hills. Would the big car park still be there, he wondered? It was near the crest of the hill, a couple of hundred yards beyond the drinking fountain.

In his youth, the car park had been a favourite spot for courting couples. He and his mates had often driven up there with their girlfriends after an evening in the pub or at the dancing. He smiled to himself as he recalled the well-worn chat-up lines: ‘Have you ever seen the lights of Paisley from the top of the Gleniffer Braes? They’re really quite spectacular’. The girls all knew the score – most of them had been up to the car park dozens of times – but they always acted surprised. ‘No. I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never actually seen them’. ‘Would you like to see them tonight?’ ‘That sounds like a nice idea’.

When you got there, especially on a Friday or Saturday evening, it was hard to find a place to park – the car park was invariably crammed – although, judging by the number of steamed-up windows, not much viewing of the lights of Paisley was being done. He
smiled again as he recalled the first time he’d brought Kay up here. He wondered if the car park was still as popular.

Charlie dropped into first gear to negotiate the steep hill. ‘The drinking fountain Bobby Rooney mentioned is on the left-hand side as we go up,’ he explained. ‘I hope it hasn’t changed too much. It was rather special. A battered metal drinking cup attached to the rock face by a steel chain. When the snow on the high hills melted, the spring water would gurgle out from a fissure in the rock. I often stopped there to have a drink when I was out walking. But I suppose the communal drinking cup will have been banned now by some European Community hygiene regulation or other.’ Charlie chuckled at the thought. ‘There was a plaque on the wall,’ he added. ‘It had a picture of a bloke on it and there was a poem inscribed round the outside. It was all about ‘The Bonnie Wee Well at the Breist of the Brae’ and there was something about a lark drinking there in the morning – but I can’t remember the rhyme.’

Charlie came upon the fountain before he was expecting it. It seemed to be lower down the hill than he remembered. ‘Something’s different,’ he said. ‘I think the road’s been straightened. I’m sure it used to pass much closer to the well.’ He glanced to his left, but he’d passed too quickly to notice if the drinking cup was still in position.

Charlie continued up the twisting road and turned off when he reached the entrance to the car park. It had been extended to more than twice its previous size. Courting must be alive and well in Paisley, he thought.

This morning, however, there was only one other vehicle parked there – a police patrol car. Charlie got out from behind the wheel and leaned on his car door as he breathed in the cool, sweet air. ‘If you close your eyes you could imagine you’re a million miles from a city up here,’ he said. ‘Half the beauty of this place is the silence.’

Closing his eyes, he breathed in again deeply and filled his lungs before exhaling slowly. When he opened his eyes he scanned the
hills far beyond the conglomerates of Paisley and Glasgow. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ He pointed towards a snow-capped peak rising in the far distance. ‘That’s Ben Lomond – and there’s the Campsies. But unfortunately, Tony,’ he said with a sigh, ‘we’re not here today to admire the view.’

He looked across towards the clump of trees, two hundred yards away – as Bobby Rooney had described, just behind the drinking fountain. Leading the way, he set off across the hillside and clambered over the low stile as he made his way towards the two grim-faced, young constables. He flashed his warrant card. ‘DCI Anderson. Glasgow CID. This is DS O’Sullivan. Bobby Rooney called us out.’

‘We were expecting you, sir,’ one of the constables said.

‘Where’s the body?’

‘In there.’ He indicated a gap in the trees. ‘I should warn you before you go in, it’s not a pretty sight.’

‘It never is, son.’ Charlie ducked under the tape that had been stretched between two fir trees and braced himself as he walked towards the gap. He froze, completely stunned. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The body, spread-eagled, tied by the wrists and ankles to four saplings. The white rope. The mouth taped with brown sticky tape. The eyes open and staring. The throat slit wide open. The erstwhile white blouse stained crimson. The green leather skirt saturated with blood. Charlie’s head started to spin. The clean air smelled foul in his nostrils. He couldn’t breathe.

Charlie heard the engines before he saw the vehicles. Glancing across, he saw a police car and an ambulance snaking in convoy up the winding road. He plodded back across the hillside to meet the cars.

Charlie recognised the officer who got out. ‘Good morning, Eddie.’

‘Morning, Inspector.’ Sergeant Eddie McLaughlin opened his car boot and pulled out three cameras which he swung round his neck, then he hauled out a heavy black bag.’

‘Can I give you a hand with your gear?’

‘No need, thanks. I’m used to it. Where is she?’

‘Over there. In that clump of trees.’ They walked together towards the copse. ‘One important question, Eddie. I need to establish if she was killed here or if her body was brought here after she was murdered.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Charlie and Tony spoke to the two constables while McLaughlin photographed the corpse and meticulously examined the surrounding area.

‘Who found her?’ O’Sullivan asked.

‘A guy out walking his dog early this morning. I took his statement. His dog ran into the copse and didn’t come out when he called. He went in to look for it and found her, then he called ‘999’ from his mobile.’

They were still in discussion when they heard McLaughlin shout across to the ambulance crew. ‘Okay, boys, I’m finished. You can take her away.’

‘What do you reckon, Eddie?’ Charlie asked.

‘She’s been dead between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. I’ll give you a more accurate figure after the autopsy. I’ve taken soil samples, but it won’t be easy to establish with any degree of certainty whether or not she was murdered here. She lost so much blood that you’d normally expect the earth to be impregnated if she’d been killed here, but with the porosity of the soil and the amount of rain we’ve had in the last forty-eight hours the blood could easily have been washed away.’

‘The murder weapon?’

‘The cause of death was repeated slashes to the throat – there are at least ten wounds – all delivered with a sharp knife or blade, probably not serrated.’

‘Was she sexually assaulted?’

‘I’ll have to wait for the post-mortem to confirm that but my initial impression is no. Her clothes don’t seem to have been interfered with.’

‘As soon as you have the photos I’d like copies.’

‘Are you going back to your office now?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll send prints across. You’ll have them within the hour.’

Charlie and Tony followed behind as the stretcher was carried across the hillside and they watched in silence while it was loaded into the ambulance. McLaughlin’s car, followed by the ambulance, turned round in the car park and weaved their way down the road. Charlie waited until they were out of sight before signalling to O’Sullivan to get into the car. Neither of them spoke as they drove down the hill. Charlie didn’t glance to his right as they sped past the drinking fountain. The silence wasn’t broken until they were back on the motorway.

Stephen McCartney’s receptionist buzzed through to him. ‘Inspector Anderson called fifteen minutes ago, doctor. He asked to speak to you but I explained you couldn’t be interrupted during a consultation. He said it was extremely urgent. I told him your agenda was full today but he insisted he had to see you. He wanted to know if he could come across at lunch time?’

‘For Charlie Anderson to skip his lunch, it must be important. Tell him to come over at twelve. Oh, and do me a favour, Margaret. Nip round the corner and get me a sandwich.’

‘What kind?’

‘Cheese and tomato, lots of pickle.’

Stephen McCartney was sitting behind his desk, flicking through The Herald and munching his sandwich, when Charlie walked in.

‘Finish your lunch,’ Charlie said, taking the chair opposite. ‘Good of you to see me at such short notice.’

‘What’s the panic?’ McCartney asked through a mouthful of crumbs.

Charlie took three photographs from his inside jacket pocket and dropped them onto the desk. ‘What do you make of these?’

McCartney winced as he studied each photo in turn. ‘You sure know how to spoil someone’s appetite. Anne Gibson, I assume?’ Charlie nodded grimly. ‘Where was the body found?’

‘In the Gleniffer Braes – on the outskirts of Paisley.’

McCartney raised an eyebrow. ‘When?’

‘Early this morning.’

‘Has Michael been told?’

‘Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.’

‘What do you make of it?’

‘There’s not a shadow of doubt that Gibson saw his wife’s dead body. The description he gave us is too accurate for coincidence to even enter the equation. But whether he saw the body in Dalgleish Tower or in the Gleniffer Braes is an open question. And whether or not he murdered her is also up for grabs.’

‘Was she sexually assaulted?’

‘We won’t know for sure until after the post-mortem, but it seems unlikely.’

‘Statistically, that increases the probability that Gibson killed her,’ McCartney stated. ‘In murder cases, where a female victim is found tied to a bed, or to anything else, there’s often a sexual motive. When a husband murders in a fit of rage or jealousy, sexual assault is much rarer. I’m not saying this means Gibson killed his wife. Only that the probability is increased.’

‘Point taken. But even if you believe Gibson to be capable of doing this, it doesn’t stack up. He said he was in his office on Tuesday up until six-thirty. Assuming that checks out, he phoned me from the caretaker’s flat in Dalgleish Tower just after seven. It wouldn’t have been possible for him to drive to Paisley and back in that time, never mind commit a murder.

‘And if he did kill his wife,’ Charlie continued, ‘why on earth would he implicate himself by giving us such an accurate description of the corpse? And why the cock-and-bull story about Anne committing suicide last Wednesday?’

‘I haven’t the remotest idea. The time of death – when was that?’

‘The initial assessment is that she was killed between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago, which is consistent with the murder having taken place on Tuesday evening – when Gibson claimed to have found his wife’s body.’

‘Remind me. When did she first go missing?’

‘Just over a week ago.’

‘So the murderer kidnapped her and held her somewhere for a week before he killed her?’

‘Search me.’ Charlie scratched at his bald head. ‘This is a right bloody mess, Stephen. Where the hell do we go from here?’

‘Have the press got wind of the story yet?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘If you consider Gibson to be a suspect, of course you’ll have to pull him in. But I’m not at all sure how he would react if you were to show him these,’ McCartney said, sliding the photographs back across the desk. ‘They could easily tip him over the edge.’

‘I’ve no intention of doing that.’ Charlie picked up the photos and slipped them back into his pocket. ‘I’m on my way across to the Marriott now to break the news to him.’ Charlie hesitated. ‘I was wondering if there was any chance you might be able to tag along?’

‘It certainly would be better if we were both there. Do you know if he’s in the hotel right now?’

‘I took the precaution of having him watched. I checked just before I came here. He went into the lounge bar at eleven o’clock and he’s still there.’