Double Mortice

by Bill Daly

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Dad. I really don’t.’ Anne bit her lip. ‘The problem is – I still love him.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can, after what he’s put you through.’

  ‘Last year, when I first suspected he was seeing someone, I decided not to confront him because that could have forced him to choose between her and me – and I wasn’t at all sure I’d like the result. I hoped that, if I let the affair run its course, it would come to a natural end and then I might be able to convince him that we needed to see a marriage counsellor.’

  ‘Is it not too late for that, Anne? After all, it’s not as if it’s the first time he’s wandered off the straight and narrow. There was that girl from the squash club you told me about.’

  ‘That was just a weekend fling.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Anne, don’t start defending him! For all you know, there may well have been others.’

  ‘I realise that, Dad.’ Anne let out a sigh. ‘But before I give up on him, I have to do everything I can to try to save our marriage. For better or for worse, and all that.’

  Peter snorted. ‘It’s been nothing but ‘worse’ for quite some time, as far as I can make out. Do you have any idea who she is?’

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea. I didn’t say anything to you before, but I suspected it might be someone from his work so I dropped in unannounced at the office Christmas party. There wasn’t much doubt about it. He followed one of his juniors around all night like a lovesick puppy.’

  There was an awkward silence for the remainder of the journey

  ‘You’re going to be very early for your train,’ Peter said as he drew up outside the station. ‘I’ll wait with you.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort.’ Anne spoke firmly as she unclipped her seat belt. ‘This weather could turn a lot nastier very quickly. You head straight back home.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. Anyway, I could murder another cup of coffee. And I’ve got my book to read,’ she added, tapping her handbag. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ She leaned across to kiss him on the cheek. ‘See you next Saturday.’

  Peter hesitated. ‘Will he –‘Peter spat out the word, ‘be coming with you?’

  Anne took her father’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Despite everything, he wouldn’t miss my fortieth birthday party.’

  ‘I think you should come up by train.’

  ‘You know Michael. He’d rather drive through a Himalayan blizzard than take a train. Anyway, I’ll need the car to carry back all my presents, won’t I?’ She tickled him playfully under the chin.

  ‘You behave yourself.’ He smiled at her. ‘And don’t forget to phone your mother when you get back to Glasgow.’

  Getting out of the car, Anne hurried round to the boot to lift out her coat and her suitcase. The air felt bitterly cold in contrast to the warmth of the car. She slipped her coat over her shoulders and stood waving until the Jaguar had disappeared from sight. The station clock showed five past ten – half an hour to kill. The snow was still falling steadily and the chill wind was piercing her coat. She picked up her case and marched briskly into the buffet where she ordered a black coffee and a tuna sandwich to eat on the train. Sitting down at the table nearest to the radiator, she took her book from her bag and flicked through it until she found her place.

  FOUR

  The Volvo’s wiper blades were having difficulty coping with the driving sleet that was angling down, whipped horizontal by the northerly wind. Despite having the heater at full blast, Michael couldn’t find the control to direct the hot air onto the windscreen and his breath was freezing on contact with the glass. His temper was frayed as he crawled along, rubbing vigorously at the windscreen with the heel of his glove in an attempt to improve the visibility.

  When he tried to merge with the slow-moving traffic on the Clydeside Expressway, he hit a patch of black ice and lost control. The car skidded sideways. He over-corrected the steering and instinctively slammed his foot on the brake pedal. The wheels locked and he slithered, almost in slow motion, into the back of an Audi in the inside lane. There was a jarring crunch as the two vehicles came together.

  The Audi driver, a stocky, over-weight teenager, eased his car forward a few feet before applying the handbrake. Scrambling out, he lumbered round to the back of his vehicle to inspect the damage.

  Michael pressed the button to lower his window. ‘I’m sorry,’ he called out. ‘My wheels locked. I couldn’t stop.’

  ‘This is ma faither’s car, mister,’ he bleated. ‘If it’s damaged I’m callin’ the polis.’

  The youth was visibly shivering as he bent low and rubbed away the dirt on his rear wing to examine the paintwork. When he stood up straight his straggly hair was matted to the sides of his face. He cupped both hands to his mouth and shouted through the sleet. ‘You came aff worst, Jimmy. You’ve broken your sidelight. I’m no’ even scratched.’ A broad grin broke out on his face. ‘That’s yer Vorsprung Durch Technik for you, pal.’

  Without waiting for Michael’s response, he raised his right arm in a Nazi salute and goose-stepped his way back to his car door.

  Michael was fuming as he followed in the Audi’s tracks, threading his way past several abandoned vehicles lining the route. By the time he got to his office, it was almost ten-thirty. The journey from Dalgleish Tower, normally fifteen minutes, had taken the best part of an hour. He’d missed his ten o’clock briefing and was in danger of being late for his meeting with DCI Anderson.

  When he reached his office block, he drove down the steep ramp to the underground car park and swung towards his reserved parking bay, then slammed his foot on the brake. There, in his bay, stood his Mercedes. ‘You’re a complete pillock, Paul!’ He hammered his fist into the steering column. Glancing round the small car park he saw all the other bays were taken. The nearest parking was the multi-storey, half a mile away, and he’d brought neither a coat nor an umbrella.

  By the time he’d sprinted back to the office, Michael was out of breath and soaked to the skin. His hair was sodden with sleet.

  ‘Good morning… Mr Gibson…’ Sheila stammered as the drenched figure swept past her into the office.

  ‘Come in here, Sheila.’ Instinctively grabbing her note-pad and pen, Sheila followed him into the office. ‘Don’t even ask,’ he seethed. He wrenched off his steamed-up spectacles and rubbed at them furiously with his handkerchief. ‘Is DCI Anderson still here?’

  ‘He left about ten minutes ago. He had to be back in Pitt Street at eleven o’clock to deliver a lecture to a graduate trainee seminar. Paul spoke to him to see if he could help, but Anderson insisted he had to talk to you. I told him I’d be in touch as soon as I knew when you’d be available.’

  ‘Do you know what he wanted?’ Michael asked, stripping off his jacket.

  ‘He told Paul he wanted to discuss a plea bargain for the Madill case. Do you want me to try to get him on the phone?’

  Michael let out a sigh. ‘I know him. He’ll want a face-to-face meeting. Call his secretary and find out if we can find a slot sometime today. I’ll go over to Pitt Street if that’s more convenient for him. Then try to find a towel and something for me to wear while I dry off my suit on the radiator. After you’ve done that, ask Whyte and Davies to brief me on the Madill case and when I’m through with them, tell my bloody son to get his backside in here.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Gibson.’

  Ten minutes later there was a knock on the office door and Sheila entered laden with a bath towel, a Paisley-pattern dressing gown, a pair of slippers, a clean white shirt, a pair of black socks, a hair dryer and a steaming cup of coffee. She placed all the items on Michael’s desk.

  ‘Inspector Anderson can see you at eleven forty-five,’ she said, referring to her notebook.’ I’ve ordered a cab for eleven-thirty to take you across to Pitt Street. A taxi will pick you up from there at twelve-fifteen to get you back here in time for your meeting with Madill and Whyte at twelve-thirty. Mr
Whyte and Mr Davies are waiting outside – I’ll send them in as soon as you’ve changed out of your wet clothes. Paul is on standby to see you when you’re through with them. Is there anything else?’

  Michael managed a weak smile. ‘That seems to be everything. Thanks. Tell me, Sheila,’ he added, nodding towards the pile of clothes on the desk. ‘Is there some poor bugger out there wandering around in his bare feet with no shirt on?’

  Sheila blushed. ‘Of course not, Mr Gibson.’ Half-smiling, she turned to leave. ‘Buzz through when you’re ready to see Mr Whyte and Mr Davies.’

  When her intercom sounded, Sheila whispered to Frank Whyte. ‘I’d better warn you. He’s in dressing gown and slippers this morning. Whatever you do, don’t laugh.’

  Peter Davies led the way into Michael’s office. He was the senior lawyer in the firm having been the first person hired by Michael’s father when he’d set up the practice twelve years previously. He was a small, dapper man with sparrow-like features and a neatly trimmed moustache. ‘You managed to make it in then, Michael?’ Davies commented dryly.

  ‘Just about, Peter. One of the lucky ones, I guess. Well, gentlemen,’ he continued quickly. ‘What’s your opinion on the Madill case? What’s the chance of us getting an acquittal?’

  ‘Not the remotest,’ Davies stated. ‘You have read the brief?’

  ‘Actually… I didn’t manage to find time at the weekend.’ Davies tut-tutted and shook his head disapprovingly as Michael avoided eye contact. ‘Well,’ he continued grudgingly, ‘I suppose Frank had better summarise the situation for you.’

  Frank Whyte was the latest trainee to join the practice and he was fired with enthusiasm at being given responsibility for his first case. Taking the chair opposite Michael, he opened his manila folder.

  ‘Madill is prepared to swear his innocence on a stack of bibles but the evidence against him is overwhelming. In essence, the prosecution’s case is as follows: Madill is an accountant with A.J. Smythe & Sons, a firm of builders’ merchants based in Glasgow with branches in Edinburgh, Perth and Inverness. An audit of the firm’s books last month revealed that twenty thousand pounds had disappeared from the accounts over the past two years, and during that period a corresponding series of deposits were made into Madill’s offshore bank account in the Isle of Man.’

  ‘Madill swears blind that he knows nothing about these deposits,’ Davies interjected. ‘He claims someone is trying to frame him. It just doesn’t hold water. He admits that he asked for monthly statements from his bank, but claims he never looked at them. He insists he didn’t know the twenty thousand was in his account. The Sheriff’s never going to buy that.’

  ‘I have to go across to Pitt Street now to see Inspector Anderson,’ Michael said. ‘He wants to talk to me about the case.’ Michael turned to Whyte. ‘I’ll be back here for our meeting with Madill at twelve-thirty and we’ll take it from there.’

  Paul Gibson was waiting apprehensively outside Michael’s office. Aged twenty-one, he was as tall as his father though much slimmer. He had his mother’s straight nose and blue eyes, a pale, almost anaemic, complexion and slightly concave cheeks. His shoulder-length, black hair was pulled back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck. He looked uncomfortable in a blue lounge suit, the jacket hanging loosely from his narrow, sloping shoulders. As he waited beside Sheila’s desk, he ran his fingers round the inside of his shirt collar.

  ‘I heard him ranting and raving from the other side of the office. Do you know what’s biting him?’

  ‘Not really, Paul. All I know is that he arrived half an hour ago like a bear with a sore head, soaked to the skin.’

  As Davies and Whyte were filing out, the buzzer on Sheila’s desk sounded. She nodded to Paul. ‘You can go in now.’

  Forcing a smile in Sheila’s direction, Paul walked into the office. Despite his nervousness, he couldn’t suppress a grin at the sight of his father sitting behind his desk, wearing a dressing gown. ‘A bit Noel Coward, Dad, don’t you think?’

  ‘Cut the wisecracks, Paul. I’m not in the mood. What the hell were you playing at? I let you borrow my car yesterday on the clear understanding that you’d bring it back before eight o’clock this morning, then when I go down to the garage I find my Merc’s not there and your clapped-out van’s sitting in its place. And to make matters a hundred times worse, I arrive at the office in your mother’s car only to find you’ve taken my parking bay and I end up getting soaked running half-way across Glasgow from the multi-storey.’

  ‘Hardly my fault.’ Taking the Mercedes’ keys from his jacket pocket, Paul placed them on the desk. ‘I thought I was doing you a favour by bringing your car here. I didn’t bring it back it last night because I didn’t want to take the keys up to the flat and barge in on you while you were having it off with your bimbo. I assumed she’d drive you to the office this morning, so I thought you’d appreciate having the Merc here to get home tonight.’

  Michael dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, so deep that his knuckles turned white. ‘Don’t ever refer to Philippa as my bimbo,’ he said in little more than a whisper.

  ‘Why not? That’s what everyone else in the office calls her,’ Paul retorted defiantly. ‘At least, that’s one of the nicer expressions. I’ve also heard ‘slut’, ‘gold-digger’ and ‘shag-bag’ – take your pick.’

  ‘Stop that right now, Paul.’

  ‘How do you think I feel out there? It’s fucking embarrassing. Don’t you realise everyone is sniggering behind your back? And what about Mum? You really don’t give a shit about her, do you?’ Michael glared, tight-lipped, across the desk. ‘For Christ’s sake, Dad, can’t you see what a fool you’re making of yourself? It’s pathetic – infatuated by a sexy little bit of skirt half your age.’

  Michael pulled himself to his feet. ‘That’s enough.’ His voice was shaking. ‘I do my best for you, Paul. I give you a good job – a job you’re barely capable of holding down. I pay you a bloody good salary, which gets blown on that stupid rock group and God only knows what else. And this is the thanks I get? Well I’ve had it right up to here with you. I don’t want to see you again. Not in the office – not in the flat.’

  All vestige of colour drained from Paul’s face and his eyes sank deep into their sockets. He turned and walked slowly towards the door, stopping with his hand on the handle. He spun round. ‘What’s so special about Philippa Scott?’ His voice was trembling with emotion. ‘Is she a better shag than Carole?’

  Stomping from the office, Paul strode past Sheila’s desk without as much as a sideways glance.

  Michael felt his knees go weak. He grabbed at the edge of his desk for support as he eased himself slowly down onto the chair, his heartbeat racing. He forced himself to breathe in and out deeply, desperately trying to slow down his heart rate. During the past twelve years, Paul had never made any reference to Carole – to that disastrous episode. Michael had succeeded in blocking the incident out of his consciousness, but every horrific detail now came flooding back.

  Michael was still sitting in a state of shock when Sheila buzzed through to tell him his taxi had arrived to take him to Pitt Street. He forced himself to his feet and changed back into his clothes. His trousers were crumpled and his shoes were still soggy, but his jacket had dried out reasonably. Throughout the cab journey, his head was reeling. He had to confront Anne tonight – tell her he was going to leave her. He’d promised Pippa that. So it wouldn’t be long before Paul found out. Would that be the trigger for him to tell his mother about what had happened with Carole?

  FIVE

  DCI Charlie Anderson enjoyed delivering the ‘Experienced Officer’ module to the graduate trainee seminar. He always stuck to the same format – practical advice on criminal detection techniques, interspersed with war stories about his experiences.

  Before the start of his talk he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing muscular, hairy forearms and thick wrists. As he prowled up and down in f
ront of the class his shirt buttons strained to contain his paunch.

  Glancing up at the clock on the lecture theatre wall, Charlie saw there were eight minutes to go. Good timekeeping epitomised an organised mind – an essential prerequisite for detective work. As always, he would set an example by ensuring his lecture finished right on time. He strode across to the flip-chart board, picked up a marker pen and dashed off some hieroglyphic squiggles, then turned towards the twenty expectant faces. ‘Does anyone know what that says?’ A girl’s hand shot up at the back of the room. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  ‘It says The Key Question, sir,’ she responded confidently.

  ‘Excellent! Excellent!’ Charlie enthused. ‘So you can read shorthand?’

  ‘No, sir.’ A suppressed giggle ran round the class. Charlie looked puzzled. ‘Sergeant O’Sullivan gave us a talk earlier this morning,’ she explained. ‘He told us that sooner or later you’d write something on the board in shorthand – and that it was sure to be The Key Question.’

  The class dissolved in laughter. It took a moment to sink in, then Charlie’s deep, belly laugh reverberated around the room. ‘So Tony O’Sullivan has actually taken something in, has he? It’s a relief to know my efforts over the years haven’t been entirely in vain. But seriously,’ he asked, ‘do any of you know shorthand?’ He scanned the blank expressions, shaking his head in disappointment. ‘It really is a shame. It’s a dying art – but it’s invaluable in this line of work.’

  Charlie produced his notebook from his hip pocket and waved it aloft between thumb and forefinger. ‘This is what it’s all about. Don’t let anyone try to tell you the notebook’s redundant – that recording equipment has made it obsolete. This is where I jot down every word of every interview, in shorthand. Every question I ask, every answer I get.’ He paced up and down in front of the class. ‘Of course, you can record interviews and then have everything transcribed – each of you has to decide on your own preferred method of working. But there’s a huge psychological advantage in using a notebook. As soon as you produce any kind of recording equipment, you introduce a barrier. The person you’re interviewing goes on the defensive, he clams up, he measures every word. But if you pull out a notebook, he behaves naturally – he prattles on – and that’s when you find things out.