by Bill Daly
‘Did you get anywhere?’ Charlie asked, turning to O’Sullivan.
‘I went up to Aberdeen yesterday to speak to the Jacksons, Anne Gibson’s parents. The local constabulary had already broken the news of their daughter’s disappearance to them. Mrs Jackson was in bed, heavily sedated, so I didn’t get to talk to her. Apparently she’s got a heart condition and she took the news very badly.
‘Mr Jackson couldn’t cast any light on the subject. He last saw his daughter a couple of weeks ago when she went up there for her fortieth birthday party – without her husband. Mr Jackson told me that Michael wanted to leave Anne so he could move in with his new girlfriend.’
‘That ties in,’ Charlie said. ‘Gibson told me his marriage was on the rocks and he was trying to get a separation, so the fact that there’s a girlfriend in the frame is no big surprise. Ask around. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who she is.’
‘We know already,’ Renton chipped in. ‘I went round to Paul Gibson’s place yesterday to tell him about his mother’s disappearance. He was very upset. He told me his father’s involved with a girl called Philippa Scott who used to work in Gibson’s law practice. She’s now with Colesell and Sharp, a firm of solicitors in Bath Street. Tony and I are going across there this morning to talk to her.’
‘Did you get anything worthwhile out of Paul?’
‘Not really. The last time he saw his mother was a couple of days ago when he dropped into Dalgleish Tower for a coffee. As far as he’s aware she had no particular worries or problems, apart from being uptight about her husband wanting to leave her. He hasn’t seen his father since they had a barney in the office and he stormed out – about three weeks ago. Seems he was given the bullet by his own dad.’ Renton grinned briefly.
‘Have you mentioned to anyone that we suspect Anne Gibson might be dead?’
O’Sullivan and Renton looked at each other, raising their eyebrows and shaking their heads. ‘No, sir,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘All we’ve said is that she’s missing.’
‘It’s only a matter of time until the story breaks,’ Charlie said. ‘If there’s no news of her whereabouts by this evening, I’m going to launch a full-blown murder enquiry. So, if you think it appropriate, drop the information that she may be dead into the conversation with Gibson’s girlfriend. It might be interesting to see how she reacts.’
Charlie checked his watch. ‘I’m going to have to leave you boys to it. I’ve got a meeting with Niggle. He wants to be briefed on the case.’
‘Why is he taking an interest?’
‘He knows the family. He used to play golf with Gibson’s father.’
‘One thing before you go, sir,’ Renton said hesitantly. ‘Have you spoken to DI Crawford about pulling me off the Castlemilk rape enquiry? He almost had a canary when I told him I was working full-time for you.’
‘Shit! It slipped my mind. Sorry about that. Don’t worry, Colin. I’ll square it with Crawford as soon as I’ve briefed Niggle.’
O’Sullivan and Renton were shown into the reception room of Colesell and Sharp. They sat side by side on the low sofa, flicking through the well-thumbed pages of old magazines, until Philippa Scott joined them. The moment she walked through the door they both scrambled to their feet. Philippa was wearing a cream-coloured suede mini-skirt and matching silk blouse. Her auburn hair was swept back from her face and plaited halfway down her back.
‘Sorry to disturb you at work, Miss Scott,’ O’Sullivan said, adjusting his tie knot.
‘That’s okay, officers. Do sit down.’ Philippa took the upright chair facing them. Crossing her legs, she clasped her knee in both hands. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Do you know that Anne Gibson is missing?’ O’Sullivan said, taking out his notebook.
Philippa nodded. ‘I read about that in the papers.’
O’Sullivan coughed embarrassedly. ‘We have reason to believe that you and Mr Gibson have… have a relationship and that –’
‘Had,’ interrupted Philippa, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Mr Gibson and I had a ‘relationship’, as you call it. That’s no secret. But it’s all over now. Has been for some time.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘I don’t know. Must be the best part of a month.’
‘Have you been in contact with him at all during that time?’
‘Why would I?’
‘I’m not asking why you would,’ O’Sullivan said. ‘I’m asking if you have been.’
Philippa’s complexion reddened visibly. ‘The answer is no.’
‘Have you seen Mrs Gibson recently?’
‘Mrs Gibson? Hardly! My relationship with Michael may be over, but Anne Gibson and I aren’t exactly bosom buddies.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘God, I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve set eyes on her since last December when she dropped in at the office Christmas party.’
‘I believe Mr Gibson was planning to leave his wife so he could be with you?’
Philippa shook her head firmly. ‘That may have been the case a few weeks ago, but as I’ve already told you, Michael and I have split up.’
‘Can I ask why?’ O’Sullivan said.
Philippa shrugged. ‘These things happen.’
‘Can you think of any reason why Mrs Gibson might choose to disappear?’
‘Not at all.’ Philippa screwed up her face. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions? I hardly know the woman. I’ve only met her a couple of times in my life and we’ve never exchanged anything other than casual chit chat.’
O’Sullivan closed his notebook. ‘The news hasn’t broken yet, but we suspect Anne Gibson may be dead – possibly murdered.’
The colour drained from Philippa’s cheeks. ‘Murdered?’ She stood up and walked towards the window. ‘Who on earth… would want to murder her?’
‘Can you tell us where you were on Wednesday evening?’ Renton asked.
‘Wednesday? I can’t remember.’
‘That was the night before last,’ he prompted.
‘I was at home, I think. Yes, I was at home watching television.’
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’ Renton persisted.
‘A friend was supposed to be coming round for dinner, but she had to call off at the last minute.’
‘So that’s a ‘no’?’
Philippa spun round, her face flushed. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. Are you checking to see if I’ve got an alibi? Are you suggesting that –?’
‘We’re not suggesting anything,’ O’Sullivan interjected, getting to his feet. ‘All we’re trying to do is get to the bottom of Mrs Gibson’s disappearance.’
‘Whatever.’ Philippa turned back and stared out of the window.
O’Sullivan exchanged a glance with Renton. ‘I think that’s all for now,’ he said. Ripping a blank page from his notebook, he handed it across. ‘If you wouldn’t mind jotting down your address and your phone number, in case we have any further questions.’
Taking the pen she was offered, Philippa scribbled quickly on the paper. She thrust it at O’Sullivan and strode from the room.
O’Sullivan turned to Renton and raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘Probably the longest legs I’ve ever seen. Right up to her oxters.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Seriously – a friend supposed to be coming round for dinner on Wednesday – then calling off at the last minute? That’s a bit too pat for my liking. And she looked distinctly uncomfortable when you asked her if she’d had any contact with Gibson since they broke up. I suspect our Miss Scott might know more than she’s letting on.’
O’Sullivan examined the slip of paper in his hand. ‘How about that for a coincidence? She lives just round the corner from me. Which means, I suppose, I’ll get stuck with the onerous task of going round to her place to continue the interview.’ He grinned as he tucked Philippa’s address into his notebook.
Charlie Anderson
felt distinctly uncomfortable as he sat opposite Superintendent Nigel Hamilton, known throughout the force as ‘Niggle’ for self-evident reasons. As far as Charlie was concerned, Niggle never contributed anything positive to a situation, his only interest being to make sure his backside was covered. Hamilton’s slow, pedantic, sing-song delivery only added to Charlie’s irritation with the man.
‘What’s the latest on the Gibson situation?’ Hamilton demanded, rocking back in his chair.
‘Nothing definitive to report at this stage. Looks like we might have a murder on our hands, though there’s no sign of a body.’
‘You need to get to grips with this, Anderson. If the press get a sniff of a scandal concerning the Gibson family, they’ll have a field day.’
‘I realise that. I’ve assigned O’Sullivan and Renton to the investigation full time.’
‘O’Sullivan? Is that a good call? Wasn’t he the one who lost McFarlane?’
‘McFarlane gave him the slip. It could’ve happened to anyone.’
‘But it happened to him.’ Hamilton sucked hard on his teeth. ‘The NCA offered to maintain surveillance on McFarlane while he was in Glasgow, but I told them we would handle it. Made me a bloody laughing stock, that did. And as for Renton, I had Crawford in here yesterday to review his progress, or rather lack of it, on the Castlemilk rape enquiry. He told me you’d messed him about by pulling Renton off the case without so much as a by your leave.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I meant to clear it with Crawford, but I was tied up in the High Court all day yesterday and it slipped my mind.’
‘Slipped your mind?’ Hamilton shook his head. ‘Too many things slipping people’s minds around here for my liking.’
Charlie bit into his lower lip as he rose to his feet. ‘Will that be all?’ Without waiting for Hamilton’s response, he turned on his heel and strode out of the office.
SEVENTEEN
Monday 14 March
‘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?’