Double Mortice

by Bill Daly

  Paul’s temper calmed as quickly as it had flared up. ‘What were you uptight about?’

  ‘If you really want to know, I’m all screwed up about Maureen. We’re nuts about each other and we want to move in together, but unless the band takes off in a big way I’m never going to be able to afford to do that. And to add to everything, I’ve had it right up to here with Maureen’s mother. I was round at their place last week and I got the full treatment from the crabbit old bitch. I’ve never met anyone like her. She puts my own mother in the shade – and that takes a bit of doing. The cantankerous old cow can churn out clichés to a band playing. Gordon mimicked a high-pitched squeak: ‘When are you going to get a proper job?’ ‘When are you and Maureen going to get married?’ ‘When are going to have the deposit saved up for a flat?’ Jesus Christ! Fat chance I’ve got of ever saving up a deposit. If she knew I still owed you a thousand quid towards the van she’d go ballistic.’

  ‘Talking of which –’

  ‘Oh, fuck! I know I promised you a couple of hundred this month. I will pay you back, Paul – as soon as I can.’

  ‘I’m not exactly flush, you know,’ Paul snapped. ‘I need the money.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just –’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Paul interjected. ‘It really is okay.’ His voice softened. ‘I didn’t mean to go on about it.’ He punched Gordon gently on the shoulder. ‘No point in you going home at this time of night. Why don’t you come up and crash out on the settee?’

  Gordon sucked hard on his cigarette. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Come on, you daft bampot.’ Paul pulled his leather jacket from behind the driver’s seat and jumped down. The clouds were high in the sky and a ground frost was forming. He slipped on his jacket and zipped it up.

  ‘What about the gear?’ Gordon asked as he clambered down. ‘Shouldn’t we take it upstairs?’

  ‘I can’t be arsed. We’ll take our chances and leave it in the van overnight. Just make sure the doors are locked.’

  ‘Suits me. I’m buggered.’ They trudged side by side up to the fourth floor landing. As they went into the apartment, Gordon put his arm around Paul’s shoulder. ‘Would I be dicing with death if I suggested a smoke before we turn in?’

  Paul smiled. ‘You know the rules. After the gig, anything goes. What’ve you got?’

  ‘I picked up some hash in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Roll us a couple of joints while I organise the music.’

  Paul browsed through the playlists on his laptop while Gordon was working on the joints.

  Gordon chuckled when he heard the opening strains of ‘Suzanne’. ‘Why do you always put on Leonard Cohen when you’re going to have a smoke?’ he asked, lighting both joints and handing one across.

  Paul closed his eyes and lay back in the armchair. He took a long, slow drag, sucking in the smoke and holding it in his lungs for as long as he could before releasing it slowly through his teeth. ‘I really don’t know. I think maybe it’s because when I close my eyes and listen to his voice, I realise you might not be the worst singer in the world.’

  Paul ducked as a cushion came flying across the room.

  TWELVE

  Wednesday 2 March

  Anne Gibson sat on the settee in her lounge, totally stunned. Having told Paul about Michael’s fling with Saoirse, she’d asked him what he wanted to talk to her about. It had taken a supreme effort on her part to hold it together while he recounted what had happened with Carole, but somehow she’d managed it.

  When he’d finished, she’d started to weep, silently at first, then louder and louder as a succession of anguished sobs racked her entire body. Then the tears came in floods. Tears of realisation at the enormity of what had happened mingled with tears of utter frustration – emotions colliding as her world imploded. Everything had fallen into place.

  She now understood what had caused the dramatic changes in Paul’s personality. She realised why Michael had refused to allow her to get psychiatric help for Paul – and she knew the reason for Michael’s breakdown. At the time, she’d thought it had been brought on by work-related stress.

  It was all too horrible to contemplate. It should never have been allowed to come to this. If only he’d been honest with her at the time – they could have tackled it together.

  Then anger took over. Seething, virulent, all-consuming anger. Michael must have realised the consequences of what he’d done. They were staring him in the face, each and every day for the rest of his life, but still he did nothing.

  THIRTEEN

  Thursday 3 March

  Harry Kennedy had spent most of the afternoon tidying up the gardens in front of Dalgleish Tower and he was settling down to a welcome cup of tea when his doorbell rang. Whistling tunelessly, he pulled himself to his feet and opened his door. ‘Och, it’s yourself, Mrs Gibson. Come on in. I was expectin’ it to be the Moores.’

  ‘Who are they, Harry?’

  ‘The couple who’re buyin’ number 10. They had a look round the flat a couple of weeks back and they phoned the estate agent this mornin’ to confirm they’re takin’ it. They’re comin’ round today to take a few measurements. So, what can I do for you, Mrs Gibson?’

  ‘Harry, you’ve got spare keys for all the flats, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you do me a favour and lend me your key for my flat? I left my coat at the bridge club and my house keys are in the pocket. My husband won’t be home for another couple of hours and I don’t want to drag all the way back to Sauchiehall Street in the rush hour as I’ll be going there tomorrow anyway.’

  Harry’s brow furrowed. ‘I’d really like to help out, but there’s a wee problem.’ Anne looked perplexed. ‘I’ve got strict instructions never to let any of those keys out o’ my sight. It’s written into my contract.’

  ‘Surely you can make an exception just this once? I’ve got a splitting headache and I couldn’t face the prospect of driving back across town. And there’s no point in me phoning Paul to ask him to bring his key across,’ Anne added. ‘He’s gone across to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Harry said, brightening up considerably. ‘What I could do is come upstairs with you and open your front door for you. Then Mr Gibson can lock up in the mornin’ and you can collect your key from the bridge club.’

  ‘Brilliant, Harry. I knew you’d think of something.’ Resuming his tuneless whistling, Harry crossed to his wall safe and started twisting the dial. ‘One more favour, Harry. Would you be an absolute angel and get me a glass of water?’ Anne took a bottle of pills from her handbag. ‘I’ve had a migraine all afternoon and I’ll die if I don’t take a Disprin straight away.’

  ‘No bother at all. Nothin’ in my contract that says I canny give people a glass of water.’ He started whistling again as he bustled to the kitchen.

  When Harry returned with the water, Anne was zipping up her handbag. She dropped two soluble tablets into the glass Harry handed her and swilled them round until they dissolved. Grimacing, she swallowed the contents in one gulp. ‘Thanks, Harry. You’re a lifesaver,’ she said, handing him back the glass.

  ‘All part of the service.’ Harry took the key for flat 15 from its hook and closed the wall safe, spinning the dial. Locking his front door, he followed Anne across the hall.

  ‘You do the code, Harry,’ she said when they came to the internal door. ‘I can never remember the damned thing.’

  Harry grinned as he tapped at the control panel. ‘And I can never forget it. I was allowed to choose the code, so I picked the first six digits of my National Insurance number.’

  ‘So it’s all your fault? Why couldn’t you have picked something simple for us all to remember? Like ‘HARRY’, for example?’

  ‘That would have been too easy. You canny be too careful about intruders these days, Mrs Gibson.’

  FOURTEEN

  Tuesday 8 March

  Jack McFarlane’s days followed a regular pattern. Rising lat
e, he walked for miles every afternoon, no matter the weather, usually on Hampstead Heath. The early evenings were spent playing darts in a pub not far from Larry Robertson’s flat and then he either ate in one of the nearby ethnic restaurants or bought something to take back to the flat, always making sure he was home by eleven o’clock.

  This evening he stayed longer in the pub than usual before picking up an Indian take-away and making his way up the hill. He sensed he was being followed all the time, but made no attempt to slip his tail.

  When he’d polished off his chicken Madras, he helped himself to a generous glass of malt whisky from the supply he’d found in the kitchen cupboard, then kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed to read the newspaper. Dozing, he was jerked awake by the strident ring of the telephone. He rubbed at his eyes and checked his watch, but made no move to answer the phone. After six rings, the caller hung up. McFarlane lay on the bed with his hands cupped behind his head, waiting. Five minutes later the phone rang out again. This time three rings, followed by silence. He sat up and grinned. Six rings, followed by three rings – exactly five minutes apart – between eleven and eleven-thirty. Larry Robertson’s signal that he could now go up to Glasgow. No telephone connection – no voice communication on a line that was almost sure to be tapped. He waited a further five minutes before dialling Robertson’s number, disconnecting after the fourth ring. The answering code: ‘message received and understood’.

  Having studied the railway timetables, McFarlane knew there was a train to Glasgow at eight o’clock on Wednesday mornings. He drained his whisky and packed his few possessions into his holdall. Setting his alarm for six o’clock, he stripped off and climbed between the sheets.

  The insistent techno beat was pounding in Philippa Scott’s ears. She felt completely uninhibited as she moved gracefully and sensually, swaying towards him when he rocked back on his heels, her breasts brushing lightly against his silk shirt, the contours of their bodies moulding together as they moved in time to the driving music.

  Arching back her head, she ran the fingers of both hands through her long, loose, auburn hair, glistening with perspiration, while the strobe lights criss-crossing the crowded disco played multi-coloured patterns across their gyrating bodies.

  Philippa luxuriated in the heady effects of the champagne and the pulsating rhythm. When the tempo slowed, she clasped both hands behind her neck and moved even closer to him, thrusting her hips forward and grinding into his body. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she slid off the band holding his pony tail in place and ran her fingers through his hair. She closed her eyes and felt her moist, warm sweat trickling down between her breasts. She wanted this night to last forever.

  Wednesday 9 March

  Jack McFarlane slept fitfully and was already wide awake when the alarm sounded at six o’clock. On the first ring his hand snaked out to silence the bell. Without switching on the light, he dressed quickly. There was sufficient moonlight filtering through the lounge window to allow him to glance round the room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He swung his holdall over his shoulder and slid open the kitchen window at the rear of the building, which gave access to the fire escape leading to the courtyard five floors below. Clambering through, he tugged the window closed behind him and descended quickly to ground level.

  McFarlane’s every move was followed by the night binoculars trained on him from the attic apartment on the far side of the courtyard. His observer snapped open his mobile phone and connected with the driver of a black Citroën. ‘Subject is on the move. He’ll be in your line of sight within a minute.’

  McFarlane strode down the narrow passageway between the two blocks of flats towards the main road. When he marched past the Citroën, the passenger waited a few moments before slipping out and falling into a matching stride pattern, some twenty yards behind him.

  Charlie Anderson had had a boring day. Unless there was a panic on, Wednesday was his day for catching up with his backlog of paperwork and on this particular Wednesday there seemed to be twice as much as usual to wade through. As he slotted the last memo into his out-tray, he glanced up at his wall clock and saw it was after eight o’clock. ‘Is that the time?’ he mumbled, screwing the top onto his fountain pen and clipping it into his inside jacket pocket. He got to his feet and massaged his aching spine with both hands, then crossed to his filing cabinet and flicked through the top drawer until he came to a bulging manila folder labelled ‘Crown versus McArthur’. Pulling it out, he stuffed it into his briefcase. He took off his reading glasses and slipped them into their case, rubbing at his tired eyes as he picked up the phone to call home.

  ‘It’s me, love. I’m about to leave the office.’

  Charlie pulled on his coat and picked up his briefcase. He was leaning across to switch off his desk lamp when his intercom buzzed. ‘Damn!’ He flicked the switch across. ‘What is it?’ he barked.

  ‘There’s a Mr Gibson at the front desk, sir. He says he has to see you urgently. I told him you were off duty and asked if someone else could help, but he insists he has to see you. He seems pretty distraught.’

  ‘Send him up.’ Charlie let out a weary sigh as he peeled off his coat and hung it back on the peg on the back of the door. He heard footsteps hurrying along the corridor. Michael Gibson stumbled into the office without knocking, pale-faced and visibly shaken. He lurched towards Charlie’s desk, almost falling.

  ‘Michael, what on earth’s the matter?’ Charlie grabbed him by the arm and guided him onto a chair.

  ‘It’s Anne.’

  ‘Anne? What about Anne?’

  ‘She’s… she’s… killed herself.’

  FIFTEEN

  ‘What!’

  Michael slumped forward and tugged at his tie knot. ‘When I got home from work I found her lying there – on the bed,’ he gasped. ‘There was an empty pill jar by her side. She’d taken an overdose.’

  ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

  ‘I checked. She wasn’t breathing.’

  ‘Did you call an ambulance?’

  ‘I tried to. There was something wrong with my mobile – I couldn’t get a signal, so I tried to use the phone in the bedroom, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t think what else to do, so I drove straight over here.’

  Anderson banged on his intercom. ‘This is an emergency. Send an ambulance to Dalgleish Tower on Clydeside – suspected overdose – possible suicide. Which floor, Michael?’

  ‘Fifteen. It’s the only flat on that floor.’

  ‘Fifteenth floor,’ Charlie shouted into the intercom. ‘Tell the ambulance crew I’ll meet them there with the keys. Get me a squad car out front straight away.’ Charlie turned to Michael. ‘You don’t have to come. You can wait here. Just give me the key to your flat.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Michael nodded as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

  As soon as they’d scrambled into the back seat, the squad car raced off, siren blaring, catching up with the ambulance a few hundred yards from Dalgleish Tower. Both vehicles screeched to a halt outside the building and two paramedics, carrying a stretcher and an oxygen mask, raced up the steps with Michael and Charlie in close pursuit.

  ‘There’s a code,’ Michael panted, pushing his way to the front and tapping feverishly at the control panel. As the lift was climbing, Michael fumbled in his jacket pocket for his key. His hands were trembling as he unlocked the front door.

  ‘Which room?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Quick.’

  ‘First door on the left,’ Michael said, leading the way.

  Charlie put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Leave it to these guys, Michael. They know what they’re doing.’ Charlie nodded to the paramedics, who hurried towards the bedroom.

  Michael slumped to his knees at Charlie’s feet. ‘Why? Why would she do it?’ Burying his head in his hands he started to sob uncontrollably.

  One of the paramedics appeared in the bedroom doorway. He caught Cha
rlie’s eye and shook his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Too late?’ Charlie mouthed. The medic continued to shake his head, signalling to him to come across. Charlie stopped in the bedroom doorway. The room was empty, the bed was made and there was no sign of any disturbance. He glanced over his shoulder to where Michael was kneeling in the hall, sobbing heavily. ‘Check out the other rooms – quickly,’ he whispered.

  ‘Nothing, Inspector,’ the paramedic reported back a few moments later. ‘There’s no one in the apartment. Just a frightened cat in the kitchen.’

  ‘Michael,’ Charlie said, helping him to his feet, ‘come over here.’ He led him towards the bedroom. ‘There’s something very strange. There’s no sign of Anne.’

  Michael stared open-mouthed, pointing at the bed in amazement. ‘But – half an hour ago – Anne was lying there. Oh my God! What’s happening?’

  ‘Calm down. I think you could use a drink.’

  Charlie turned to the paramedics. ‘Sorry about the false alarm, boys. I’ll stay with him and try to get to the bottom of this. Do me a favour. When you go downstairs ask Phil, he’s my driver, to wait for me? Tell him I don’t know how long I’ll be.’

  ‘No problem, Inspector.’

  Charlie took Michael by the arm to lead him to the lounge and sat him down on the settee. He crossed to the bar and poured two stiff whiskies. Taking the chair opposite, he handed Michael a tumbler. ‘In your own time, tell me what happened here this evening.’

  Charlie produced his notebook and his propelling pencil as Michael sipped at his drink. ‘I got home just before eight o’clock. I’d been playing squash and I’d had a couple of pints and a sandwich with Tom Crosbie after the game. I wasn’t expecting Anne to be home. Wednesday’s one of her bridge nights and she usually leaves the house around seven.