Double Mortice (20 page)

Charlie grimaced. ‘So you can read my mind, now? Definitely time I was put out to pasture. Okay, nothing we can do on that front for the time being, but I want to be informed the minute the quacks will let me near him.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

‘Before you go, Tony, sit down and help me think something through.’ Charlie rocked back on his chair and swung his feet back up on the desk. ‘While you were on the phone to the hospital, I was thinking about this Parker bloke. I was wondering how deeply he was in this with Anne Gibson. I mean, you don’t get involved in clandestine furniture removals without having some idea about what’s going on. Perhaps Parker was involved in staging the fake suicide and murder.’

‘If he was in it to that extent, could he have been the accomplice? In fact, could he have killed her? You surmised that he might’ve been
her toy boy. Did a lovers’ tiff develop into an argument, causing him to switch from assisting with a fake murder to participating in a real one?’

‘I suppose he then suffered from such pangs of remorse that he contrived to tie his own hands behind his back before somehow managing to slit his throat and swallowing the razor to conceal the suicide weapon?’

O’Sullivan shrugged. ‘Give me your theory.’

‘Let’s assume Parker was the accomplice and that he was in the flat at the time of the murder. If he was hiding in one of the other rooms when the killer struck, he would know who murdered her… Michael Gibson? Jack McFarlane? Whoever. The killer somehow finds out that Parker had witnessed the murder, so he goes after him. Which raises the interesting possibility that Parker’s murder might not have been a case of mistaken identity for Paul Gibson after all. Perhaps Parker was the killer’s intended victim all along.’

‘This gets weirder and weirder.’

Charlie dropped his feet to the floor. ‘Where is Paul now?’

‘Still in Traquair House, the clinic Dr McCartney took him to. I left instructions that I was to be informed if he tried to check himself out.’

‘I think I’ll mosey over there and have a word with him. Perhaps he can cast some light on the relationship between his mother and Parker.’

Bernie McGurk, perched on a high stool at the end of the bar, ordered another large whisky. He added a splash of water to his drink and returned to studying the form, underlining his selection for the one-thirty at Pontefract. He glanced up at the clock behind the bar and saw it was twenty-past one. Taking a betting-slip from his hip pocket, he filled in his selection and his stake, then threw back his drink and climbed down from the barstool.

‘I’ll be back in a wee while, Sammy,’ he called to the barman. ‘I’m off to the bookies. Do you want me to put on a bet for you?’

‘No thanks, Bernie. I put my line on this morning.’

Whistling cheerfully, Bernie walked out of the pub, blinking to adjust his eyes to the spring sunshine as he shuffled down the road towards the bookies. He hadn’t gone twenty yards when a white Rover pulled up at the kerb beside him, the rear-seat passenger getting out and standing in his way. Bernie muttered under his breath as he moved to dodge round him, but the man stepped across to block his path.

‘Drinking at lunch-time, Bernie?’ said a voice from behind, the voice of the man who had followed him out of the pub. ‘Large whiskies, as well. I don’t know how you manage to afford it. Have you come into some money recently?’

Bernie spun round. ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’

‘Someone would like a wee chat with you. In private. Get your arse into the car.’

‘No!’

‘I’m asking you nice this time, Bernie. I won’t be asking nice again. Get your arse into the fuckin’ car.’

‘Goany gie’s a break, pal.’ Bernie looked round in panic, but before he could make any attempt to escape he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and bundled into the back seat of the Rover, wedged tightly between the two men. As the car pulled away from the kerb, Bernie’s hands were pinned behind his back and fastened with rope. ‘What do you want with me,’ he whimpered. ‘I’ve no’ done nothin’.’

A strip of tape was rammed across Bernie’s mouth and a blindfold was tied round his eyes. He felt a sudden, sharp pain as something heavy crashed into the base of his skull.

Charlie Anderson arrived at the reception desk in Traquair House and asked to see Dr Glen. He was ushered into a plush office.

‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ Mike Glen said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘If it’s possible, I’d like to have a word with Paul Gibson. I realise the lad’s been hit with a lot in the past few days, but I do need to ask him some questions.’

‘You can speak to him, as long as you realise he’s still in traumatic shock. He’s on very heavy tranquillisers and he’s going to find it difficult to talk about the murders.’

‘I’ll be as gentle – and as quick, as I can.’

Charlie was shown into a spacious lounge where Paul was sitting in front of a computer screen. He was pale and drawn. Charlie couldn’t help noticing how thin he looked. He was playing a game that involved twisting and guiding bricks cascading down from the top of the screen into gaps in a wall. Charlie had seen the game before but it was years since he’d seen anyone play it. He couldn’t remember what it was called. Paul was so engrossed in the spinning shapes that he didn’t hear Charlie come in. Without interrupting him, Charlie sat on the chair beside the door and watched. As the bricks fell faster and faster, Paul’s fingers danced around the keyboard, his body arching in the direction he was willing the bricks to twist. He eventually lost control and the screen rapidly filled up with jagged shapes.

‘Hello, Paul.’

Paul turned round with a start. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘You were engrossed in your game. Do you remember me?’

‘It’s Inspector Anderson, isn’t it? We met in my father’s office a while back.’

‘So we did.’

‘How long have you been sitting there?’

‘Only a few minutes. I didn’t want to disturb you in the middle of your game.’

Paul looked embarrassed. ‘I’m no good at Tetris. Apparently it’s a very old game, but it’s the first time I’ve played it. I’m just beginning to get the hang of it.’

‘How are they treating you here?’

‘Everyone’s very friendly – and they’ve got an amazing selection of computer games.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you want to talk to me about the murders?’

‘I would like to ask you a few questions, but only if you feel up to it.’

Paul nodded grimly. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help you catch whoever murdered my mother and Gordon.’

Charlie pulled out his notebook and his propelling pencil. ‘Do you know that your mother chose to ‘disappear’ last week, Paul? That she was hiding out at your grandparents’ place in Aberdeen?’

Paul nodded. ‘Dr McCartney told me.’

‘Do you have any idea why she would do that?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘When was the last time you saw your mother?’

‘A few days before she disappeared. I went round to her flat one morning for a coffee.’

‘Did you go to Dalgleish Tower at all during the time your mother was missing?’

‘A couple of times. But only when I was sure my father wouldn’t be there. I went there to make sure Brutus was all right. He’s Mum’s cat. He needs a lot of t.l.c. Mum idolised him, but if it was left to my Dad he’d be lucky if he didn’t starve.’

Charlie paused while he rolled down the lead in his pencil. ‘Last Thursday – the night Gordon Parker was killed – where were you?’ Charlie noticed tears welling up in the corners of Paul’s eyes, but he displayed no other sign of emotion. His voice was steady.

‘I was through in Edinburgh with Tommy and Dave. We were rehearsing our next gig.’

‘Was Gordon a member of your group?’

‘He was the lead singer.’

‘But he wasn’t at the rehearsal last Thursday?’

‘He was supposed to be going, but he had a sore throat and had to call off.’

‘How did you go through to Edinburgh?’

‘I took the train. Gordon wanted the van.’

‘The ‘Citizens Band’ van?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is the van yours, or Gordon’s?’

‘Technically, it’s mine. It’s registered in my name. But we split the cost between us and we both used it whenever we wanted. The arrangement worked out fine. There was never any hassle about whose turn it was.’

‘Do you know why Gordon wanted the van last Thursday?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘How long had your mother and Gordon known each other?’

‘Mum and Gordon?’ Paul looked surprised at the question. ‘About fourteen years, I suppose. Ever since Gordon and I became friends at primary school. We must’ve been six or seven at the time.’

‘Did she like him?’

‘Of course. She often invited him to come up to Aberdeen with us, to my grandparents’ house, during the Easter holidays. She liked his sense of humour.’

‘Did Gordon get on well with her?’

‘He thought she was terrific. He used to go on about how lucky I was to have a mother like her. Gordon’s father died when he was quite young. While he was at University he stayed at home with his
mother and sister, but that was only because he couldn’t afford a flat. He rarely spoke about his mother. They didn’t get on.

‘Where is this all leading?’ Paul asked in a perplexed tone. ‘Are you trying to establish some sort of connection between Gordon and my mother?’ He got to his feet, a little shakily. ‘You’re not trying to imply that Gordon had anything to do with my mother’s death, I hope? What kind of a sick –?’

‘Don’t get worked up, Paul. I’m not trying to imply anything. To be frank, I’m just trying to uncover anything that might help me find out who killed your mother.’

‘And Gordon. Don’t forget about Gordon. The poor guy’s dead as well. On account of me, probably. If I’d been in the flat that night, Gordon might still be alive today.’

Paul broke down and wept openly. Charlie stood up and put a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’ Putting away his notebook, he took a packet of tissues from his pocket and unfolded one, handing it across. Paul took the tissue and blew his nose hard.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to lose control.’

‘It’s understandable.’

‘I thought I was beyond losing control. I’ve always prided myself on that.’ Paul managed a haggard smile as he wiped his nose. ‘But it looks as if I need to let myself go as much as the next man.’

As he came round slowly, Bernie McGurk lifted his throbbing head, but when he tried to open his eyes, everything remained black. He realised he was still blindfolded. His attempt to stand up got him nowhere as he was bound by his wrists and ankles to an upright chair. He couldn’t even open his mouth.

When he heard approaching footsteps, he let his chin fall limply back onto his chest, feigning unconsciousness. The footsteps rang out louder, then stopped. Bernie sensed someone was standing directly in front of him. He remained motionless. Suddenly his
head was jerked up and the tape was ripped unceremoniously from his mouth. His lips stung fiercely. When a glass of ice-cold water was thrown into his face, he squealed involuntarily and started to struggle.

‘You’re wasting your time, Bernie.’ He heard the footsteps move round behind him and he blinked as his blindfold fell away. Looking up, he saw he was in an empty warehouse, the faint echo of his cry still reverberating from the high ceiling. ‘You can shout your head off in here,’ the voice behind him said. ‘Nobody’s going to hear you. And nobody’s going to help you.’ It wasn’t the voice of either of the men who’d grabbed him in the street. A much deeper voice.

Bernie watched out of the corner of his eye as his captor walked round to face him. He saw the purple, jagged scar before he could focus on the rest of his features. Recognising McFarlane, he started twisting feverishly against his bonds.

‘No point in struggling, Bernie. It won’t get you anywhere,’ McFarlane said, pulling across a wooden chair and straddling it. He took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit up, blowing a large smoke ring which he watched in silence as it drifted upwards, almost intact, towards the high roof.

‘Would you like a fag?’ Bernie nodded nervously. ‘In a minute, then. First, you’re going to answer a couple of questions.’

‘Who are you, mister? What do you want with me?’

‘You don’t know who I am?’ McFarlane asked, feigning incredulity. ‘Really? I don’t think I believe you, Bernie. In fact, a wee birdie told me you were being very nosy – asking all sorts of questions about me. Why did you do that? Who was paying for the information?’

Perspiration rolled down Bernie’s face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. I’ve no idea who you are.’

‘You said you wanted a fag?’

When Bernie nodded again, McFarlane took a long drag on his cigarette until the end glowed red hot, then he leaned forward and crushed the burning tip into the middle of Bernie’s forehead. Bernie
let out a blood-curdling scream as the cigarette sizzled and seared his skin, the acrid smell of his scorched flesh filling his nostrils and making him want to vomit. ‘You’re a fucking bastard, McFarlane!’ he yelled.

McFarlane dropped the cigarette onto the ground and crushed it under his heel. His face broke out in a broad grin. ‘There you go. You were just teasin’ me, you fly wee bugger. You knew all along who I was. All you needed was a wee memory jog.’

Taking a fresh cigarette from his packet, McFarlane lit up. ‘You can see why they say fags are bad for your health, can’t you, Bernie?’ He chuckled. ‘Now we’re going to try the question again.’ He blew another smoke ring and followed its languid progress as it spiralled upwards. ‘But no more joshin’. Because if I don’t get a proper answer this time, this fag’s goin’ into your eye.’

‘Oh, for fucksake, McFarlane,’ Bernie whimpered. ‘Screw the fuckin’ nut.’

On his way to work Charlie Anderson stopped off at the Western Infirmary and asked at reception for Dr McCormick. Taking the lift to the second floor, he was approaching his office when he saw a tall, athletic-looking man about to close the door. ‘Dr McCormick?’ Charlie enquired.

‘How can I help you?’

‘DCI Anderson, Glasgow CID,’ he said, showing his warrant card. ‘I was told I’d be able to talk to Michael Gibson this morning.’

‘If it really is necessary.’ Charlie detected a slight Lancashire accent in the dubious assent. ‘Come with me. I’m on my way to see another patient on the same ward.’

Charlie fell into step as they strode along the wide corridor.

‘Do you know what caused Michael Gibson to collapse?’ Charlie asked.

‘Apart from his dietary deficiency, he’s suffering from angina pectoris.’ Charlie raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘It’s a condition characterised by paroxysmal attacks of extreme pain,’ McCormick explained, ‘often associated with a sense of apprehension or fear. Such attacks are usually precipitated by severe physical or emotional strain. That probably sounds rather horrific but the condition is controllable and the pain can be alleviated by rest and administration of small doses of nitroglycerine.’

Charlie stopped in his tracks and placed a restraining hand on McCormick’s arm. ‘Did I hear you right? Did you say nitroglycerine?’

‘It does have uses other than blowing open safes, Inspector. It’s a vasodilator – it widens the lumen of blood vessels.’

Charlie removed his hand and they resumed walking. ‘Do me a favour, Doc. Keep the lid on that. The last thing I need is for word to get out in Easterhouse that nitro is available on prescription.’

‘Our secret,’ McCormick said, pushing open the swing doors leading to the ward.

‘Where is Gibson?’ Charlie asked.

‘Third bed on the left. But remember, he’s still very weak. Five minutes maximum – and nothing stressful.’

Charlie looked down the open plan ward of some twenty beds, all of which were occupied. He saw Michael Gibson propped up on several pillows, dozing, a drip attached to his forearm. When he heard the visitor’s chair being pulled from under his bed, Michael slowly opened his eyes. He nodded in recognition.

‘So, what’ve you been up to since the last time I saw you, Michael? Which, if I recall correctly, was when you stepped out of the lift in the Marriott.’

‘Sorry about that.’ Michael managed a weak grin.

‘You’d think I’d have known better. It’s definitely time I packed it in and headed off to potter about in my allotment.’

‘I’ve got some information for you, Charlie.’ Michael’s whisper was urgent. ‘I know where McFarlane’s hiding out.’

‘Where?’

‘He’s staying at Larry Robertson’s place at the top of Turnberry Road.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Bernie McGurk found out for me.’

‘McGurk?’

‘You must know Bernie. He’s the best source of information in Glasgow.’

Charlie let out a low sigh. ‘That explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

Charlie pulled The Herald from his coat pocket and tugged his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. Putting on his spectacles, he
flicked through the paper until he found the article he was looking for. He read aloud:

Mindful of Michael’s condition, Charlie skipped over the paragraph describing the fact that McGurk had been blinded in both eyes before being shot by a single bullet through the temple.

Charlie pulled off his glasses. He folded the newspaper and stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘A pound to a pinch of shit McFarlane got wind of the fact that Bernie was asking questions about him,’ Charlie said, shaking his head. ‘I doubt very much if he’ll go anywhere near Robertson’s place now.’ Michael felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. ‘I’m told you were carrying a gun when you collapsed in the street. What in the name of God was that all about?’

‘I was going to kill McFarlane. It’s the only way of dealing with him.’

‘You have got to leave these things to us,’ Charlie snapped. ‘You can’t take the law into your own hands and wander round Glasgow brandishing a gun. You’re descending to his level.’

Michael struggled to sit up straight. ‘He murdered Anne. He tried to kill Paul. Now it’s him or me.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Michael. Spare me the B-movie melodrama. You’re talking about going after one of the most ruthless bastards ever to walk the streets of Glasgow. Leave it alone, for God’s sake.’

Dr McCormick strode down the ward towards the bed. ‘What’s all this commotion about?’ he hissed. ‘Do I need to remind you, Inspector, that Mr Gibson needs complete rest. Shouting and
arguing is not conducive to his recovery, to say nothing of the disturbance you’re causing to the other patients on the ward.’

‘I’ll be the one having a coronary if I can’t talk sense into this pig-headed idiot.’

McCormick glared at Charlie. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave.’

Charlie took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. ‘Sorry, doctor,’ he said getting to his feet and holding up a hand in apology. He turned back to Michael and spoke quietly. ‘If McFarlane murdered Anne, we’ll find him – and we’ll deal with him. Trust me.’

As soon he got back to Pitt Street, Charlie summoned O’Sullivan. ‘It appears that McFarlane was staying at Larry Robertson’s place in Turnberry Road. I don’t have the address, but it’ll be on file. He’ll almost certainly have shot the crow by now but check it out anyway.’

After a light lunch, Michael Gibson had been given his second nitroglycerine treatment. For the first time in months, his headache was almost gone, even when he lifted his head from the pillow. A plan was forming in his mind. He tugged open the locker beside his bed to check his clothes were inside, then he picked up his watch from the bedside table and timed the two nurses who were busying themselves collecting lunch trays. They were nearing the far end of the ward, six beds to go. He reckoned it would be about two minutes before they would turn round and come back down the ward. He looked around to make sure no one was paying any attention to him. Most of the patients were settling down for an after-lunch nap. Snatches of snoring were already in evidence.

Pulling the adhesive tape from his forearm, he eased out the drip needle and got out of bed. He tucked his clothes and shoes under his arm and walked as steadily and as confidently as he could towards the top of the ward.

As soon as he got to the toilets, he stepped out of his hospital
pyjamas and pulled on his clothes. Glancing back up the ward, he saw the nurses stacking the last of the trays. He headed for the wide staircase and gripped the banister tightly as he made his way down.

It was dusk by the time Philippa Scott left her office. Balancing her briefcase on her head to protect her hair from the light drizzle, she trotted as fast as her tight mini-skirt would allow, across Bath Street, towards her parked car, cursing when she saw the folded plastic envelope sticking out from under the Peugeot’s windscreen wiper. ‘Not another bloody ticket! I’m barely ten minutes over the time, for God’s sake.’ She snatched the envelope from under the wiper.

Unlocking the car door, she threw her briefcase onto the passenger seat and got in. ‘How much this time?’ As she was taking the sheet of paper out of the envelope, she realised it wasn’t a parking ticket. She recognised Michael’s handwriting. She started to read:

Philippa’s mind was in turmoil. What should she do? Should she go to meet him? She checked her watch – ten past six – she had half an hour to make up her mind. She stuffed the note into her handbag and got out of the car. She hurried along the street as far as the nearest pub and ordered a gin and tonic at the bar. Having re-read the note, she decided to call Jonathan. He would give her sensible advice, maybe even come with her to Dalgleish Tower. She took her mobile phone from her bag and clicked onto his number, but only reached his messaging service. She clicked onto another number.

‘This is Philippa Scott,’ she said to Jonathan Sharp’s secretary. ‘Would it be possible for me to talk to Mr Sharp? It is rather urgent.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Scott, but he’s still in the board meeting. It was scheduled to finish at six but they’re running late. I don’t know how long they’ll be. Can I take a message?’

‘No message. Thanks.’

Charlie Anderson paced up and down his office. The pieces of the jigsaw didn’t fit. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, something significant. He sensed it, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He needed help to get his thoughts straight. He buzzed through on his intercom. ‘Pauline, find out if O’Sullivan is still in the building.’

A few moments later Pauline was back on the line. ‘He’ll be with you in a couple of minutes, sir.’

‘Thanks. I need peace and quiet to do some thinking, Pauline. Hold any calls. I don’t want to be disturbed for the next hour.’

‘Close the door and grab a seat,’ Charlie said when O’Sullivan walked into the office. Taking his propelling pencil from his jacket pocket, Charlie wound down the lead. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a blank sheet of paper. ‘I need your help to get everything down in writing, Tony,’ he said. ‘Dates, times, places, people. It’s a slog, but it’s the only way to find
The Key Question
.’ Referring to his notebook, he started to compile a chronological list of events.

Philippa depressed the button on the remote control and waited while the doors shuddered open before driving down the steep ramp to the underground garage in Dalgleish Tower. Michael’s Mercedes and Anne’s Volvo were sitting in their usual parking bays, both covered in a thin film of dust. She drew up alongside the cars. Her high-heels clicked on the stone floor as she hurried
across towards the control panel to tap in the security code. As she was riding up in the lift to the fifteenth floor she rummaged in her handbag for her key.

When she unlocked the apartment door, she saw the hall was in darkness, except for a pool of light seeping from under the closed door of the master bedroom. She shut the front door as quietly as she could and tiptoed towards the bedroom. ‘Michael!’ she called out in a hoarse whisper. ‘Are you in there?’

She could feel her heartbeat flutter as she turned the handle and eased open the door. The top light was on and the curtains were drawn. ‘Michael, where are you, for God’s sake?’ She pushed the door open wide and stepped inside, then squealed in fright when the bedroom door slammed behind her.

Spinning round, she saw a tall figure standing with his back against the door, blocking her escape. He was dressed from head to toe in black with a woollen hood covering his face and neck. Wild eyes stared at her through narrow slits. He was brandishing an ivory-handled, cut-throat razor. ‘I see you found my note,’ the muffled voice whispered. ‘Thanks for coming.’

Philippa’s scream was throttled as he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to the floor. He dropped to his knees behind her and held her neck in a vice-like grip in the crook of his arm, the blade poised – inches from her eyes. ‘Shut up!’ he commanded. ‘Or I’ll slit your throat. Do you understand?’

Choking back her scream, Philippa tried to nod her head. ‘You’re choking me,’ she gasped, struggling to twist from his grasp.

Without warning, her assailant sprang to his feet, his arm still locked around her throat. She was dragged up by him. He dropped the razor onto the floor and spun her round to deliver a sickening punch to her solar plexus. She folded in two and collapsed in a crumpled heap, groaning and clutching at the pit of her stomach.

Yanking her up by the hair, he threw her violently on her back onto the bed. He grabbed her right arm and, before she realised what was happening, he’d pulled her wrist through a loop of white
rope that was already attached to the bedpost. He tugged the noose closed. He went quickly to the other side of the bed and grabbed her other wrist. When she glanced over her shoulder she saw another noose waiting. She struggled to pull her arm back, but she was no match for his strength. Inch by inch, he dragged her wrist towards the rope and forced her hand through the loop, pulling the noose tight. He grabbed her left ankle and flicked off her shoe. Looking down, she saw the ropes attached to the bottom of the bed. She kicked out frantically with both legs, catching him a glancing blow on the side of the head and forcing him to release his grip.

‘You little bitch!’ he cursed hoarsely as he took a step back, massaging his bruised jaw through the hood. He swept the razor up from the floor and held it under her chin. She looked down in terror. Her eyes couldn’t focus on the blade but she could feel the cold steel pressing against her throat. ‘You do exactly as I say, or I’ll cut you.’ She froze. ‘Stretch your legs out towards the corners of the bed,’ he demanded. She didn’t move. ‘Do it!’ he yelled applying pressure to the blade. The razor stung painfully as it bit into Philippa’s flesh and she felt a trickle of warm blood running down her neck. ‘I said – do it!’ he screamed in her face. ‘Now!’

Slowly, she stretched out her legs as he had commanded. He went to the bottom of the bed and grabbed her left ankle to pull it through a noose, then he stretched her right leg to the other corner of the bed and flicked off her shoe before fastening her ankle securely, her leather mini-skirt riding up her thighs as she lay, spread-eagled, gasping for breath. He paced up and down beside the bed, peering closely at his victim, a stalking lion examining his prey. He picked up a roll of brown adhesive tape from the bedside table and sliced off a length with the razor. Philippa’s mind started racing. Desperately, she tried to recall what she could remember about such situations – theories she’d read about in magazines, never dreaming she’d ever have to put them into practice. Jumbled phrases came flooding into her brain – ‘even if you’re physically overpowered, don’t concede the mental initiative’ – ‘never show
fear’ – ‘stay calm’ – ‘talk to him’ – ‘discuss and debate’ – ‘try to win his confidence’ – ‘most important of all, make him talk to you – and keep him talking’.