by Bill Daly
‘The first strange thing was when I got out of the lift. The apartment door was wide open. Brutus – that’s Anne’s cat – was out on the landing screeching his head off. From the hall, I could see the bedroom door was ajar and there was a light on. I shouted out Anne’s name – several times – but there was no reply. I thought there must be a burglar in the flat so I picked up a walking stick from the stand in the hall and tiptoed towards the bedroom.
‘When I got to the door – I saw her. She… she was just lying there – face up – on the bed. I dropped the walking stick. There was an empty pill bottle on the bed beside her and a half-full pitcher of water on the bedside table. Oh yes, and an empty glass lying on the bed. She was ghostly white and her eyes were closed.
‘I went to the dressing table and grabbed a mirror to hold in front of her lips. Nothing. She wasn’t breathing. I tried to call an ambulance, but my mobile wasn’t getting a signal and the phone in the bedroom was dead – not even a dialling tone. I didn’t know what to do. I took the lift down to the garage and drove across to Pitt Street as fast as I could.’
Michael downed the rest of his whisky in one. ‘Do you want another one?’ he asked, getting to his feet. Charlie shook his head. Michael replenished his drink with a shaking hand and came back to the settee. ‘This is crazy, Charlie. What’s going on?’
‘I’ve no idea. Let’s take things slowly. Assuming you didn’t imagine something, or –’
‘I didn’t imagine anything. I saw her. She was lying there.’
‘Take it easy. Michael. As I was saying, assuming you didn’t imagine anything.’ He repeated the phrase slowly but forcibly. ‘Then we need to try to establish what happened here tonight. There must be a logical explanation, so let’s consider the options. You say Anne normally plays bridge on Wednesday evenings?’
‘Yes.’
‘In which case we’ll start by phoning her bridge club and check if she went there.’
‘I told you. She’s dead.’
‘That may or may not be the case, Michael. Perhaps Anne had fainted, or was in some kind of a coma when you found her? If you want me to help you, you have to let me do things my way. That means checking the facts and eliminating possibilities.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to fly off the handle.’
‘Do you have the bridge club number?’
‘It’ll be in that book beside the phone. It’s the St Andrew’s Club.’
Charlie found the number and dialled. ‘I’m trying to get in touch with Anne Gibson. Do you know if she’s been to the club tonight?’
‘I haven’t seen her,’ the female voice replied, ‘but let me check.’ Charlie sat back in his chair and loosened his tie knot while he waited. ‘No, she hasn’t been here at all today.’
‘Thanks.’ Charlie replaced the receiver. ‘She didn’t go to her club. By the way, the phone seems to be working all right. Was this the one you tried to use earlier?’
‘No – it was the one on the bedside table.’
Charlie went to the bedroom, returning a few moments later. ‘That one seems to be working fine too. Perhaps you panicked and didn’t hear the dialling tone?’
‘I’m telling you – the line was dead.’
‘What was the problem with your mobile?’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t get a connection.’
‘Has that happened here before?’ Michael shook his head. ‘Try it now.’
Michael took his phone from his pocket and studied it. ‘It seems okay now. It’s getting a strong signal.’
‘If Anne didn’t go to her bridge club, where else might she have gone?’
Michael paused to consider. ‘Perhaps to visit Paul? I had a run-in with him at the office a while back and I haven’t seen him since, but I’m sure Anne goes round to his flat quite often.’
‘Does she have any brothers or sisters?’
‘One older sister.’
‘Might she have gone to see her?’
‘Not unless she caught a flight to Vancouver.’
Charlie tapped his pen on his teeth. ‘How long has she been out there?’
‘Since nineteen ninety-nine. I remember the date because she’d had some relationship problems and she wanted to start a new life for the new millennium.’
‘How about Anne’s friends closer to home?’
‘There are several girlfriends she meets up with regularly.’
‘Try calling around,’ Charlie handed across the phone and the telephone book. ‘Check if anyone’s seen Anne today.’
Michael dialled a number, with no response. ‘Paul’s mobile’s switched off,’ he said, ‘and there isn’t a landline in his flat. I’ll try Mary.’ Mary McDonald’s phone rang out unanswered. He made several other calls. Of those who answered, no one had seen Anne.
‘Would you have said Anne was the suicidal type?’ Charlie asked.
‘Not even remotely. I couldn’t imagine the idea entering her head.’
‘Was she under any particular stress that you know of?’
Michael hesitated. ‘Our marriage has been pretty rocky recently – not that it has been great for some time. I told Anne a couple of weeks ago – maybe it was three – that I wanted to end it. She went ballistic. No way she would even consider it.
‘Since then we’ve been living in the same flat but we’ve hardly exchanged a civil word. But suicide?’ Michael shook his head. ‘I can’t get my head round that.’
‘Let’s go back to the facts. You said the door to the flat was open when you got out of the lift. That’s very strange in itself. Someone planning to commit suicide wouldn’t normally leave the front door wide open.’
‘What are you driving at?’
Charlie took a sip of whisky. ‘Let’s consider all the possibilities.’ Charlie put his glass down on the coffee table and started counting off on his fingers. ‘One. Anne fell ill and passed out on the bed, then recovered after you had left the apartment.’
‘What about the pill jar and the glass of water?’
‘Two. Anne took some pills because she was feeling unwell, possibly too many, and passed out. Three, she deliberately tried to take an overdose, but came round after you’d left.’ Charlie picked up his whisky glass and took a sip before continuing. ‘And four – I’m afraid I can’t think of any delicate way to put this. If it wasn’t illness, an accidental overdose or an attempted suicide, that only leaves murder.’
‘What?’ Michael rasped. ‘That’s not possible.’
Charlie’s mobile started to ring. Tugging his phone from his jacket pocket, he quickly switched it off. ‘You told me you saw Anne’s body lying on the bed. If she was ill, or had attempted suicide, I concede it’s just about feasible that she could’ve come round after you left the apartment and somehow managed to stagger out. However, it’s stretching the bounds of credibility to believe that, on her way out, she tidied away the pill bottle, the water jug and the glass, to say nothing of smoothing down the bed and repairing the phone. There must’ve been someone else involved. Someone who fixed it to look like suicide, and then removed Anne’s body. Could there have been someone else in the flat while you were here?”
‘I… I don’t know.’
‘Did you go into any of the other rooms, apart from the bedroom?’
Michael shook his head in confusion. ‘No… No, I don’t think so. Just the bedroom.’
‘So someone could’ve been hiding in the apartment while you were here?’
‘Well… yes… I suppose so. But this is crazy. Why would anyone murder Anne and then try to make it look like suicide? And why would they then remove her body and tidy up the flat?’
‘These are all good questions. I have no answers.’ Charlie reflected for a moment. ‘There is something else you ought to know, though I doubt if it has any connection with what happened here tonight. The London boys phoned me today to let me know Jack McFarlane caught a train to Glasgow this morning.’
Michael turned ashen and the ve
ins on his neck bulged. He clenched his whisky tumbler in a trembling fist.
‘Don’t get too uptight about that.’ Charlie did his best to sound reassuring. ‘There’s no way McFarlane could be involved in Anne’s disappearance. My men have been tailing him from the moment he stepped off the London train.’
Charlie finished his drink and stood up. ‘There’s nothing more we can achieve here tonight. I’ll go back to the office and file a ‘missing persons’ report and we’ll take it from there. I’ll send someone round to Paul’s place to check when he last saw his mother. What’s his address?’
‘Saltoun Street – number thirty-one.’ Charlie made a note. ‘Do you have a recent photo of Anne I could borrow?’
Michael went to the bedroom and returned with a small silver frame. ‘This was taken in Paris last summer. Is it okay?’
Charlie studied it. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, slipping the photo from the frame and tucking it into his jacket pocket. ‘I realise this is difficult for you, Michael, but try not to get paranoid about McFarlane. We’ll be keeping close tabs on him. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what progress we’ve – Damn!’ Charlie interrupted himself.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve just remembered,’ he said punching his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘I’m stuck in the High Court all day tomorrow. Don’t worry, though. I’ll set things in motion tonight and I’ll make sure you’re contacted as soon as there’s any news. In the meantime I suggest you try to get some sleep.’
‘Thanks, Charlie.’
‘And I also suggest you don’t have too many of these before you turn in.’ Charlie waved his empty whisky tumbler in the air before placing it on the coffee table.
Charlie pulled open the rear door and got into the waiting squad car.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘Drop me off back at Pitt Street, Phil.’
As the car pulled away from Dalgleish Tower, Charlie switched on his phone and saw he had a voice message from DS O’Sullivan. Having listened to it, he cursed under his breath.
As soon as he got to his office, Charlie summoned O’Sullivan.
Charlie leapt to his feet when O’Sullivan walked through the door. ‘How the hell did you manage to lose him? The London boys managed to keep tabs on McFarlane for three weeks without any problem – and you lose him in Glasgow in less than a fucking hour!’
Tony O’Sullivan stood to attention at the other side of the desk, his eyes riveted to the floor. He was in his early thirties though he could have been taken for a lot younger. Solidly built with short, crinkly red hair, he was blushing furiously, which only served to intensify his normal high colouring and highlight the mass of freckles covering his cheeks and forehead.
‘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.
SIXTEEN
Friday 11 March
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.’