Double Mortice (24 page)

Six days had passed since Paul Gibson’s death and Charlie had spent most of that time in his office, writing reports and clearing a never-ending backlog of correspondence. It was late in the afternoon when he heard a rap on his office door. He put down his pen when he saw who it was.

‘Come on in.’

Michael Gibson stretched across the desk to shake his hand. ‘Stephen McCartney came to see me in hospital. He told me what happened.’

‘I tried to visit you, but Dr McCormick wasn’t having any of it.’

Michael managed a weak smile. ‘How’s the shoulder?’

‘It’s fine. I can get rid of the sling tomorrow. I’m only glad it wasn’t my right arm, otherwise I’d have to have spent all week writing reports left-handed.’

‘About Paul,’ Michael began hesitantly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Say nothing.’

‘I’m told he tried to kill you.’

‘He didn’t know what he was doing. He was high on drugs. He just struck out blindly. But what about you? What’s all this nonsense I hear about you trying to check yourself out of the hospital?’

Michael reddened with embarrassment. ‘Not too clever, eh? Actually, it wasn’t long after you came to see me. I was feeling really good – the headaches had gone – and I decided to go after McFarlane again. I wanted to settle the score on behalf of Bernie McGurk, as well as myself.

‘But I didn’t get very far. The ward sister noticed my bed was empty and she’d informed main reception before I’d even got to the bottom of the stairs. Two orderlies were waiting for me. The last thing I remember was arguing with them and insisting I was well enough to check myself out. I’m told I collapsed. The next thing I knew I was back on the ward with a drip in my arm. They didn’t allow me out until this morning.’

‘Have to learn everything the hard way.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you up and about. How are you coping?’

‘There’s no easy answer to that. In some ways, surprisingly well. The old ticker seems to be hanging in there. Dr McCormick tells me there’s no reason I shouldn’t make a complete recovery, provided I stick to a sensible diet and lay off the booze. And the medication he’s got me on seems to be controlling the headaches. I only wish I’d gone to see him months ago. Other than that, I’m still in a bit of a daze. It’s scarcely believable. I’ve lost… everyone…’

‘I’d recommend you continue seeing Stephen McCartney, Michael. He could be a real lifeline.’

‘I intend to.’ Michael paused. ‘Do you have any news of Philippa?’

‘She’s in the Western too, didn’t you know? You were practically neighbours.’

‘I didn’t realise that. I’d have gone to see her if I’d known. How is she?’

‘They kept her in for observation, but they’ll be letting her out soon. McCartney and I have been to see her a few times. Physically, she’s over the worst of the effects of the drugs. Emotionally, she’s still badly shaken, but Stephen’s confident there won’t be any long-term psychological damage. In any case, she’s talking things over with a counsellor.

‘What about you and her?’ Charlie asked. ‘Any chance of you getting back together?’

Michael shook his head. ‘That’s over.’

‘What are your plans?’

‘To try to get some order back into my life. I haven’t been back to the flat yet, but I’m going to have to face up to that sooner or later. I called Sheila Thompson yesterday and told her I’d come into the office tomorrow morning. I don’t know if I’ll be able to contribute much, but anything’s better than moping around feeling sorry for myself. Sheila’s been marvellous. She’s organised everything for me, including booking me in for therapy sessions with Dr McCartney.

‘By the way,’ Michael added. ‘I’ve found a new home for Anne’s cat. Harry Kennedy phoned me in hospital and asked if it would be all right if he kept Brutus down in his flat for the time being. He said it was a drag going upstairs twice a day to feed him and change his litter. It sounded like an excuse. The way Harry goes on about the beast, I don’t think there would be much chance of me getting him back, even if I wanted to. But tell me. How did you know to go to Dalgleish Tower that evening?’

‘We’ve got Harry to thank for that. When Maureen Donnelly called me and told me about Paul and Gordon Parker, I sent O’Sullivan across to Traquair House straight away to bring Paul in for questioning. Tony had no sooner left the office when Harry called me to tell me he’d just seen ‘Mr Gibson’s bit of stuff’, as he so elegantly put it, driving into the garage at Dalgleish Tower. He thought I might be interested. I phoned Dr Glen at Traquair House to make sure Paul was there and he told me Paul had asked for permission to go across to his flat to pick up a few things. Glen had agreed. Paul had left Traquair House around lunchtime and hadn’t come back. I put two and two together and raced over to Dalgleish Tower. I got the apartment key from Harry and – as they say in the movies – you know the rest.’ Michael nodded grimly. ‘By the way, we arrested Jack McFarlane last night,’ Charlie added.

‘Where?’

‘In a warehouse in Cumbernauld. We nabbed him red-handed with Larry Robertson and the Routledge brothers as they were sharing out the proceeds of the Bothwell Street bank robbery. They were all in on it. I’d a hunch at the time that Robertson was
involved, but McFarlane was the only one we could prove anything against. It transpires that McFarlane was the only one who knew where the loot was stashed and he did a deal with Robertson that he would get a double share if he didn’t shop any of the others while he was inside. Honour among thieves and all that crap.’

‘How did you manage to nail them?’

‘We got a tip-off about where and when the share-out was going to take place. From Francie McGurk, actually – Bernie’s brother. He wouldn’t take any reward for the information. He said he was doing it for Bernie.’

‘I owed Bernie some money,’ Michael said. ‘If I leave it with you, could you make sure it gets to Francie?’

‘Sure.’

‘Will you be charging McFarlane with Bernie’s murder?’

‘No chance. Bernie walked out of a pub last Monday and wasn’t seen again until his body was fished out of the Clyde. Even though I’m one hundred percent certain McFarlane killed him, I couldn’t begin to build a case. No evidence – no witnesses. I’m afraid Bernie will become one more unsolved murder statistic, much to Superintendent Hamilton’s chagrin. Talking about McFarlane, you’re probably not even aware that he was hanging around Dalgleish Tower the night Anne was killed.’

Michael looked incredulous. ‘What in the name of God was he doing there?’

‘When I asked him about that, he laughed like a drain. It’s hard to credit it, but it seems he was intent on winding us up. When he gave us the slip, he was on his way to Larry Robertson’s place in Turnberry Road. Naturally, he wasn’t going to give Robertson’s address to a taxi driver as he knew we’d question every cabbie in Paisley.

‘Apparently his threat to take revenge on you and your family had just been an emotional outburst when he got sentenced. He’d forgotten all about it until I triggered his memory when we picked him up. His lawyer, Frank Morrison, had told him that you’d moved
to Dalgleish Tower, so he thought it would be a bit of a giggle to get out of the taxi there, just to put the wind up us, and walk from there to Robertson’s place. He thought that if he could convince us he’d come back to Glasgow to get his revenge on you, it might deflect us from cottoning on to the real reason for him being here. The bastard has an extremely sick sense of humour. He even went to the trouble of going back to Dalgleish Tower later that same evening, just to catch a taxi into the city centre.’

After Michael had left, Charlie spent another hour clearing his backlog of paperwork. He was about to leave for the night when his intercom buzzed. He flicked across the switch.

‘Yes, Pauline?’

‘Superintendent Hamilton would like to see you in his office straight away, sir. He’s just received the year-to-date figures for violent crime and he wants to discuss them with you.’

Charlie barely hesitated. ‘You just missed me, Pauline, I –’

‘I know, sir,’ Pauline interrupted. ‘Five minutes ago…’

Just after nine o’clock, Michael Gibson pulled up in his private parking bay, then walked up the stairs to his office. Sheila waved across when she saw him come through the door.

‘The young lady is waiting for you in your office,’ she said.

‘What young lady?’

‘She said you were expecting her, Mr Gibson. She told me she’s joining the firm next month.’

Michael’s brow furrowed. ‘There must be some mistake. I don’t know anything about a new member of staff. I hope Peter Davies hasn’t hired someone without consulting me?’

Sheila looked bemused. ‘But she told me you’d recruited her personally, Mr Gibson. Her name is –’ Sheila broke off to refer to her notepad. ‘Saoirse MacBride.’

Black Mail (A DCI Charlie Anderson novel)

The Pheasant Plucker