by Bill Daly
Stephen McCartney’s receptionist buzzed through to him. ‘Inspector Anderson called fifteen minutes ago, doctor. He asked to speak to you but I explained you couldn’t be interrupted during a consultation. He said it was extremely urgent. I told him your agenda was full today but he insisted he had to see you. He wanted to know if he could come across at lunch time?’
‘For Charlie Anderson to skip his lunch, it must be important. Tell him to come over at twelve. Oh, and do me a favour, Margaret. Nip round the corner and get me a sandwich.’
‘What kind?’
‘Cheese and tomato, lots of pickle.’
Stephen McCartney was sitting behind his desk, flicking through The Herald and munching his sandwich, when Charlie walked in.
‘Finish your lunch,’ Charlie said, taking the chair opposite. ‘Good of you to see me at such short notice.’
‘What’s the panic?’ McCartney asked through a mouthful of crumbs.
Charlie took three photographs from his inside jacket pocket and dropped them onto the desk. ‘What do you make of these?’
McCartney winced as he studied each photo in turn. ‘You sure know how to spoil someone’s appetite. Anne Gibson, I assume?’ Charlie nodded grimly. ‘Where was the body found?’
‘In the Gleniffer Braes – on the outskirts of Paisley.’
McCartney raised an eyebrow. ‘When?’
‘Early this morning.’
‘Has Michael been told?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘There’s not a shadow of doubt that Gibson saw his wife’s dead body. The description he gave us is too accurate for coincidence to even enter the equation. But whether he saw the body in Dalgleish Tower or in the Gleniffer Braes is an open question. And whether or not he murdered her is also up for grabs.’
‘Was she sexually assaulted?’
‘We won’t know for sure until after the post-mortem, but it seems unlikely.’
‘Statistically, that increases the probability that Gibson killed her,’ McCartney stated. ‘In murder cases, where a female victim is found tied to a bed, or to anything else, there’s often a sexual motive. When a husband murders in a fit of rage or jealousy, sexual assault is much rarer. I’m not saying this means Gibson killed his wife. Only that the probability is increased.’
‘Point taken. But even if you believe Gibson to be capable of doing this, it doesn’t stack up. He said he was in his office on Tuesday up until six-thirty. Assuming that checks out, he phoned me from the caretaker’s flat in Dalgleish Tower just after seven. It wouldn’t have been possible for him to drive to Paisley and back in that time, never mind commit a murder.
‘And if he did kill his wife,’ Charlie continued, ‘why on earth would he implicate himself by giving us such an accurate description of the corpse? And why the cock-and-bull story about Anne committing suicide last Wednesday?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea. The time of death – when was that?’
‘The initial assessment is that she was killed between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago, which is consistent with the murder having taken place on Tuesday evening – when Gibson claimed to have found his wife’s body.’
‘Remind me. When did she first go missing?’
‘Just over a week ago.’
‘So the murderer kidnapped her and held her somewhere for a week before he killed her?’
‘Search me.’ Charlie scratched at his bald head. ‘This is a right bloody mess, Stephen. Where the hell do we go from here?’
‘Have the press got wind of the story yet?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘If you consider Gibson to be a suspect, of course you’ll have to pull him in. But I’m not at all sure how he would react if you were to show him these,’ McCartney said, sliding the photographs back across the desk. ‘They could easily tip him over the edge.’
‘I’ve no intention of doing that.’ Charlie picked up the photos and slipped them back into his pocket. ‘I’m on my way across to the Marriott now to break the news to him.’ Charlie hesitated. ‘I was wondering if there was any chance you might be able to tag along?’
‘It certainly would be better if we were both there. Do you know if he’s in the hotel right now?’
‘I took the precaution of having him watched. I checked just before I came here. He went into the lounge bar at eleven o’clock and he’s still there.’
McCartney buzzed through to his receptionist. ‘When’s my next appointment, Margaret?’
‘One o’clock. A therapy session with Mr McLeod.’
‘Is there anyone else who could see him?’
Margaret perused the diaries. ‘Dr Orr’s available. She’s familiar with Mr McLeod’s case. I could ask her to take the session.’
‘Do that. Something urgent’s cropped up and I have to go out for an hour or so but I’ll be back in time for my two o’clock appointment.’ Police Sergeant Norman Hudd turned off the road into the drive leading to the Jacksons’ cottage. ‘Why do we get all the best jobs, Sharon?’
‘This is the second time this month I’ve had to break the news to parents that their daughter’s been killed,’ Sharon said. ‘It doesn’t get any easier.’
Hudd pulled up outside the cottage and they both got out of the patrol car, their footsteps scrunching on the gravel path as they walked up to the front door. Hudd rang the bell, which clanged noisily. Peter Jackson came to the door.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. I’m Sergeant Hudd and this is Police Constable Hoggard. Could we possibly come in for a minute?’
Jackson looked puzzled. ‘What’s wrong?’
They both took off their caps as they stepped across the threshold. ‘Is Mrs Jackson here, sir? We’d like to speak to her as well.’
‘There is something wrong. It’s about Anne, isn’t it?’ he insisted. ‘It’s something serious.’
‘I’m afraid so, sir. Would you please call your wife?’
‘Jean!’ he shouted. ‘It’s about Anne.’
Jean Jackson appeared in the hall, wiping flour from her hands on her pinafore. ‘What is it, Peter?’ She stopped in her tracks when she saw the two uniformed officers. ‘Oh my God!’ She hurriedly made the sign of the cross. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I think it would be better if you sat down,’ Sharon said, crossing to Jean’s side and taking her by the arm to guide her onto a chair. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news, Mrs Jackson,’ she said quietly.
Hudd took out his notebook. ‘It concerns your daughter, Anne Gibson,’ he intoned gravely. ‘I’m very sorry to have to inform you that… that your daughter is dead.’
Jean Jackson stared blankly at Hudd for a moment, then started screaming hysterically. ‘It’s not true! I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it! No!’
Sharon put her arm around Jean’s shoulder to try to console her. Peter Jackson turned to Hudd. ‘What happened?’ he asked calmly. ‘How did Anne die?’
‘It looks as if she was murdered, sir.’
‘How?’
‘I believe it was knife wounds.’
‘Where was she killed?’
‘Her body was found this morning in some woods near Paisley.’
Peter Jackson stared across at his wife. ‘Jean.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘Jean,’ he repeated forcibly. ‘We’ll have to tell them. They’ll find out soon enough.’
TWENTY
Charlie Anderson and Stephen McCartney went up to the reception desk in the Marriott where Charlie showed his badge discreetly to the receptionist. ‘Police,’ he said quietly. ‘Who’s the duty manager today?’
‘Mr Graham.’
‘Could I have a word with him?’
‘I’ll get him for you.’
Charlie looked across the lobby towards the open-plan, sunken lounge that ran the full length of the hotel. Leaving McCartney at reception, he walked down the steps to where Colin Renton was sitting on the se
ttee, flicking through a newspaper. ‘Is Gibson still here?’ he asked.
Renton nodded as he folded his paper. ‘He came down to the bar just after eleven o’clock. He’s over there, at the table facing the swimming pool.’ Renton indicated where Michael was sitting, reading a paperback. ‘He’s on his third pint of lager if I’m not mistaken.’
‘You can knock off now, Colin,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll take over.’
Charlie returned to reception as Keith Graham was coming across the lobby.
‘How can I help you?’
‘We need to talk to one of your guests and I’m afraid we’ve got bad news to impart to him. I’d like to do it in private rather than in the bar. Is there a room we could use?’
‘Of course. The office at the far end of the lounge,’ he said, pointing. ‘I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.’
Michael scrambled to his feet when he saw Anderson and McCartney approaching. ‘What’s happened?’ he demanded.
‘Come with us,’ Charlie said, leading the way to the office. ‘It’s bad news, Michael,’ he said, closing the office door behind them. He paused. ‘I’m afraid Anne is dead.’
Michael leaned on the window ledge for support. ‘I knew it,’ he said in barely a whisper. ‘I knew she was dead.’ He stared out of the window. ‘Where was her body found?’
‘In woods on the outskirts of Paisley,’ Charlie said.
‘Really?’ He shrivelled his brow. ‘How did she die?’
McCartney moved across Michael’s line of vision. ‘Exactly as you described, Michael,’ he said.
Michael stared right through McCartney. ‘Of course. Of course.’ He turned towards Charlie – his eyes still focused in the middle distance. ‘You think I killed her.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. Charlie didn’t respond. ‘I had a motive. I wanted to leave Anne and she was digging her heels in. An open and shut case, wouldn’t you say? There are a lot of things I have to do.’ His voice was trance-like as he continued to stare unblinkingly. ‘I’ll have to let Paul know, of course. Then I’ll have to tell Anne’s parents. They live near Aberdeen. They’re going to take the news very badly, especially Mrs Jackson.’
Charlie was about to interrupt but McCartney’s hand on his sleeve restrained him. ‘Let him talk,’ he whispered.
‘Then there’s the people at the bridge club. They’re going to have to be told. As well as the amateur dramatic society.’ Michael glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to find the time to fit all this in. And there’s the cat. Who’s going to take care of the cat? I don’t like cats.’ He started towards the door. ‘I really must go. I have to tell Paul straight away.’
Charlie glanced towards McCartney, who nodded. ‘If you like, we could do that, Michael,’ Charlie offered. ‘We’ve already arranged for someone to break the news to Mr and Mrs Jackson – we could tell Paul as well.’
‘Could you? That would be kind.’ Michael paused and blinked. ‘If you gentlemen would excuse me for a minute. I’ve been drinking lager all morning. I’ll burst if I don’t go to the bathroom.’
Charlie and McCartney accompanied Michael to the toilets and waited for him outside.
‘Where do we go from here, Stephen?’ Charlie asked.
‘That depends on what action you’re planning to take. Are you going to arrest him?’
‘I’ll certainly have to take him in for questioning. We’ve got to get to the bottom of where and when he saw his wife’s corpse.’
‘Don’t rush him. Take him in, by all means. In fact, it would be better if he wasn’t left on his own right now. But don’t pressurise him too much, especially during the next twenty-four hours. Whether or not he did it, he’s right on the edge.’ McCartney looked at his watch. ‘Can you handle things on your own from here, Charlie? I really do need to get back to the office.’
‘Sure. Thanks for your help.’
As McCartney was leaving, Michael emerged from the toilets.
‘I’d like you come with me to Pitt Street, Michael.’
‘Of course, Charlie.’ Michael’s voice was still dreamlike. ‘There are lots of things we need to get organised. Would it be okay if I go up to my room to collect my things?’
‘Sure. I’ll come with you.’
They crossed the foyer and Charlie held down the button to summon the lift. ‘What floor is it?’ he asked as the doors opened.
‘Number four.’
They went inside the lift and Charlie pressed the button for floor four. As the doors were closing, Michael stepped out into the foyer.
TWENTY-ONE
Charlie stomped into his office and slammed the door behind him. Stripping off his coat, he threw it onto the desk and collapsed in his chair. He flicked the intercom. ‘Find Tony O’Sullivan, Pauline. I need to see him straight away.’
‘I’m glad you’re back, sir,’ O’Sullivan said as he breezed into the office. ‘There’s been a development.’
‘Fire away.’
‘It’s concerning McFarlane. You recall that he gave us the slip in Paisley on Tuesday?’
‘How could I ever forget?’
O’Sullivan let the heavy-handed sarcasm wash over him. ‘A taxi driver’s come forward. He picked up someone answering McFarlane’s description in Paisley round about five-thirty – which was just after McGinley lost him. And – wait for it – he asked to be taken to Dalgleish Tower.’
Charlie let out a low whistle. ‘Dalgleish Tower? Tuesday evening? The night Anne Gibson was murdered?’
‘There’s more. I checked with the drivers who service the rank outside Dalgleish Tower. One of them recalls picking up someone answering McFarlane’s description outside the building later that same evening, round about eleven o’clock.’
‘To go where?’
‘He was dropped off in the city centre.’
‘Do we know where he is now?’
O’Sullivan shook his head. ‘He hasn’t been seen since. We’re still watching McWilliam’s place but he hasn’t been back there.’
‘I want him found.’
‘We’ve got every man we can spare working on it.’
‘Anything else?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I’ve got a couple of things for you. First, there’s the Gibson boy – Paul. He needs to be told that his mother’s body’s been found. Would you handle that? I realise it’s not the nicest job in the world, but someone has to do it.’
‘I suppose so…’
‘You know where he lives?’
‘Yes. Saltoun Street. I dropped Renton off there last week when he went to talk to Paul about his mother’s disappearance.’
‘I want to break the news to Gibson’s girlfriend personally. What did you say her name was?’
‘Philippa Scott.’
‘Have you got her address?’ O’Sullivan reached into his pocket for his notebook and handed across the slip of paper with Philippa’s address and phone number. ‘What impression did you form of her?’ Charlie asked.
‘Sophisticated, intelligent, sexy – a right cracker, in fact. As Renton said – the longest pair of legs you’re ever likely to see. But there was something about her manner that didn’t quite gel. We got the impression she was holding back on something.’
‘One more thing,’ Charlie said. ‘Gibson told me he left his office at six-thirty on Tuesday evening. Get someone to check out what time he arrived in the office that morning – and also find out if he was out of the building at any time during the day. Also, get the word out,’ Charlie added casually, ‘that we’re looking for Gibson. He did a bunk from the Marriott and I want him picked up as soon as possible.’
O’Sullivan looked quizzical. ‘Did a bunk? How could that have happened?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I thought Renton was supposed to be keeping an eye on him?’
‘Renton didn’t lose him,’ Charlie growled. ‘I bloody-well did. Gibson told me he wanted to go up to his room to get his things. I went into the lift with him, then the bastard ste
pped out just as the doors were closing. By the time I fumbled around to find the button to hold the lift doors open, I was halfway to the first floor.’
‘Unlucky, sir.’ O’Sullivan did his best to suppress a grin. ‘Could have happened to anyone.’
‘I’m warning you, if one word of this gets out around the office I’ll have your stripes.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘Get out of here.’
As O’Sullivan was leaving, Charlie’s intercom buzzed. ‘Two messages for you, sir,’ Pauline said. ‘Sergeant McLaughlin from forensics would like to see you urgently. It’s regarding Anne Gibson’s autopsy. And there was a call from a Sergeant Hudd in Aberdeen. He asked if you would phone him back as soon as possible.’
‘What it is to be popular,’ Charlie sighed. ‘Tell Eddie he can come over now, then try to get Hudd on the phone for me.’
Pauline buzzed back straight away with Hudd on the line.
‘A bit of a strange one for you, sir. It’s about the Gibson case.’
‘Go on.’
‘I drew the short straw this morning. I got the job of breaking the news of Anne Gibson’s murder to her parents, Mr and Mrs Jackson. As you’d expect, they were distraught when they heard the news. However, it transpires that, during the period Anne Gibson was supposedly missing – that’s to say, from Thursday March 10th until Tuesday March 15th – she wasn’t missing at all. According to Mr Jackson, she was hiding out at her parents’ house near Aberdeen.’
‘What?’
‘She told her parents she needed to get away from her husband and she didn’t want him to know where she was.’
‘I don’t understand any of this, Sergeant.’ Charlie stopped to consider. ‘I think I’ll need to talk to the Jacksons.’
‘That would certainly be best, sir. I didn’t know what questions to ask.’