Double Mortice (8 page)

‘I wasn’t expecting him to try to give me the slip so soon, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘The word from London was that he hadn’t once tried to lose his tail during his time there.’

‘Tell me what happened.’ Charlie slumped back down in his chair. ‘Sit down, Tony,’ he said in a much calmer tone, waving towards the chair opposite. ‘I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’ve had a pig of a day.’

O’Sullivan took out his notebook and flicked it open. ‘I was waiting for McFarlane at Central Station this afternoon. The London train arrived fifteen minutes late. There was no problem picking him out. He strode across the station concourse like he owned the place – dead gallus. As the NCA guys had told us, he was wearing a black anorak, jeans and trainers and carrying a tartan holdall. His head was completely shaved.

‘He bought a newspaper and a packet of fags at a kiosk, then went into the station buffet and ordered a coffee. He sat there for about twenty minutes, flicking through the paper, before strolling out into Gordon Street and wandering around aimlessly, stopping occasionally to look in shop windows.

‘I stayed about twenty yards behind him all the time. He didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular. Up Hope Street, all the way along Sauchiehall Street to Kelvingrove Park, then he wandered back along Argyle Street as far as the Heilanman’s Umbrella. Just meandering around the city as if he was soaking up the atmosphere – or getting acquainted with the place again. I don’t know if he suspected he was being tailed. He never once glanced round.’

‘He knew all right.’ Charlie growled. ‘What next?’

‘He went into The Horse Shoe in Drury Street and stayed there until the back of six,’ O’Sullivan said, referring to his notebook. ‘When he came out of the pub he cut across to Buchanan Street and turned into Princes Square shopping centre, but when I followed him inside, he’d vanished. He must’ve sprinted away as soon as he was out of my line of sight. I ran up the escalator looking for him, but he’d scarpered.’

‘He picked the ideal place to lose you,’ Charlie mused. ‘Princes Square’s a rabbit warren – and it’s always hoaching. Okay. No use crying over spilt milk. Let’s get on with the job of finding him. I
want every man we can spare on this one. Check out his old haunts and pay a visit to his former cronies. I don’t care who gets dragged out of their bed in the middle of the night. If anyone wants to complain refer them to me.

‘The main reason I want him found – and fast,’ Charlie explained, ‘is that something bizarre happened tonight in Dalgleish Tower, down on Clydeside. Anne Gibson, the lawyer’s wife, has gone missing. It’s possible she tried to commit suicide, though I suspect she’s been abducted or she might even have been murdered. I’ve got a feeling in my guts that McFarlane’s involved.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Gibson was McFarlane’s defence lawyer when he got sent down and, to put it mildly, he didn’t do a very good job. McFarlane threatened to get his revenge on the Gibson family when he got out.’

‘You think he might have murdered Gibson’s wife?’

‘I don’t know what to think. McFarlane’s been a violent bastard all his life – and nursing a grudge for twelve years in Peterhead isn’t likely to have mellowed him much. Take this.’ Charlie produced the photo from his jacket pocket. ‘This is Anne Gibson. I realise she’s only been missing for a few hours but unless her husband has flipped his lid completely, something’s happened to her. Get the ‘missing persons’ routine rolling; photo in the morning papers, publicity on television, the works.

‘I’m out of action all day tomorrow,’ Charlie continued. ‘I’m stuck in the High Court as the main prosecution witness in the McArthur trial and God only knows when I’ll get called. Tell Colin Renton to drop whatever he’s doing and help you with this. Tell him to go round and talk to Paul Gibson first thing in the morning – he’s the son. He has a flat at 31 Saltoun Street. I want to know if he saw his mother today.’

‘You do realise Colin’s working 24/7 for Inspector Crawford on the Castlemilk rape enquiry, sir?’

Charlie waved his hand dismissively. ‘Crawford’s spinning wheels on that one. He hasn’t got a single worthwhile lead and he’s
got Renton working all the hours God sends just to keep Niggle off his back. I told you. I want you and Renton working full time on this. You brief Colin, I’ll square it with Crawford.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘I suggest you get things organised here then head off home and grab a few hours’ kip. Call me at home tomorrow night if you’ve got anything to report. If I don’t hear from you, we’ll meet here first thing on Friday morning.’

When Charlie arrived home he found Kay sitting in the lounge, flicking through a travel brochure.

‘What got ruined this time, love?’ he asked.

‘Shepherd’s pie. I left yours in the oven in case you were hungry. Would you like some?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘Much as I love your shepherd’s pie, I couldn’t face anything tonight.’

Kay stood up and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘In which case, I’ll turn the oven off.’

‘Sorry about that.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘I really was on my way out of the office when I phoned.’

‘God knows, I’m used to it.’

‘I think I’ll call it a day,’ Charlie said, yawning. ‘I’m buggered.’

‘What was the panic?’ Kay asked as she followed him up the narrow staircase.

‘You remember Michael Gibson, George’s son?’

‘Yes.’

‘His wife has mysteriously disappeared. Michael came to see me in a blind panic, just after I’d phoned to say I was on my way home. He told me he’d come home from work this evening and found his wife’s body in their bedroom. He was convinced she’d committed suicide, but when we went back to the apartment there was nothing there. No body – no sign of a suicide. But we haven’t been able to trace her. It’s bizarre.’

Charlie stripped off and pulled on his pyjamas before going to the bathroom to brush his teeth. By the time he returned to the bedroom Kay was drifting off to sleep. Climbing into bed, he set his alarm, then switched off the bedside lamp. He closed his eyes but, despite his tiredness, sleep wouldn’t come. He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, the events of the evening churning through his brain. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that it couldn’t have been suicide. Either Anne Gibson had been abducted, perhaps murdered, or Michael Gibson was hallucinating – and he wouldn’t like to bet on which.

Thursday had been a totally frustrating day for Charlie. Seven hours kicking his heels in the High Court, only for McArthur to change his plea to guilty just before he was due to be called as a witness.

Charlie arrived at the office early on Friday morning, anxious for news. As he was taking off his coat there was a sharp rap on the door and DC Colin Renton walked in. Charlie had known Renton for years, both having started out together in the Paisley constabulary.

‘What did you manage to come up with yesterday, Colin?’ Charlie asked.

‘Precious little, sir.’ Renton’s frown exaggerated his craggy features. ‘We’ve put out four ‘missing-person’ appeals on television during the past twenty-four hours and we ran the story in the national and local papers, but no one’s come forward with any information. We’ve established that the last person known to have seen Anne Gibson before she disappeared was Mary McDonald. She’s one of the leading lights in Mrs G’s amateur dramatics society. Mrs Gibson dropped in to see her on Wednesday afternoon to discuss the costume designs for their next production.’ Tony O’Sullivan walked into the office and waved to Renton to carry on. ‘Mrs Gibson left the McDonalds’ place in Kirkintilloch around six o’clock,’ Renton continued, ‘about two hours before Michael Gibson claims he found his wife’s body. According to her friend, Mrs G was full of the joys – laughing and joking – no indication of any undue worry or stress.’

‘Did you get anywhere?’ Charlie asked, turning to O’Sullivan.

‘I went up to Aberdeen yesterday to speak to the Jacksons, Anne Gibson’s parents. The local constabulary had already broken the news of their daughter’s disappearance to them. Mrs Jackson was in bed, heavily sedated, so I didn’t get to talk to her. Apparently she’s got a heart condition and she took the news very badly.

‘Mr Jackson couldn’t cast any light on the subject. He last saw his daughter a couple of weeks ago when she went up there for her fortieth birthday party – without her husband. Mr Jackson told me that Michael wanted to leave Anne so he could move in with his new girlfriend.’

‘That ties in,’ Charlie said. ‘Gibson told me his marriage was on the rocks and he was trying to get a separation, so the fact that there’s a girlfriend in the frame is no big surprise. Ask around. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who she is.’

‘We know already,’ Renton chipped in. ‘I went round to Paul Gibson’s place yesterday to tell him about his mother’s disappearance. He was very upset. He told me his father’s involved with a girl called Philippa Scott who used to work in Gibson’s law practice. She’s now with Colesell and Sharp, a firm of solicitors in Bath Street. Tony and I are going across there this morning to talk to her.’

‘Did you get anything worthwhile out of Paul?’

‘Not really. The last time he saw his mother was a couple of days ago when he dropped into Dalgleish Tower for a coffee. As far as he’s aware she had no particular worries or problems, apart from being uptight about her husband wanting to leave her. He hasn’t seen his father since they had a barney in the office and he stormed out – about three weeks ago. Seems he was given the bullet by his own dad.’ Renton grinned briefly.

‘Have you mentioned to anyone that we suspect Anne Gibson might be dead?’

O’Sullivan and Renton looked at each other, raising their eyebrows and shaking their heads. ‘No, sir,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘All we’ve said is that she’s missing.’

‘It’s only a matter of time until the story breaks,’ Charlie said. ‘If there’s no news of her whereabouts by this evening, I’m going to launch a full-blown murder enquiry. So, if you think it appropriate, drop the information that she may be dead into the conversation with Gibson’s girlfriend. It might be interesting to see how she reacts.’

Charlie checked his watch. ‘I’m going to have to leave you boys to it. I’ve got a meeting with Niggle. He wants to be briefed on the case.’

‘Why is he taking an interest?’

‘He knows the family. He used to play golf with Gibson’s father.’

‘One thing before you go, sir,’ Renton said hesitantly. ‘Have you spoken to DI Crawford about pulling me off the Castlemilk rape enquiry? He almost had a canary when I told him I was working full-time for you.’

‘Shit! It slipped my mind. Sorry about that. Don’t worry, Colin. I’ll square it with Crawford as soon as I’ve briefed Niggle.’

O’Sullivan and Renton were shown into the reception room of Colesell and Sharp. They sat side by side on the low sofa, flicking through the well-thumbed pages of old magazines, until Philippa Scott joined them. The moment she walked through the door they both scrambled to their feet. Philippa was wearing a cream-coloured suede mini-skirt and matching silk blouse. Her auburn hair was swept back from her face and plaited halfway down her back.

‘Sorry to disturb you at work, Miss Scott,’ O’Sullivan said, adjusting his tie knot.

‘That’s okay, officers. Do sit down.’ Philippa took the upright chair facing them. Crossing her legs, she clasped her knee in both hands. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Do you know that Anne Gibson is missing?’ O’Sullivan said, taking out his notebook.

Philippa nodded. ‘I read about that in the papers.’

O’Sullivan coughed embarrassedly. ‘We have reason to believe that you and Mr Gibson have… have a relationship and that –’

‘Had,’ interrupted Philippa, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Mr Gibson and I
had
a ‘relationship’, as you call it. That’s no secret. But it’s all over now. Has been for some time.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘I don’t know. Must be the best part of a month.’

‘Have you been in contact with him at all during that time?’

‘Why would I?’

‘I’m not asking why you would,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘I’m asking if you have been.’

Philippa’s complexion reddened visibly. ‘The answer is no.’

‘Have you seen Mrs Gibson recently?’

‘Mrs Gibson? Hardly! My relationship with Michael may be over, but Anne Gibson and I aren’t exactly bosom buddies.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘God, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve set eyes on her since last December when she dropped in at the office Christmas party.’

‘I believe Mr Gibson was planning to leave his wife so he could be with you?’

Philippa shook her head firmly. ‘That may have been the case a few weeks ago, but as I’ve already told you, Michael and I have split up.’

‘Can I ask why?’ O’Sullivan said.

Philippa shrugged. ‘These things happen.’

‘Can you think of any reason why Mrs Gibson might choose to disappear?’

‘Not at all.’ Philippa screwed up her face. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions? I hardly know the woman. I’ve only met her a couple of times in my life and we’ve never exchanged anything other than casual chit chat.’

O’Sullivan closed his notebook. ‘The news hasn’t broken yet, but we suspect Anne Gibson may be dead – possibly murdered.’

The colour drained from Philippa’s cheeks. ‘Murdered?’ She stood up and walked towards the window. ‘Who on earth… would want to murder her?’

‘Can you tell us where you were on Wednesday evening?’ Renton asked.

‘Wednesday? I can’t remember.’

‘That was the night before last,’ he prompted.

‘I was at home, I think. Yes, I was at home watching television.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that?’ Renton persisted.

‘A friend was supposed to be coming round for dinner, but she had to call off at the last minute.’

‘So that’s a ‘no’?’

Philippa spun round, her face flushed. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Are you checking to see if I’ve got an alibi? Are you suggesting that –?’

‘We’re not suggesting anything,’ O’Sullivan interjected, getting to his feet. ‘All we’re trying to do is get to the bottom of Mrs Gibson’s disappearance.’

‘Whatever.’ Philippa turned back and stared out of the window.

O’Sullivan exchanged a glance with Renton. ‘I think that’s all for now,’ he said. Ripping a blank page from his notebook, he handed it across. ‘If you wouldn’t mind jotting down your address and your phone number, in case we have any further questions.’

Taking the pen she was offered, Philippa scribbled quickly on the paper. She thrust it at O’Sullivan and strode from the room.

O’Sullivan turned to Renton and raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘Probably the longest legs I’ve ever seen. Right up to her oxters.’

‘Seriously.’

‘Seriously – a friend supposed to be coming round for dinner on Wednesday – then calling off at the last minute? That’s a bit too pat for my liking. And she looked distinctly uncomfortable when you asked her if she’d had any contact with Gibson since they broke up. I suspect our Miss Scott might know more than she’s letting on.’

O’Sullivan examined the slip of paper in his hand. ‘How about that for a coincidence? She lives just round the corner from me. Which means, I suppose, I’ll get stuck with the onerous task of going round to her place to continue the interview.’ He grinned as he tucked Philippa’s address into his notebook.

Charlie Anderson felt distinctly uncomfortable as he sat opposite Superintendent Nigel Hamilton, known throughout the force as ‘Niggle’ for self-evident reasons. As far as Charlie was concerned, Niggle never contributed anything positive to a situation, his only interest being to make sure his backside was covered. Hamilton’s slow, pedantic, sing-song delivery only added to Charlie’s irritation with the man.

‘What’s the latest on the Gibson situation?’ Hamilton demanded, rocking back in his chair.

‘Nothing definitive to report at this stage. Looks like we might have a murder on our hands, though there’s no sign of a body.’

‘You need to get to grips with this, Anderson. If the press get a sniff of a scandal concerning the Gibson family, they’ll have a field day.’

‘I realise that. I’ve assigned O’Sullivan and Renton to the investigation full time.’

‘O’Sullivan? Is that a good call? Wasn’t he the one who lost McFarlane?’

‘McFarlane gave him the slip. It could’ve happened to anyone.’

‘But it happened to him.’ Hamilton sucked hard on his teeth. ‘The NCA offered to maintain surveillance on McFarlane while he was in Glasgow, but I told them we would handle it. Made me a bloody laughing stock, that did. And as for Renton, I had Crawford in here yesterday to review his progress, or rather lack of it, on the Castlemilk rape enquiry. He told me you’d messed him about by pulling Renton off the case without so much as a by your leave.’

‘I’m sorry about that. I meant to clear it with Crawford, but I was tied up in the High Court all day yesterday and it slipped my mind.’

‘Slipped your mind?’ Hamilton shook his head. ‘Too many things slipping people’s minds around here for my liking.’

Charlie bit into his lower lip as he rose to his feet. ‘Will that be all?’ Without waiting for Hamilton’s response, he turned on his heel and strode out of the office.