Double Mortice

by Bill Daly

  ‘Lie down and try to relax,’ McCartney said. Michael stretched out full-length on the couch. ‘I’d like to record our conversation, if that’s okay?’ Michael nodded. McCartney leaned across and activated his recording device. ‘Before we discuss what happened, tell me a bit about your wife; her personality, her interests – anything that comes to mind.’

  ‘Where do I begin? Anne was a couple of years younger than me. Convent educated, conservative, strait-laced in many ways – but she was fiercely determined about things that mattered to her. When things were going her way she was all sweetness and light, but if crossed, she could be a real vixen.’

  ‘How would you describe your marriage?’

  ‘We were together for more than twenty years. We met while we were at Glasgow University where she was studying European History. I was actually dating her sister at the time and it was she who introduced me to Anne. Anne got me involved in the University drama club, which was one of her passions. She was very talented, both in the production side of things and in acting. We started going out together and we soon fell head over heels in love. She was only nineteen at the time. Unfortunately, I got her pregnant. I wanted her to have an abortion, but she wouldn’t hear of it – strict Catholic upbringing and all that. So I married her. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.’

  ‘So she had the child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have any other children?’

  ‘No. Just Paul. He’s grown-up now. Or I should say, he’s twenty-one. I wouldn’t say ‘grown-up’ is a good way to describe him.’

  ‘During the time you’ve been married, have you had any affairs?’

  Michael hesitated. ‘That depends on what you call an affair. I had a couple of one night stands a while back, but the only thing I would really describe as an ‘affair’ would be my relationship with Philippa.’

  ‘Who is Philippa?’

  ‘A girl I’ve been seeing for the past year.’

  ‘Did your wife know about her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she know about your one night stands?’

  ‘She knew about one of them.’

  ‘And your wife? Did she have any affairs?’

  ‘Not that I know of. She could have, I suppose, though I wouldn’t have thought that likely.’

  ‘Despite your infidelity, would you describe your marriage as stable?’

  ‘Up until a few weeks ago, yes. Then I told Anne I was going to leave her. She blew up. She refused point-blank to even discuss the subject. She hardly spoke to me after that. We continued to live in the same apartment, but we led completely separate lives. She preferred to continue with a complete sham of a marriage rather than let me leave her.’

  ‘How did you react to that? Did you feel resentful?’

  ‘I was very angry. I desperately wanted to be with Philippa.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just walk out?’

  ‘Anne was… she was threatening me.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘She had a hold over me.’ Michael looked anxiously at the recording machine and then across to where Charlie was seated. ‘I’d rather not say anything more about that.’

  ‘Okay, let’s move on. Tell me about the suicide incident.’

  ‘Last Wednesday, when I came home from work, I parked my car in the underground garage and took the lift. When I arrived at my floor, the apartment door was wide open. Brutus – that’s Anne’s cat – was out in the hall, miaowing noisily. I wasn’t expecting Anne to be home. Wednesday’s one of her bridge nights. I called her name out several times, but there was no response. I could see there was a light on in the main bedroom – the door was ajar. I thought there must be a burglar in the apartment so I picked up a walking stick from the hallstand and crept towards the bedroom.

  ‘Then I saw her – lying face up on the bed. There was an empty tumbler by her side. There was a half-full water pitcher on the bedside table and an empty pill jar on the bed. Her eyes were closed. She was pale, but she looked very peaceful.

  ‘I grabbed a mirror from the dressing table and held it against her lips. It didn’t steam up. She wasn’t breathing. I tried to call an ambulance, but my mobile wasn’t able to pick up a signal and the phone in the bedroom was dead. I was in a state of panic. I went down to the garage and drove as fast as I could to Pitt Street, to police headquarters. I couldn’t think what else to do. Charlie came back to the apartment with me but – and this is the incredible thing – when we got there, there was nothing. Anne’s body wasn’t there.’

  ‘Tell me about the bedroom. Apart from Anne’s body lying on the bed, was everything else normal?’

  Michael looked perplexed. ‘What do you mean by ‘normal’?’

  ‘Was everything else as you would have expected to find it? For example, were the curtains open or drawn?’

  Michael thought for a moment while he pictured the scene in his mind. ‘Drawn, I think. Yes, I’m pretty sure they were drawn.’

  ‘You said your mobile couldn’t pick up a signal. Could your battery have been flat?’

  ‘No. It was fine not long after, when Charlie came back with me to the flat.’

  ‘And you said the phone in the bedroom was dead. Was it in its usual place?’

  ‘Yes, on the bedside table, at my side of the bed.’

  ‘Were the phone wires cut?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t check. When there was no dialling tone, I just dropped the receiver and ran out.’

  ‘Can you remember what Anne was wearing?’

  ‘Yes. A white blouse and a green leather skirt.’

  McCartney got to his feet and paced up and down the room. ‘The next part will be difficult for you, Michael. I’m going to ask you to tell me what happened last night, when you thought Anne had been murdered. Do you feel up to it?’ Michael nodded and closed his eyes. ‘Go ahead then, in your own time.’

  ‘It all started just as before.’ Michael’s tongue flicked over his lips. ‘I came home from the office around seven o’clock. When I got out of the lift the apartment door was wide open and the cat was out in the hall, screeching its head off. I felt like I was reliving a bad dream. I called out, but there was no reply. I didn’t go to the hallstand for a stick. There was no need. I knew there wasn’t a burglar in the apartment.

  ‘I went to the bedroom door, fully expecting to see Anne lying on the bed. But not like that!’ Michael opened his eyes wide and sat bolt upright, beads of sweat forming at his temples.

  ‘Lie back and try to relax. We can take a break, if you like?’

  ‘I don’t want a break. I want to keep going.’ He lay back down and closed his eyes. ‘It was horrible – utterly sickening. Anne was bound to the bedposts, thick white rope round her wrists and ankles. She was gagged with brown sticky tape – the kind removal companies use. She was wearing the same white blouse and green leather skirt, but her throat… her throat was slit wide open. She was staring… staring straight at me – with her cold, blue eyes……- just like McFarlane’s.’ Michael’s breathing was coming in short gasps, his voice laboured. ‘Blood was pumping from her body. Her blouse was changing from white to crimson before my very eyes. Dark stains were spreading across her skirt. Blood was seeping through the duvet. I fell to my knees and closed my eyes. The cat was shrieking even louder. I threw up all over the bed. I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘When I forced my eyes open, all I could see was my vomit mingling with Anne’s blood. I nearly passed out. I staggered to my feet and tugged out my mobile. But again, there was no signal. I wanted to run from the room but I made myself pick up the phone, even though I knew the line would be dead. It was. I dropped the receiver and ran to the lift and when I got to the ground floor I hammered on the caretaker’s door.

  ‘Harry let me in and I phoned Charlie. He was there in less than fifteen minutes. Charlie went upstairs and when he came back down he told me he’d found nothing. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to go up a
gain, but Charlie made me. There was nothing,’ he gulped. ‘Nothing at all.’

  McCartney paused before speaking. ‘You mentioned that Anne’s eyes were like McFarlane’s. Who is McFarlane?’

  Michael stared across at Charlie, then turned back to McCartney. ‘He murdered Anne,’ he whispered. ‘I knew he would. He comes after me in my dreams – always the same nightmare. His face appears out of nowhere and he’s mocking me. His eyes lock onto mine and no matter how much I try I can’t deflect my gaze. I can’t close my eyes and I can’t lift my arms to shield my face.

  ‘His face grows bigger and the purple scar on his cheek becomes more and more vivid. My body starts to shrink and he opens his mouth wide as he approaches me. I’m running backwards as fast as I can but he’s closing on me relentlessly. There’s no escape. He’s licking his lips. He’s going to swallow me whole when he gets close enough. I stumble and fall and…’ Michael sat up and sank his face in his hands, his whole body quaking.

  McCartney waited until Michael had recovered his composure before taking him by the shoulder and guiding him back to the prone position. ‘Do you know McFarlane, Michael? Or is he just someone who appears in your nightmare?’

  ‘I know him all right. I defended him in the High Court twelve years ago – I was an advocate at the time. He got sent down for armed robbery, but he’s out of jail now and he’s after me.’

  ‘Why would he be after you?’

  ‘He blames me. He thinks I let him down.’

  ‘Do you think you let him down? Do you blame yourself?’

  Michael swallowed hard. ‘Though he protested his innocence, I was sure he was guilty. Nevertheless, I’d taken on his case and it was my responsibility to present his defence in the best possible light. I failed miserably. I wasn’t sharp. I missed numerous opportunities to pressurise prosecution witnesses, to challenge circumstantial evidence.

  ‘When it became apparent the case was slipping away, I tried to persuade him to change his plea to guilty in order to get a lighter sentence. He took exception to this advice. He dismissed me as his advocate and proceeded to conduct his own defence. However, he was found guilty by a majority verdict and sentenced to fifteen years.

  ‘As he was being led from the dock he screamed out – I’ll never forget his words: When I get out I’m going to fucking-well kill you, Gibson. You – and your wife – and your kid.’ Tears welled in Michael’s eyes. ‘I should have represented him much better than I did. I was under a lot of stress at the time – personal problems, family problems. If I’d performed to the best of my ability, there was a possibility he might have got off with a ‘not proven’ verdict. The episode affected me badly. I had a breakdown and I was off work for several months.’

  ‘Did you seek psychiatric help at the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who did you consult?’

  ‘Dr Trayner.’

  ‘Tell me about your nightmare. How often does it occur?’

  ‘It used to be about once a month. But since the headaches started it seems like every other night.’

  ‘How long have you been suffering from headaches?’

  ‘About six months.’

  ‘Do you know what brings them on?’

  ‘Not specifically.’

  ‘Describe them.’

  ‘Sharp, stabbing pains at the base of the skull and behind my eyes. They’re at their worst first thing in the morning. They tend to ease off during the day.’

  ‘Are you taking anything for them?’

  ‘Just paracetamol.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know. Quite a lot, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m… I’m scared… my father… I’m scared I might be going the same way as my father.’ Michael’s voice was barely audible.

  ‘Do you now accept, logically, that Anne’s suicide and murder couldn’t have happened as you described?’

  ‘Last Wednesday, I didn’t accept that. It was all so real and there could’ve been a logical explanation for everything that happened, however unlikely. Someone could’ve removed Anne’s body and tidied up the flat before I returned with Charlie. But last night – no.’ Michael shook his head. ‘It couldn’t have happened. It all seemed so real at the time, but no one could possibly have cleaned up the mess I saw in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Had you been drinking before you came home?’

  ‘I’ve been hitting the bottle pretty hard recently, but not yesterday afternoon. I’d been to the office and I was stone cold sober when I came home. What’s going on, doctor?’ Michael pleaded. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  McCartney leaned across to switch off the recorder. ‘I don’t know, Michael. This is only a preliminary session. Clearly, there’s a lot to be looked at in more detail. Are you going to be in Glasgow for the next few days?’

  ‘Of course. Where would I go?’

  ‘In which case I’d advise you not to go back to your apartment for the time being. Is there anywhere else you could go?’

  ‘I stayed at the Marriott last night.’

  ‘Then check in there for a few more days and come back to see me on Friday. Would ten o’clock be okay?’ he asked, consulting his desk diary.

  ‘Yes.’ Michael hesitated. ‘What about the cat? I’ll have to go back to the flat to feed the cat and change its litter.’ He sounded strangely distant. ‘If Anne comes home, the first thing she’ll ask about will be the cat.’

  McCartney looked across at Charlie. ‘Is there someone who could handle that?’

  Charlie thought for a minute. ‘The caretaker. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind doing it. I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘Good. Take two of these in the evening before you go to bed,’ McCartney said, writing out a prescription. ‘They’ll help you sleep. Cut down on the paracetamol – and I recommend you lay off the booze completely.’

  Michael folded the prescription and slipped it into his wallet. ‘There’s one other thing, doctor. When I went to pack my toilet bag last night – before going to the hotel – my razor – I use a cut-throat – was missing.’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. I shaved with it before I went to work.’

  McCartney exchanged a quick glance with Charlie. ‘I think you’ve been through enough for today. We’ll talk about the razor on Friday.’

  Michael got up from the couch and shook McCartney’s hand. ‘Thank you. And thanks for staying, Charlie.’

  ‘I’ll call you at the Marriott as soon as we have any news,’ Charlie said.

  When Michael had left, Charlie turned to McCartney. ‘What do you make of it, Stephen?’

  ‘It’s all pretty weird. The guy is clearly unstable and needs careful handling. What can you tell me about this McFarlane character?’

  ‘He’s bad news – dangerous and violent. It runs in the family. I sent his old man down twice for armed robbery. I knew Gibson was uptight about him coming out of prison, but not to the extent of having nightmares about it.’

  ‘Gibson’s story – was it the same as the version he gave you?’

  ‘Essentially, yes. A few more details on some points, a few less on others. But that’s inevitable when you recount something twice. One thing I did notice. He said that when he thought Anne had committed suicide she ‘looked very peaceful’. I don’t recall him saying anything like that at the time.’

  ‘That figures. When he got to the bit about entering the bedroom yesterday it was almost as if he wanted to find her body lying peacefully on the bed, just as he’d imagined her the previous week. He’d adjusted to the fact that she was dead and he wanted to confirm in his mind that it was a peaceful suicide.

  ‘However, his subconscious wouldn’t let him off so lightly. He had to suffer more. He had to witness a violent murder. Did you notice that, at the start, when he referred to his wife it was in the past tense? ‘She
was a couple of years younger than me’, ‘she was fiercely determined’ – as if he knew she was dead. Later on, he left open the possibility of her being alive when he said: ‘If Anne comes home, the first thing she’ll ask about will be the cat’. His mind seems to be struggling to make the distinction between fantasy and reality.

  ‘However, would I be right in saying that all that’s actually been established is that Anne Gibson is missing?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘So, apart from Gibson’s story, there isn’t a shred of evidence that his wife is dead. Maybe she’s run off with another bloke, for God’s sake. Perhaps Gibson’s ego won’t let him face up to that possibility and his subconscious is trying to block the idea out of his mind.

  ‘First, he imagines suicide. But Gibson has a logical mind. If his wife had committed suicide her body would have been discovered by now. As time goes by he has to go a step further and imagine she’s been murdered and her body’s been hidden. But why he invents such a violent murder is hard to fathom. I’m surmising, Charlie. It’ll take time to unravel what’s going on inside his head.’

  ‘What about his wife having a hold over him? He’s never mentioned anything about that before.’

  McCartney grinned. ‘He didn’t seem too keen to expand on that in your presence. I’ll try to get him to open up on that when we’re on our own on Friday.’

  ‘And his mobile phone and his land line mysteriously not working for a while, then working normally again. What’s that all about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘And what about the missing razor? Presumably he’s not imagining that?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s something else I’ll probe into on Friday.’

  ‘He said he had psychiatric treatment around the time of McFarlane’s trial. I wasn’t aware of that. From a Dr Trayner – do you know him?’

  ‘It’s not him – it’s her. And yes, I know her well. We were in the same year at Glasgow University. She has a practice on the south side.’ McCartney stroked his chin reflectively. ‘Tell me about Gibson’s bedroom. Is there any possibility that Anne Gibson could have been murdered as he described and then the killer cleared up the evidence before you got there?’