Double Mortice

by Bill Daly

  Archie McWilliam swung Jack McFarlane’s tartan holdall ostentatiously over his shoulder as he loped down Paisley High Street. He was sure he was being followed. Whoever was tracking him would know the holdall belonged to McFarlane and would deduce he was on his way to meet him. That would make it all the more satisfying for him, and frustrating for his tail, when he gave him the slip.

  He checked his watch. Twenty-four minutes past five. Bang on schedule. The High Street was crowded with Saturday afternoon shoppers spilling out onto the pavement. McWilliam maintained a steady pace, weaving his way through the throng, knowing his tail would have no problem keeping up with him – and no problem staying hidden. That was fine. This wasn’t the time or place to make his move. He turned left before Paisley Cross and strode down Moss Street towards Gilmour Street station.

  When he walked into the station, he saw there were two people queuing at each of the three ticket booths. Ideal. He made a pretence of studying the departures board, although he knew the Paisley to Glasgow timetable like the back of his hand. The next train to Glasgow Central was the five thirty-six, leaving from platform 1.

  As the town hall clock started chiming the half-hour, he joined one of the queues, fidgeting at first, then calling out loudly to the woman at the front to hurry up. He glanced towards the station entrance but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. When he reached the ticket window he pressed his face close to the glass. ‘Single to Glasgow Central, pal. As quick as you can.’ He pushed the correct money across, grabbed his ticket and ran up the staircase leading to the platforms.

  Platform 1 was at the top of another flight of steps at the far end of the concrete corridor. His footsteps rang out as he put on a sprint when he heard the train rumbling to a halt above his head. Several people were hurrying to catch this train; breaking into a trot when they heard the engine apply its brakes. Which one of them was tailing him? When he reached the platform, he ran towards the back of the train while most of the other late passengers scrambled towards the nearest compartments. He pulled a carriage door open wide and clambered on board, then closed the door and wrenched down the window, watching while the guard checked everyone was safely on board. The piercing whistle sounded and the train started to trundle forward.

  McWilliam waited until they had gathered some momentum, then he flung open the carriage door and jumped down onto the platform. The guard, leaning out of his window, swore at him and shook an angry fist. McWilliam stood chortling. He gave a flamboyant two-fingered salute to the guard – and to whoever else might be staring back at him in frustration.

  Swinging the holdall over his shoulder, he skipped down the steps and out of the station. He jumped into the taxi at the head of the rank. ‘Govan Cross Subway, Jimmy,’ he announced as he pulled the cab door shut. ‘Put your foot down.’ He smiled contentedly as the taxi sped off.

  McWilliam watched out of the rear window throughout the fifteen minute journey to Govan. Although he saw no sign of being followed, he couldn’t be sure he was in the clear. He was confident he’d shaken off whoever had followed him on to the train, but it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that someone else had been detailed to monitor the taxi rank.

  He got out the cab at Govan Cross and paid his fare. Hurrying to the subway station, he bought a ticket and slipped it through the barrier before trotting down the staircase to the Inner Circle platform. While waiting for a train to arrive, he sat on the bottom step and studied the face of everyone who came down after him. Only half a dozen passengers had appeared by the time the train pulled in. Of these, none looked suspicious and only two were remote possibilities. He boarded the train near the front and stood beside the doors, waiting for the warning beep to sound. As soon as the doors started to close he stepped from the train onto the empty platform. He watched the faces through the windows as the train quickly gathered speed and rushed past him into the tunnel. He thought he detected a look of anger in the eyes of one of the men who’d followed him down to the platform. Perhaps he’d imagined it. No matter, he was confident he was now in the clear. Grinning broadly, he punched the air in triumph as he crossed to the Outer Circle platform. A train arrived almost immediately and he got on board.

  McWilliam alighted at Hillhead. When he emerged from the subway station, darkness had already fallen. He bought a copy of the Evening Times from a street vendor. Crossing Byres Road, he turned up Dowanside Road, cut across Caledon Street to Highburgh Road and from there he walked towards The Rock, the pub where he had his rendezvous with McFarlane.

  He continued past the pub, almost as far as the Clarence Drive traffic lights, then spun on his heel and froze, looking for any tell-tale movement; anyone stopping suddenly, turning away, trying to hide in the shadows. There was nothing suspicious. Checking his watch, he saw he was twenty minutes early.

  He retraced his steps and went into the lounge bar, where he ordered a pint of heavy and a large whisky, carrying his drinks across to an empty booth. He swallowed the whisky in two gulps and shook the dregs into his beer. He unfolded the Evening Times and turned to the sports results, cursing when he saw that St Mirren had lost. He had almost finished his pint when he saw Jack McFarlane enter the lounge. He stood up and waved.

  ‘Same again, Archie,’ Jack shouted across, pointing to the empty glasses on the table in front of him. McWilliam nodded in confirmation, holding up a thumb and forefinger spaced wide apart to indicate he was drinking doubles. McFarlane ordered at the bar and asked a waitress to bring the drinks across. ‘First things first, Archie. How did Thistle get on?’

  ‘I didn’t check their result. But St Mirren lost two-one at home.’

  ‘See’s the paper, then.’ McFarlane flicked to the sports pages. ‘A one-each draw at Motherwell. No’ bad, eh? Is it no’ about time you gave up supportin’ St Mirren and started to follow a decent team?’

  McFarlane dodged the playful punch that came his way, bumping into the waitress in the process and causing one of the pints on her tray to wobble. ‘Sorry about that, dear. My fault entirely. Don’t worry about the pint that got shoogled. It was his.’ McFarlane smiled as he gave the waitress a generous tip.

  ‘Any problem getting here?’

  ‘Not at all. I enjoyed myself. I used the ‘steppin’ aff the train’ routine twice. It was just like the auld days.’

  ‘Thanks for bringin’ that, by the way,’ McFarlane said, eyeing his holdall.

  ‘How’ve you been getting’ on? Did you find somewhere to kip down?’

  ‘I’m stayin’ at Larry Robertson’s place. That’s why I suggested we meet here. He lives just round the corner in one of them flash, detached houses in Turnberry Road. He’s got it done out real nice. As they say, there’s no such thing as a poor bookie.’

  ‘Have you been able to get things sorted out?’

  ‘There was a wee hiccup yesterday, which might delay things for a day or two, but I’m still hopin’ to get everythin’ done in time to head back down to London next week.’

  Michael Gibson thumbed through the notes in his wallet while waiting his turn in the slow-moving queue for the cashpoint. He counted a hundred and eighty pounds. He stuffed his wallet back into his inside jacket pocket and turned up his collar, both to protect his neck from the drizzle and to obscure his features from the people lined up behind him. When he eventually got to the head of the queue, he slipped his card into the slot. It seemed to take an age before a message appeared, requesting him to enter his PIN. Why was the machine responding so slowly? His imagination started running riot. Had the police instigated a check on his card? Had his account been blocked? Was a signal being transmitted at this very moment to the police, identifying where he was?

  Glancing anxiously over his shoulder, he tapped in his number. The machine paused for what seemed like an eternity, before a dimly-lit message appeared on the screen. He bent forward and squinted at the display. ‘PIN invalid’, he read. ‘Do you wish to cancel or retry?’

  He shook his
head to try to clear his befuddled brain. He was sure he’d typed in the correct number. Was this a ruse to keep him here while a squad car was speeding across the city to intercept him? The queue behind was muttering impatiently as the drizzle gave way to a squally shower. Peals of thunder rolled in the far distance and large raindrops came plopping down, bouncing high from the wet pavement. He felt the eyes drilling into the back of his skull as he pressed ‘re-try’. Licking his lips, he carefully re-entered his code. Again it seemed to take an inordinately long time before a message appeared asking how much he wanted to withdraw. He selected three hundred pounds and hopped from one foot to the other while he listened to the slow, mechanical counting of the money. Whipping out his card, he grabbed the notes as soon as they appeared and stumbled off down the street.

  Having stopped off at an off licence to buy a half-bottle of whisky, Michael headed for Sauchiehall Street, shaking the rain from his sodden jacket as he entered the Lorne Hotel. He walked the length of the lounge bar, scanning the faces of all the customers. There was no sign of McGurk. Choosing an empty table at the far end of the bar, he ordered a whisky. He picked up the newspaper he found lying on an adjacent chair and held it up in front of his face, sipping at his drink and continually checking his watch. McGurk was late. Had something gone wrong? He put down the paper and caught the waitress’s eye. ‘Same again, please.’

  She brought his drink across on a tray and set a bowl of peanuts down on the table in front of him. He shovelled a handful into his mouth. Realising this was the first thing he’d eaten all day, he wolfed his way through the bowlful, washing them down with whisky. How long should he give McGurk? He was already half an hour late. Five more minutes, he decided. He couldn’t risk sitting here any longer; someone might recognise him. He picked up the newspaper again and used it to shield his face.

  Every time he heard the lounge door open, he stole a glance over the top of the paper. At last, he saw him. Bernie McGurk was in his late fifties, a small, wiry man with lank, grey hair and an unkempt pepper-and-salt beard. His crumpled, ankle-length black coat had seen better days. His left leg was shorter than his right and his shoe was built up to compensate. Despite that, he walked with a pronounced limp.

  McGurk waved in Michael’s direction as he shuffled the length of the lounge and sat down opposite him. ‘Long time no see, Mr Gibson. Sorry I’m a wee bit late.’ His smile revealed his unlovely, yellow teeth.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Same as yourself, Mr Gibson,’ he replied, nodding towards Michael’s glass. Michael called across the waitress and ordered two more whiskies.

  ‘Did you manage to get it for me?’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘Of course.’ McGurk took a large brown envelope from the voluminous inside pocket of his coat and placed it on the empty chair between them. ‘Have you used one of these before?’ he asked in a low voice.

  Michael shook his head. McGurk checked to make sure the envelope was out of sight of everyone in the bar before easing the pistol out and placing it on the chair.

  ‘It’s straightforward. It’s a basic semi-automatic pistol. Safety catch off,’ he said, easing across the switch. ‘Safely catch on.’ He flicked the switch back. ‘Understood?’ Michael nodded. ‘There are six rounds in the clip in the butt. You said that would be enough?’

  ‘More than enough.’

  ‘Minimum recoil, so just aim and fire,’ McGurk said slipping the pistol back into the envelope.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty, you said?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Michael put the envelope into his jacket pocket and took out a wad of notes which he pushed under the newspaper lying on the table. ‘It’s all there. You can count it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. If I can’t trust a gentleman like you, who can I trust?’ McGurk said, taking the money, which quickly disappeared into his coat pocket. ‘What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about? The thing that was too hush-hush to mention on the phone?’

  Michael remained silent while the waitress placed their drinks on the table in front of them. He waited until she was well out of earshot. ‘I need some information. Jack McFarlane’s in town and I want to know where I can find him.’

  ‘McFarlane?’ Bernie let out a low whistle as he picked up his whisky and swilled it round the glass. ‘He’s bad news. You don’t want to be messing with the likes o’ him.’

  ‘That’s my problem. All I want you to do is find out where he’s hanging out.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ McGurk took a sip from his drink and put the glass down on the table. Taking a packet of cigarette papers from his coat pocket, he unfolded his tobacco pouch and started to roll a cigarette. ‘If word ever got back to McFarlane that I’d been asking questions about him, my life wouldn’t be worth a monkey’s.’ He stuck the unlit cigarette into his mouth and sucked on it hard.

  ‘I’ll pay well. Five hundred. A hundred up front and four hundred when you get me the information.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Here’s a hundred.’ Michael slid another wad of notes under the newspaper. ‘And there’s four hundred more when you let me know where I can find him.’

  McGurk picked up his whisky glass and cradled it in both hands before swallowing the contents. He snatched up the money and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Where can I contact you?’

  ‘You can’t. I’ll get in touch with you. How much time do you need?’

  McGurk shrugged. ‘Not a lot. My contacts either know where he is or they don’t. Phone me at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning and I’ll let you know what I’ve got.’

  ‘Thanks. Stay here and have another drink. We don’t want to be seen leaving together. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ Michael crossed to the bar and paid for another whisky for McGurk before walking out of the door into the cool evening air.

  The rain had eased off as Michael walked back along Sauchiehall Street towards the Kelvingrove Art Gallery. Cutting into the park, he found a quiet bench beside the river. In the gloom he opened the brown envelope and took out the pistol which he balanced it in the palm of his hand. It felt comfortable. He checked to make sure the safety catch was on, then tucked it carefully into his right-hand jacket pocket.

  Picking up some loose pebbles, he started lobbing them in the general direction of the river Kelvin. He couldn’t see them land, only the splash told him when they hit the water. He drank from the whisky bottle until he felt drowsy. Tugging off his jacket to use as a blanket, he stretched out on the park bench and soon passed out in a drunken stupor.

  Michael slept fitfully, confused images churning in his brain. He was in the master bedroom of his house in Bearsden – he recognised the chintzy decor. Carole was tied to the bed, spread-eagled – naked apart from a red silk scarf blindfolding her eyes and a black velvet choker round her throat. He was lying beside her, also naked, caressing her breasts as she moaned softly in anticipation.

  Suddenly the blindfold slipped from her eyes. But the eyes weren’t Carole’s – they were Anne’s. Cold, blue eyes – glazed and staring unblinkingly at him – dead eyes. The furniture and the wallpaper began to swim out of focus and the room transformed itself into the stark black-and-white decor of his bedroom in Dalgleish Tower. The choker round her neck began to unwind all by itself and blood started weeping from an open wound in her throat. A bloodstained, ivory-handled, cut-throat razor appeared from nowhere on the pillow beside her head.

  Michael tried to re-tie the choker to stem the flow, but the blood kept seeping through his fingers; at first, a trickle, then it oozed and bubbled, splashing onto his bare arms and chest. He tried to roll away from the crimson flow but it followed him, gushing from her throat and pouring towards him in a deluge.

  He scrambled from the bed and ran towards the bedroom door. It was locked. He couldn’t wrench
it open. Blood was everywhere now, filling the room; ankle-deep and rising inexorably. The body on the bed started to twitch and jerk violently, arms and legs flailing frenziedly against their restraining bonds. He stood by the bedroom door, petrified, tugging with all his might at the unyielding handle.

  Suddenly the head detached itself from the writhing corpse and floated up towards the ceiling, torrents of blood spurting in all directions from the severed neck. The head started moving rapidly across the room towards him. Two shafts of blue light sprang from the dead eye-sockets and locked onto him while the features twisted into those of McFarlane. The jagged purple scar appeared, engorged with blood, pulsing like a living organ on the side of his face, growing larger all the time, coming closer and closer, pounding louder and louder…

  A strangulated cry died in Michael’s throat. Throwing his arms in the air, he rolled over and crashed head first from the park bench onto the gravel path, splitting his forehead on a jagged stone. He lay there, stunned and disoriented, a rhythmic, pounding crescendo hammering at his eardrums. He struggled groggily to his feet. He saw the half-empty whisky bottle lying on the ground and instinctively grabbed it by the neck to use it as a weapon. The footsteps receded. The two joggers disappeared into the distance, totally unaware of his presence.

  Michael’s forehead was stinging, his mouth parched. Blood from his head wound was trickling into his eye. He limped down to the river’s edge and cupped the icy water in both hands, splashing it onto his face and into his mouth.

  He scrambled back up the bank, pulled on his jacket and sat down on the bench. Suddenly remembering the pistol, he tugged it from his pocket to check it wasn’t damaged. Fortunately, he hadn’t fallen on the gun. He unscrewed the top of the whisky bottle and his hands were shaking as he lifted it to his mouth, whisky spilling round his swollen lips as he gulped to swallow. He put the bottle down on the bench and pressed the palm of his hand hard against his forehead to try to stem the flow of blood. He felt nauseous. Reality and nightmare were merging. What was happening to him? Was he going mad? He stared fixedly at his upturned, bloody palm. Was this the hand that had slit Anne’s throat?