by Bill Daly
The motif of the sparsely furnished room was Charles Rennie Mackintosh, designed around the wide double bed and the reproduction bedside tables. The decor was black-and-white throughout, apart from the dressing table, also a reproduction in the Rennie Mackintosh style, carved from mahogany and inlaid with satinwood. The walls were lined with white fabric, a suitably neutral backcloth for the two Rennie Mackintosh watercolours that hung on the wall facing the bed.
Michael went through his customary routine of covering up the evidence of Philippa’s visit; smoothing the sheet at Anne’s side of the bed and plumping up her pillow, then emptying the contents of the waste bin in the bathroom into a plastic carrier bag.
He often wondered about Anne. Did she ever have affairs? If so, she’d never given herself away. To the best of his knowledge, she’d never brought a man back to their house when they’d lived in Bearsden, nor to Dalgleish Tower. But did she really go to Aberdeen every month? And if so, did she always stay overnight at her parents’ cottage? Perhaps she had a secret assignation on the way there or on the way back? When she went on tour with her amateur dramatic society, was she never involved in anything more exhilarating than theatre production, make-up and costume design? And her bridge congresses – did people really take the ferry across to Rothesay and spend the weekend in a hotel – just to play bridge?
Crossing to the wardrobe, Michael selected one of six identical white shirts hanging on the rail. He rejected his blue cashmere suit as the waistband was getting uncomfortably tight. He had always prided himself in keeping fit – jogging regularly and playing squash several times a week. However, during the past six months, since the headaches had started, he’d taken little exercise and had put on almost a stone in weight, most of it around the midriff. Having decided on the more generous-fitting, grey pin-stripe, he selected a matching silk tie and a pair of highly-polished black shoes.
When he’d dressed, he returned to the bathroom and combed his hair carefully in front of the mirror. Although he’d never considered tinting his hair, his vanity was such that he still tried to hide the grey flecks.
Picking up the empty champagne flutes from the bedside tables, he carried them through to the kitchen and tipped the dregs down the sink. He washed and dried the glasses, along with Philippa’s coffee mug and plate and put them away in the cupboard, then put his own coffee mug into the dishwasher. He dropped the champagne bottle, along with the empty red-wine bottle, into his carrier bag and left it by the front door to take down to the dustbin on his way out.
Slumping down at the kitchen table, he switched on Radio Scotland to catch the news headlines while waiting for Philippa to emerge.
Just after nine-thirty they descended together in the lift, Philippa impeccably dressed in a white silk blouse, a tight black mini-skirt and matching jacket, her auburn locks cascading down her back almost to her waist. She was carrying her overnight bag and her briefcase.
When the lift doors slid open in the underground garage, Michael dropped the carrier bag into the nearest dustbin, then stopped in his tracks. His Mercedes was missing and in its place stood a Ford transit van, painted in psychedelic colours, with the motif Citizens Band daubed in bright blue letters across the side.
‘I’ll throttle him!’
‘What happened?’
‘Paul came round here yesterday afternoon while you were out shopping and cadged fifty quid because he was broke.’
‘You’ve given him a job, for goodness sake. And, I suppose, a half-decent salary. Why does he need to cadge off you?’
‘I don’t know. He seems to be broke most of the time.’ Michael shook his head. ‘God knows what he does with his money. Then he asked to borrow my car for the evening to impress his new girlfriend. Apparently his Citizens Band van isn’t the thing to be seen in on a first date.’
Philippa burst out laughing. ‘I can see his point. I don’t think I’d fancy going out with someone in that heap.’
‘I told him he could have the Merc on condition he brought it back before eight o’clock this morning. That’s the last bloody time I’ll ever let him borrow my car.’
‘Don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. He probably had more important things on his mind last night than bringing your car back. Remember what it was like when you were young?’ Philippa smirked. ‘Jump in. I’ll give you a lift to the office.’
Michael shook his head. ‘It’s too risky. Someone might see us together.’
‘Hardly any great risk,’ Philippa pouted, ‘considering that you’re going to tell Anne tonight that you’re leaving her.’
Michael ignored her comment. ‘I can take Anne’s car.’ He nodded towards the black Volvo in the adjacent parking bay. ‘She went up to Aberdeen by train on Friday. She didn’t want to risk driving because the weather was so lousy. I’ll have to nip back upstairs to get the spare key.’
‘Have it your own way.’ Philippa flung her bag and her briefcase onto the passenger seat of her red Peugeot 207 GTi. Wiggling her hips provocatively, she slid her tight skirt up her thighs before clambering in behind the wheel. She lowered her driver’s window as she fired the engine. ‘I may bump into you at the office this morning, Mr Gibson. If not, I’ll be waiting for you at my place tonight with the champagne on ice. We’ll have a special celebration.’ She winked. ‘Just the two of us – after you’ve had your chat with Anne.’
Michael forced a smile as he pressed the button on his remote control to operate the garage doors. Blowing an extravagant kiss from her fingertips, Philippa dropped the car into gear and accelerated violently up the ramp. Michael blew back a kiss and waved, watching her car until the garage doors shuddered down and clanged shut.
THREE
Jack McFarlane pulled his scarf tight around his neck and zipped his anorak up to give himself some protection from the sleety drizzle as he walked through the doors of Peterhead prison. He slung his tartan holdall over his shoulder and waved in the direction of the white Rover parked along the street. The headlights flashed once in recognition as the engine burst into life and the car came smoothly towards him. When it pulled up alongside, the driver leaned back to fling open the rear door. McFarlane threw his holdall onto the back seat and clambered in after it.
‘Thanks for the reception committee, Malky,’ McFarlane said, wiping the sleet from his shaven head.
‘Compliments of Mr Robertson.’ Malky leaned over the back of the seat to proffer his hand which McFarlane clenched in a painfully firm grip.
‘Fancy a fag?’ Malky asked, producing a packet of Benson & Hedges and a book of matches and holding them up.
‘Thanks.’ McFarlane stretched forward to take the cigarettes. Having lit up, he inhaled deeply, then unzipped his anorak and settled back in his seat to gaze out of the window as the car accelerated away from the kerb.
Jack McFarlane was in his late-forties; tall, thickset, with shrewd, pale-blue eyes. His nose, twice broken during amateur boxing bouts, was crooked and permanently puffy. His face was indented with pock marks but his main distinguishing feature was the jagged, purple scar running from the corner of his left eye to just under his ear – the legacy of a Glasgow razor fight.
‘Mr Robertson said to give you these,’ Malky said, picking up an envelope and two small packets from the passenger seat and handing them across. McFarlane ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. He scanned the hand-written note:
‘Jack, I realise we’ve got unfinished business to sort out but it would make sense for you to steer clear of Glasgow for the time being. The cops will be sticking to you like glue. I’ve got a flat in London you can use. I’ve told Malky to drop you off at the station. The address of the flat and the keys are in one of the parcels I sent you, as well as a train ticket. Don’t try to get in touch with me by phone – the cops are razor sharp on intercepts these days. There’s five grand on account in the other package. That should tide you over till we get together. I’ll send you the usual signal when I reckon it’s
okay for you to come up north.
If you do get any hassle from the cops when you’re back in Glasgow, give Frank Morrison a bell.
Larry.’
‘Give Morrison a bell?’ McFarlane mused, raising an eyebrow. If Larry had the top lawyer in Glasgow on his payroll, business must be going well. Having split open one of the parcels, he riffled the wad of new notes. Counting off two hundred pounds, he stuffed it into the hip pocket of his jeans and zipped the rest of the money into the inside pocket of his anorak. He tore open the second packet and checked the address of the flat before pocketing the keys and the train ticket.
The traffic was light as they headed towards Aberdeen city centre.
‘We’ve got bags of time before your train, Jack,’ Malky said. ‘Do you fancy a swally?’
‘I could fair molocate a pint.’ McFarlane glanced at his watch. ‘But the pubs won’t be open yet.’
‘Some of them are,’ Malky said. ‘A few things have changed for the better since you went inside.’
‘Lead me to it, then. I’ve got one hell of a drouth on me,’ McFarlane said, smacking his lips.
‘What are you for, Jack?’ Malky asked as they walked into the quiet bar.
‘A hauf and a pint o’ heavy.’
Malky ordered two Lagavulins and two pints of Belhaven at the bar and carried the drinks on a tray over to the table by the door where McFarlane had installed himself.
‘What was it like in Peterheid?’ Malky asked, sipping at his pint.
‘Have you no’ done time yersel’?’
‘Just six months, like, in the Bar-L.’
‘Then you ken fine weel what it’s like.’
‘Aye, but twelve years. That’s no’ like six months.’
McFarlane picked up his whisky glass and threw back the contents in one gulp. ‘At first I fair missed the bevvy,’ he said, grimacing as the neat whisky burned at the back of his throat. ‘But you get used to that after a while. Funnily enough,’ he said weighing his pint in his fist, ‘the thing that really got to me was not being able to walk. You get to dauner roun’ the exercise yard, of course, but that’s no’ walkin’. Walkin’ means grass and mountains and, aye, pissin’-doon rain.’
Raising his pint to his lips, McFarlane poured the beer down his throat in one long, slow, gurgling swallow. ‘Twelve years inside sure builds up a helluva thirst.’ He licked his lips. ‘That hit the spot. Same again?’ he asked, getting to his feet.
Malky shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’ll try to keep up with you, Jack. Not if you want me to get you to the station in one piece.’
McFarlane crossed to the bar and ordered another whisky and another pint of Belhaven. When he returned to the table he sipped his drinks slowly, savouring every mouthful, as his eyes travelled round the bar, studying the faces of all the other customers. ‘Take a shuftie at that one over there,’ he whispered in Malky’s ear. ‘The punter in the blue pullover with his heid buried in the newspaper. My money’s on him. He came in just after us and ordered a half-pint shandy. He’s hardly touched it.’
When they’d finished their drinks, McFarlane gave the signal and they got to their feet and strode out of the pub. As soon as he got behind the wheel, Malky swivelled his rear-view mirror so he could see the pub door.’
‘Spot on, Jack. Your man came out right behind us and crossed the road to a silver-grey Ford Focus. He’s our tail all right.’
‘Good to know twelve years inside haven’t dulled the auld senses. I could always smell a pig a mile aff.’
As they headed towards the city centre the traffic was heavier, Malky continually checking his rear-view mirror. ‘He’s still there. About five cars back. Do you want me to try to lose him?’
‘Not at all, Malky. You wouldn’t want to get booked for speedin’, would you? He’s welcome to follow me anywhere he wants. I’ll bore the fuckin’ arse off him over the next few days.’ McFarlane guffawed.
Anne Gibson drained her coffee cup and dabbed delicately at the corners of her narrow mouth, taking care not to smudge her lipstick. Folding her linen napkin neatly, she slipped it back into its silver ring. ‘I really think we should be making a move, Dad,’ she said, pushing her chair back from the table and getting to her feet. She crossed to the window and gazed out. ‘It doesn’t seem to be easing off.’ The snow, already several inches deep, was falling steadily.
Peter Jackson folded his newspaper as he rose from his armchair. ‘I’m ready whenever you are, love. I only have to slip on my shoes. Jean,’ he called down the hall. ‘We’re leaving now. We want to give ourselves plenty of time to get to the station.’
Jean Jackson came bustling along the corridor from the kitchen with a coffee pot in her hand. ‘Do you not have time for another cup, Anne?’
‘No, thanks, Mum.’
‘I don’t like the look of that weather.’ Jean peered anxiously through the window. ‘Are you sure you can’t stay another night?’
Anne put a comforting arm around her mother’s shoulders. ‘I told you, Mum. I’ve arranged to play with Mary in a tournament at the bridge club this afternoon. But look on the bright side – at least I came up by train. If I’d brought the car I’d have to drive back to Glasgow now.’
Jean mimed a shiver. ‘Perish the thought. I only hope the weather’s better next weekend. Just about everyone’s coming up for your party.’
‘I’ll be here for that come hell or high water. It’ll take more than a few flakes of snow to stop me celebrating my fortieth.’
‘It’s a pity your sister won’t be here,’ Jean said. ‘It would have been lovely to have had the whole family together.’
‘It’s a long way to come from Vancouver for a party, Mum. Apart from that, there’s no way she could get time off during the school term.’
‘I realise that,’ Jean said with a sigh. ‘But it’s still a shame.’
‘She’ll be across in July. A good excuse for another party.’
Anne bent down and kissed her mother lightly on the forehead.
‘Are you ready, Anne?’ Peter coughed as he pulled on his driving gloves.
‘I’ll be right with you, Dad. I just have to nip upstairs and grab my things.’
Anne took the stairs to her bedroom two at a time. Little had changed in the room since she’d left home more than twenty years ago. The same single bed, the same patterned wallpaper, the same beige carpet, the same ornate crucifix positioned above the bed. On the bedside table, beside the reading lamp, stood the alabaster statue of Saint Anthony of Padua to whom her mother always prayed if she lost something of value.
‘I’m off now, Edward,’ she announced to her childhood teddy bear, which still had pride of place in the middle of the dressing table. Kicking off her slippers, she sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her knee-length boots.
Anne Gibson was a striking figure of a woman. Although close to six feet tall she chose to wear high-heeled boots to exaggerate her height. She was slimly built with long legs and a narrow waist. Her small mouth seemed out of proportion to her large, pale-blue eyes and long, straight nose. Her brown hair, cropped short, was streaked with blonde highlights.
When she’d zipped up her boots she stood up straight and ran her hands down her sides to smooth the skirt of her leather suit. She crossed to the wardrobe mirror to check her appearance, hitching up her skirt slightly so that it brushed against the tops of her boots. She tucked her blouse firmly into her waistband and slipped on her jacket. Her case was lying open on the bed, already packed. Pushing in her slippers, she closed the lid, then picked up her sapphire ring from the bedside table and slipped it on as she leaned across to kiss Edward on the forehead. ‘See you next weekend, old boy. It’ll be a big party. Everybody who’s anybody is coming. Till then, you’re in charge.’
She draped her cashmere coat over her arm and picked up her suitcase and her handbag. With a final glance round the room to make sure she’d hadn’t forgotten anything, she hurried downstairs.
Pete
r Jackson had opened the garage doors and was already sitting behind the wheel of his Jaguar, the engine ticking over.
‘Bye, Mum. Thanks for a lovely weekend. See you next Saturday’, Anne said, giving Jean a cuddle.
‘I do hope you’re going to be all right.’ Jean said, making the sign of the cross as she took a step back. ‘I’ll say a prayer for you.’
‘Don’t fret, Mum. I’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t forget to phone me as soon as you get home.’
‘I’m going straight from the railway station to the bridge club, so I won’t be home much before seven. But I will call you later this evening – I promise.’
Picking her steps carefully across the snow-covered path, Anne opened the car boot and dropped in her coat and her case before climbing into the passenger seat and clipping on her seat belt. ‘What do you think, Dad?’
‘No problem. I’ve got the chains on and I saw the snowplough pass by an hour ago. We’ll be fine as soon as we get to the main road.’ Peter Jackson slowly navigated the hundred yards of driveway that connected his cottage to the main road, the wheel-grip secure as the chains bit into the crisp snow. As he’d anticipated, the main thoroughfare was relatively clear.
‘You were very quiet this weekend,’ Peter said as he waited for a slow-moving van to pass by before turning into the road. ‘Is everything all right?’ Anne didn’t respond. ‘Is Michael still seeing her?’ he asked quietly.
Anne turned in her seat to look at him. ‘I think so.’
‘I don’t know how you put up with it, Anne. I really don’t. If your mother had any idea what he’s been up to, she wouldn’t allow him across the threshold.’
‘You musn’t tell her. You promised.’
‘Of course I won’t tell her.’ The traffic lights up ahead turned to red and Peter applied the brakes gently. ‘Why don’t you just walk out on him and be done with it?’