Double Mortice (9 page)

‘Anne’s been missing for five days, Charlie. Surely there’s something you can do?’ Michael Gibson was slumped on a chair in Charlie’s office. His skin was grey, his eyes red and sunken from lack of sleep. His trousers and jacket were crumpled and his hair dishevelled. He was unshaven and his breath stank of whisky.

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Michael. We’ve interviewed all Anne’s relatives and friends and we’ve spoken to her sister in Vancouver, but we’ve drawn a complete blank. We’ve established that she left Mary McDonald’s place in Kirkintilloch at six o’clock last Wednesday, but no one saw her between then and when you say you found her two hours later. And no one’s seen hide nor hair of her since. We’ve run her photograph in the national and local newspapers and also on television for the past four days. We’ve combed every square inch within a mile of your apartment block and we’re pursuing all possible lines of enquiry.’

Michael got to his feet and started pacing up and down. ‘What about McFarlane? Do you still have no idea where he is?’

Charlie shook his head grimly. ‘I’ve alerted the NCA and asked them to let us know if and when he’s sighted again in London. They haven’t come up with anything. However, I don’t think that –’

Charlie’s flow was interrupted by his phone ringing. He snatched up the receiver.

‘It’s O’Sullivan, sir. We’ve just received a tip off that McFarlane’s been seen drinking in a pub in Partick. Do you want him pulled in or should we put a tail on him?’

‘Pull him in. Straight away. Looks like we’ve got a break,’ Charlie said, replacing the receiver. ‘McFarlane’s been spotted in a pub in Partick. My men are on their way to bring him in. I suggest you go home now, Michael. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look dreadful. Go easy on the hard stuff. I’ll call you later and let you know if we get anything out of McFarlane.’

When Charlie was informed that O’Sullivan was back, he made his way down the stairs, along the corridor and into the interview room. Jack McFarlane was sitting on the opposite side of the desk from O’Sullivan, with Renton standing by the door. As soon as Charlie walked in, McFarlane scrambled to his feet.

‘I want my lawyer, Anderson. This is harassment. I’ve done nothin’. You’ve got no right to pull me in.’

Charlie waved him back onto his seat. ‘Spare me the melodrama, McFarlane. Where were you last Wednesday night between six and eight o’clock?’

‘I’m sayin’ nothin’ until my lawyer’s present.’

‘Cut the crap. I asked you a question. Where were you last Wednesday between six and eight?’

‘Go an’ fuck yourself.’

Anderson stared long and hard at McFarlane, then turned to O’Sullivan. ‘Let him phone his lawyer. We’ll continue the interview when he gets here. Who is your lawyer, by the way?’ Charlie made sure he had full eye contact. ‘Not still Michael Gibson, by any chance?’

McFarlane looked blank for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘You’re sick, Anderson. My lawyer’s Frank Morrison. You’ll have his number.’

Half an hour later Anderson and O’Sullivan returned to the interview room where McFarlane and Morrison were sitting on the same side of the desk, huddled in conversation.

‘Now look here, Inspector,’ Morrison said. ‘I really must protest in the most vehement of terms. This is victimisation. I’ve no idea on what pretext you’re holding my client but I must insist that you either produce a charge or release him.’

Charlie knew Morrison well – and disliked him intensely. In his mid-fifties – a smooth dresser and a smooth talker – he seemed to be on the payroll of every major perpetrator of organised crime in the city.

Anderson and O’Sullivan took the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. ‘There is no charge,’ said Charlie. ‘‘Your client’ – he spat out the words – ‘is only here to assist us with our enquiries.’

‘What enquiries? As far as I’m aware you’ve not asked him to assist you with any enquiries.’

‘I asked him to account for his movements last Wednesday evening between six and eight o’clock. He refused point blank to answer the question until his lawyer was present.’

Glancing sideways at McFarlane, Morrison gave a slight inclination of the head.

‘Mr McFarlane is prepared to answer your questions,’ Morrison stated.

‘Where were you between six and eight on Wednesday?’

‘At my mate’s place.’

‘What ‘mate’?’

‘Archie McWilliam.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Paisley. He has a flat at the top o’ the High Street.’

Charlie changed tack. ‘Why did you give Sergeant O’Sullivan the slip when you arrived in Glasgow?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’

‘Don’t act it with me. You know fine well that we were tailing you from the minute you got off the London train until you gave O’Sullivan the slip in Princes Square.’

‘This is outrageous!’ Morrison spluttered as he leaned across the desk. ‘Having my client tailed is an infringement of his civil liberties.
As he was totally unaware that he was being followed, obviously he made no attempt to give anyone the slip.’

Charlie held up his hand. ‘Back off, Morrison. I’m too long in the tooth for this crap. Cut the posturing and let your ‘client’ answer the question. The sooner he does, the sooner we’ll all get out of here.’

Charlie turned back to McFarlane. ‘You admit you went into Princes Square shopping centre last Wednesday at approximately six o’clock?’

‘Admit?’ Morrison interjected. ‘Is it now some sort of a crime to go into Princes Square shopping centre?’

Charlie brought his fist hammering down on the desk. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he roared, struggling to his feet and fixing Morrison with a glare. ‘If this is the level of your contribution to the proceedings, I suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut.’ Charlie felt an arthritic spasm shoot up his spine. He tried not to let the pain show in his face as he lowered himself back onto his chair. He turned to McFarlane. ‘Answer the question.’

‘I ‘admit’ I went into Princes Square. So what?’

‘Why did you go in there if not to give O’Sullivan the slip?’

‘I wanted to get somethin’ for Archie and his missus. They’d invited me to stay with them for a few days and I didn’t want to turn up on the doorstep empty-handed.’

‘What did you buy?’

‘I got Maisie a leather handbag and I picked up a couple o’ bottles of Glenmorangie for Archie.’

‘Where did you go after that?’

McFarlane shrugged. ‘Nowhere in particular. I just wandered back down to Central Station and caught a train to Paisley, then I walked up the High Street to Archie’s place.’

‘What time did you get there?’

‘Christ, I don’t know. Sometime between half-six and seven, I suppose.’

‘Did you go out again that evening?’

‘We stayed in and had a few beers and a blether. Chatted over
auld times. After twelve years inside, there’s a lot o’ catchin’ up to do.’

‘I suppose this McWilliam character and his wife will corroborate your story?’

‘Of course they will,’ interjected Morrison. ‘Now do you have any more questions or is my client free to go?’

Charlie glared at Morrison. ‘He’ll go when I say he can go.’ He turned back to McFarlane. ‘Have you been back into Glasgow since Wednesday?’

‘Not until this afternoon. Archie and me were havin’ a quiet pint in my old local when your tame gorillas barged in.’

‘Have you seen Anne Gibson since you came back?

‘Who the fuck’s Anne Gibson?’

‘The wife of Michael Gibson, your ex-lawyer. Surely you remember threatening to kill her?’

‘What the hell are you tryin’ to pin on me now, Anderson?’

‘When you were sent down for the Bothwell Street job, you screamed from the dock that as soon as you got out you were going to kill Gibson and his wife and his son. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that?’

‘I never said anything like that. I –’

‘Anne Gibson went missing last Wednesday,’ Charlie interjected. ‘The story’s been in all the papers. We’ve reason to believe she may be dead, possibly murdered. She was last seen alive at six o’clock on Wednesday evening.’

‘That’s quite enough,’ Morrison spluttered. ‘This is ridiculous. You’re haranguing my client about someone who’s gone missing – possibly dead. My client has no connection with this person and he has a watertight alibi for his movements at the time in question. Mr McFarlane has been extremely cooperative and has freely agreed to answer your questions. I now must insist that you either produce a charge or else release him.’

Charlie got to his feet. ‘You’re free to go. How long are you planning to stay around here?’ he asked as McFarlane stood up.

‘Haven’t given it a lot of thought. Depends what turns up.’

‘Will you be staying at McWilliam’s place?’

‘For the time bein’.’

Charlie watched from his office window as McFarlane and Morrison crossed the street to Morrison’s parked car. ‘I hope you’ve got it organised properly this time, Tony.’

‘I’ve assigned three men to it on shifts to give us twenty four hour surveillance,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘They’ll stick to him like glue. He won’t give us the slip again.’

‘He bloody-well better not,’ Charlie growled. ‘Because if he does, you can have the pleasure of explaining it to Niggle.’

Charlie stopped off at the vending machine to pick up a coffee before making his way along the corridor towards his office, twisting and stretching his spine as he went, trying to ease the nagging pain in the small of his back. He sat down on his chair and pressed his intercom. ‘Call Paisley Police Station, Pauline. Try to get hold of Bobby Rooney for me.’

When Charlie’s phone sounded, he picked up. ‘I’ve got Sergeant Rooney on the line, sir.’

‘Hello, Bobby. How’s it going?’

‘Fine, Charlie. I thought you’d retired?’

‘Not long to go now, I’m delighted to say.’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Does the name Archie McWilliam mean anything to you? Wife’s called Maisie. Has a flat at the top of the High Street.’

‘Sure, I know him well. Small time crook. A few burglaries – a bit of shop-lifting – but nothing I’d have thought merited the attention of the Glasgow CID.’

‘We’re not interested in him, but he’s got Jack McFarlane staying with him. Remember him? Bothwell Street bank robbery – about twelve years back?’

‘Of course.’

‘McFarlane claims to have been with the McWilliams on Wednesday evening from the back of six onwards. Do me a favour.
Nip round to McWilliam’s place and take a statement from him and his missus. They’re going to corroborate McFarlane’s alibi of course, but give me a call off the record and let me know if you think they’re at it. It might all be kosher, I just don’t know. Wednesday was the night Anne Gibson went missing and I’ve got a hunch McFarlane’s mixed up in it somehow.’

‘Will do.’

‘Thanks. That’s a pint I owe you.’

Charlie disconnected, then called Michael Gibson.

‘What happened?’ Gibson’s voice was slurred. ‘What did you get out of McFarlane?’

‘Next to nothing. He’s got an alibi for the time Anne disappeared. I don’t know how genuine it is, but we’re not likely to break it. I looked him straight in the eye when I mentioned your name, but not a flicker. If he’s lying, he’s a very cool customer. We’d no reason to hold him so I had to let him go.’

‘I realise you’re doing everything you can, Charlie. Sorry about flying off the handle earlier on. It’s all getting to me.’

‘I understand. Are you going to go into the office this week?’

‘I couldn’t face it. I’ve left Peter Davies in charge until further notice.’

‘It might be a good idea if you were to go in. It would help to take your mind off things – and it would keep you away from the bottle,’ Charlie added.

‘Wise counsel, Charlie, as always. I’ll give it a try tomorrow and see how it goes.’

Frank Morrison dropped McFarlane off outside Central Station. ‘I haven’t seen anybody trying to follow us, Jack,’ he said, leaning across to check his rear-view mirror again.

McFarlane got out of the car and looked back along Gordon Street. ‘I haven’t seen anyone either, but there’s someone there all right. I can sense it. Thanks for the lift, Frank.’

McFarlane walked into the station and crossed to a ticket booth where he handed across a twenty pound note. ‘Single to Paisley Gilmour Street, Jimmy.’ Picking up the ticket and his change, he strolled across the concourse to study the departures board. The next train to Paisley was the six thirty-seven. He checked the station clock – twenty minutes to kill. He wandered into the buffet and ordered a pint of heavy. He stood by the door as he sipped at his beer, his eyes scanning the crowds of commuters scurrying towards the platforms. ‘I might not be able to see you, pal,’ he mumbled under his breath, ‘but I know you’re out there.’

It was after half-past seven when McFarlane rang Archie McWilliam’s bell.

‘I was hoping it would be you, Jack,’ Archie said. ‘How did it go? Did the bastards give you a hard time?’

‘Nothin’ I couldn’t handle. They didn’t manage to pin anythin’ on me. Not for want o’ tryin’, mind. By the way, you’ll probably get a visit from the pigs. They’ll be wantin’ to know where I was last Wednesday from six o’clock on. You and Maisie and me spent the whole evenin’ here, bletherin’ and drinkin’. Right?’

‘Of course we did!’ Archie slapped his thigh and laughed uproariously. ‘I’d better remind Maisie, but.’

The following day McFarlane and McWilliam spent most of the afternoon in a bookmaker’s in Well Street, neither of them coming out in front.

‘I think I’d better pack it in now,’ Archie said, looking disconsolate. ‘While I’ve still got enough for a bevvy.’

McFarlane checked his watch. ‘High time we were out of here anyway.’

They both cupped their hands to light up cigarettes as they walked to the top of Well Street. The rain had eased, but when they turned into the High Street they had to bend almost double into the chilling wind. They went into the Bruce Arms and McWilliam went up to the bar to order two large whiskieswhich he took across to the table by the door where McFarlane was waiting.