Gallowglass (25 page)

FIFTY-TWO

I
washed as best I could in a sink in the small kitchen of the synagogue. I took some painful pleasure in removing the moustache with the borrowed blade. Better. The time for disguise was well and truly over. I was about to depart when Rabbi Leveson came in.

‘Ah, Brodie, you are leaving us?’

‘I must, Rabbi. Besides, I don’t want you to be in trouble with the police.’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘It is nothing new for us. But I came to bring you these.’

He held out a slim package wrapped in brown paper. I took it and pulled out two car licence plates.

‘It was left with us late last night by a man called Harry. He sent his regards and said he’d be in Glasgow for a few days. He’s staying at the Central. I assume it all makes sense?’

I grinned. ‘It does. Great sense. Do you have a screwdriver, Rabbi?’

As I swapped the plates on the car I thought I could recall seeing the new ones on the second Morris Ten parked outside the bank yesterday. Good man, Harry. It was barely gone six. Too early for my next steps. I was easily persuaded to share fried eggs and toast with the rabbi.

As I wolfed down the last eggy morsel, I pushed across the bundle of papers liberated from Roddie Adams’ office.

‘Rabbi, this is evidence that will go a very long way to proving my innocence. Can you please call Advocate Samantha Campbell and ask her to pick them up from you? She’ll know what to do with them.’

‘I know Miss Campbell well. She has been a friend to us. It will be my pleasure.

I set out in my car with its innocuous number plates at eight o’clock. I drove down through the city and across the Clyde out on to the Kilmarnock Road.

I opened up across the open moors, enjoying the feel of the Harry’s car. It was more solid than Sam’s Riley and not as fast but I was in no hurry and it gave a smoother ride. All the time I kept an eye in my mirror waiting to see a chasing police car or motorbike. The plates would help but maybe they would be checking all Morris Tens.

I toured round and through Ayr and emerged on the Dalmellington Road. Quickly, I found myself coming up on the grey mass of Ailsa Asylum. I turned in, drove up the long drive and parked on the gravel in front of the big house. It was time I had a word with Mungo Gibson. Eyeball to eyeball. There were too many unexplained threads linked to him. The bank account in his name at Maybole used as a vehicle to transfer cash to a bingo hall. The puzzling switch of asylum to Ailsa away from his usual care home in Glasgow. And the timing of his latest confinement, immediately after his brother’s murder.

I gave a last brush-down of my mangled suit, fingered my naked chin and lip and straightened my tie. I pushed through the doors into the reception. Unless Sangster had passed a warning throughout Scotland, my police warrant card should still work for me, even minus the beard and the specs. I’d soon see.

I waited twenty minutes, trying not to keep glancing at the door or my watch, fearful of the clanging bell of a police car
crunching up the drive. Finally a doctor appeared. A man, in his fifties I’d say, in a smart three-piece suit with a gold fob watch strung across his waistcoat. His moustache and hair were a matching shade of salt and pepper. His gold-rimmed glasses glinted in the light-filled reception hall. Under his arm he carried a slim folder.

‘Chief Inspector Bruce? Dr Arnold Prentiss. I’m head psychiatrist here. Sorry to keep you. I was with a patient.’

‘I’m sorry to bother you like this, Doctor. I’m grateful for your time.’

We shook hands and he asked me to follow him to his office down a corridor. It was exactly how I imagined Siggie Freud’s den: books covering two walls, and dark wood panelling the others. The smell of pipe tobacco and maleness. Neat piles of papers and files on every surface. Wooden and ivory figures and bowls neatly arrayed on shelves and his desk, presumably marking his travels and his interests. No doubt spelling out the character of the man, if only I had the language. I was relieved at the absence of skulls. Too blatant a statement about his line of work.

Prentiss took his seat behind his desk and I sat in front of him. I wanted him to be Dr Andrew Baird. My few sessions with Baird in Sam’s library seemed a lifetime ago. I wanted Prentiss to pick up the baton and say,
Now what seems to be the problem, Douglas?
And for me to pour out my soul. And for him to nod and suck his pipe and pose perceptive questions that would get to the bottom of my fractured existence and make everything all right. I needed either psychiatry or a bottle of Scotch.

He placed the folder between us and pointed at the file cover. It read ‘Mungo Gibson’ and had the date on it – the start date of Mungo’s latest commitment. Prentiss sat back in his big leather chair, filled his pipe and lit up. I retaliated with my puny cigarette.

‘You wanted to speak with Mr Gibson, Chief Inspector? Might I ask why?’

‘We are hoping he might be able to help us in our investigation into the death of his brother, Fraser.’

‘Hmmm. That’s very difficult. Our fear is that his brother’s murder is at the very heart of Mungo’s problem. The last thing we want is to dig over that ground and drive him further into confusion.’

‘I can see that. Tell me, Doctor, who committed Mungo to your care on this date?’ I pointed at the file.

‘His sister-in-law, Lady Gibson. She and her late husband had joint powers of attorney. A very caring woman, I might add. She was at great pains to make sure he was given a good room, and pays for little luxuries such as biscuits and sweets. It helps the patient to know he’s loved.’

‘I’m sure it does. The one thing that puzzles me is that hitherto, Mungo Gibson has been cared for in an asylum in Glasgow. Do you know why Lady Gibson brought him here? I would have thought he would have been better off in a care home where his case is known.’

‘Lady Gibson explained that it was precisely because they were so familiar with his case that she wanted to try a different approach. Something fresh. Especially as Mungo had been so strongly affected by his brother’s death.’

‘I can see that. Tell me, Doctor, while I don’t want to breach patient-doctor confidences, may I ask exactly how Mungo’s problems manifest themselves? Apart from alcoholism of course.’

Prentiss inclined his head. ‘It is important for us to draw a line, Chief Inspector. But perhaps I need to explain things a little so that you might better understand why it would be traumatic for you to visit him and talk about his brother.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ I waited while he sucked at his pipe for the right words.

‘The grief of the knowledge that someone close to you has died is sometimes so great that the mind refuses to accept it. The mind insists that the person lives on. In very rare cases,
such is the strength of conviction that the mind takes on the personality of the deceased so as to gather up and protect the dead person within the griever’s own mind.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’ In fact I was sure I didn’t.

Prentiss leaned across the desk and pointed his pipe at me.

‘Let me put it simply: Mungo thinks he
is
his brother Fraser.’

FIFTY-THREE

I
sat back, relieved in a way, but my head buzzing with annoyance that it had taken me so long.

‘Poor man. Does he make an issue of it? I mean is he always Fraser or does it come and go? Is it like schizophrenia?’

‘You ask a good question, Chief Inspector. But schizophrenia is a very difficult term. There are many forms of it. In one sense, this could certainly be classed as a type of split personality. But with Mungo, he does not switch between minds. He is always Fraser.’

‘Do you tell him he isn’t?’

He shook his head. ‘That would be a mistake. It might make him more entrenched in his new identity. We humour him while at the same time trying to get him talking about his life as Mungo. I’m afraid, however, that that doesn’t satisfy him. He seems to have taken on some of the attributes of his brother.’

‘Which?’

‘From what I’ve read in the press, and from talking with Lady Gibson, Sir Fraser seems to have been a very arrogant man. A tendency to expect to get his own way. A tendency to bully and shout.’

‘And Mungo is now acting like this?’

‘And getting somewhat violent. We are administering electroconvulsive therapy – ECT. With the permission of Lady Gibson, of course. There. I’ve said enough.’

‘Could I at least see him?’

Prentiss was quiet for moment. Then he rose.

‘Come.’

We walked through the dark halls and into a long corridor, like a hotel’s, but each door had a little grill panel, making the effect more like a prison cell. I shuddered inside. We stopped halfway along and Prentiss stood poised to slide the panel.

‘I should warn you, Chief Inspector, this is not a pleasant sight.’

I nodded and Prentiss drew back the flap. I stepped closer. The room held a bed, a small table and a deep armchair. A man sat in the chair. He was wearing a straitjacket. He seemed to be drowsing. The click of the panel woke him. He straightened up and looked around. His eyes were red and mad. He saw us and before we could close the panel he was on his feet and shouting at us. At me.

‘Help! Help! I need help. Whoever you are, get the police. I’ll tell them everything.’

Prentiss moved to shut the panel. I jammed my hand against it. He stopped, curious to see what might happen, I suppose. I moved closer. So did the man inside. Our faces were about two feet apart. I was staring into the face of the dead man in Marr Street. But I was staring into
blue
eyes, not grey.
Blue
, like the oil painting in the chief’s office of Scottish Linen. The black and white photos taken by their old neighbour in Maybole showed two young men who could only be brothers. But they’d just showed
pale
eyes. As had the newspapers.

‘Please. You must believe me. I’m Fraser Gibson.’ He looked mad, but angry-mad, not demented.

‘Then what are you doing here,
Fraser
?’

His jaw clenched and I thought he was going to have a fit.

‘
She
did it! That bitch did it!’

‘She?’

‘My wife! Sheila. She got me committed. They’ll never let me out. They’re giving me shocks. Frying my brain! I’ll die here. No one will believe me.’

‘Perhaps if you told me your story I could find someone who’d believe. Let’s start with the most obvious question: if you’re Fraser, where’s Mungo?’

His face went into new contortions. ‘Dead. He’s dead.’ Tears started running. ‘My wee brother. He’s dead.’

‘Did he die in your place, Fraser?’

‘The pair wee bugger. He wis oot o’ it these past years, so he wis.’

‘Did you put him
oot o’ it
, Fraser?’

‘Naw, naw it wisnae me.’

‘You mean you didn’t pull the trigger. But you arranged it, didn’t you?’

His face was a blubbery mass of tears. He just nodded and kept nodding. This was the second man who’d snivelled on me in twenty-four hours. What was wrong with this country?

‘Will you testify in court?’

‘Aye, Ah will. Ah don’t care if they string me up. Anything’s better than this hell!’

‘Not quite Gulf Stream, is it?’

He stared at me, shocked. ‘How did you ken that? Who are you, pal? Can you really get me oot?’

‘How remiss of me. My name is Brodie. Douglas Brodie. You framed me for the murder of your brother.’

His mouth flapped. I wondered if he was beginning to think he
had
lost his mind. Banquo’s ghost come to haunt him.

‘But you’re—’

I slammed the flap shut on his face and turned to Arnold Prentiss. The good doctor’s mouth was open. He looked like he’d been hit by a mallet. His theory of transposition of minds looked decidedly flawed. I was supportive.

‘It’s clear the man is mad as a hatter. Lady Gibson identified the body of her husband personally. Your diagnosis is
absolutely right, Dr Prentiss. Delusional. I doubt if he’ll ever get better.’

Prentiss looked relieved and nodded, sagely.

‘What was all that about, Chief Inspector? Saying you were someone else. And the murder?’

‘Trick questions, Doctor. To check who he is and what he knew. I discussed it beforehand with his former physician. It confirms your diagnosis. And your ECT treatment.’

‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. One has doubts at times, but that’s most helpful. Most helpful.’

‘I’ll see myself out, Doctor. Thank you for your time.’

I walked smartly through the corridors and into the reception area. There was a phone booth to one side. I phoned Turnbull Street, not caring who might recognise my voice. I was put through.

‘Duncan, has Sam been in touch?’

‘Aye, she has. Says she’s got some interesting material from Roddie Adams. Which was generous of him. He must have handed it over before he went to the hospital.’

‘Did he call the police?’

‘No. But the hospital did. He’s one of three beaten up and saying nothing.’

‘The papers speak for themselves. And I’ve got more proof. Can you meet me at Gibson’s house at Whitecraigs in half an hour?’

‘What have you found?’

‘It’s not what, it’s
who
. There seems to be an epidemic of resurrections. I’ve found Sir Fraser Gibson, very much alive. The man in Ailsa isn’t the man I saw in Marr Street, just before he was shot. They killed Mungo.’

‘God, Brodie! I’d better have an ambulance standing by when we tell Sangster. His heid’s going to boil.’

‘Don’t tell him yet. Not till you and I have had a word with Lady Gibson.’

‘Fair enough. See you shortly.’

FIFTY-FOUR

I
drove back to Glasgow in a mounting rage. Rage at my idiocy. It wasn’t until I’d seen the oil painting that my slow brain had joined the dots. But I should have made the connection earlier. Airchie’s search of the ledgers had showed that Fraser’s mistress, Pamela, had emptied my account
after
the kidnap and murder. The transactions had been authorised by Clarkson who seemed – and claimed – to be Fraser’s puppet. Ergo: Fraser set the whole thing up. Set
me
up.

But I raged too about Fraser himself. How could a man arrange to have his own brother murdered? I wouldn’t do it to a friend, far less kith or kin. It made me think about my old pal Hugh Donovan and how he’d been stitched up by the police, accused of murdering his own son. It was over a year ago now, but there wasn’t a day I didn’t think about him dying on the gallows an innocent man. That’s what these bastards would happily have ensured happened to me! That train of thought led to others. Things started slotting into place. But suddenly I was coming up to the Whitecraigs turn-off. Funny how time passes when you’re seething.

I tried to think how I’d approach the pitiless Sheila. If Fraser’s soul was stained by his brother’s blood, hers must be poisoned by revenge to have her husband committed, never to come out. Or was it love for Clarkson? A betrayed woman easing past her prime, but still attractive, taking up with someone who worshipped her? Clarkson was no Cary Grant
but I never underestimate the allure of
being
loved. Or having money. All that lovely insurance money to share between them. How would she be taking Clarkson’s suicide?

I drove into the leafy suburbs and stopped in a side street just along from her house. There was no car in the drive. Was she out? Or just Cammie? What was the best way to confront her? Should I wait for Duncan to join me?

I smiled at myself. I knew only one way. Duncan would be here soon. I walked up the long drive and stood in the grand porch. I pressed the bell and listened to it echoing away through the hall. A short while later I heard footsteps. The door opened and Janice, the maid, stood there. She seemed a little dazed. She didn’t recognise me. She smiled, but it was a put-on smile. What did she know?

‘Good morning, sir. How can I help?’

‘I’d like to speak to Lady Gibson, please.’ I held up the much abused warrant card. ‘I’m Chief Inspector David Bruce.’

Her eyes boggled. ‘Oh, right, sir. Please come in. If you’d like to wait in the library, I’ll see if Madam is available.’

I followed her along the familiar hall, my feet clicking on the parquet floor. I winked at Lady Gibson’s portrait glowing on the far wall. Janice showed me into the room where I’d listened to the kidnappers making their demands on Sheila Gibson by phone. It seemed like a dream now. Death and resurrection. I looked round the room and saw the sideboard covered with photos. I walked over.

Most were of her and him, or her alone. But obscured by a lamp was a colour photo of two youngish men, maybe early thirties. I lifted it out and peered at it. Their features were very similar. There was no doubt they were brothers. There was also no doubt which was which. Grey eyes and blue eyes. I’d found the grey-eyed Mungo lying dead in a flat in Marr Street. I’d just left his older brother in Ailsa Asylum. The double pair of footsteps came towards me: the maid’s and someone wearing heels.

I didn’t turn, kept my eyes on the mirror. Watched the maid open the door and let her mistress enter. Sheila Gibson looked smart in a pretty blue linen dress, belted at the waist. Her dark mane was newly brushed and shining. Layers of make-up took years off her. Echoing her picture in the hall. Maybe there was a really bad one in the attic.

She sailed towards me with her face set in a pose that tried to suggest,
How interesting, I wonder what this policeman can possibly want from me, for I am innocent of all things
. But as she got closer I saw the strain round her eyes, as though she was only just holding it together.

‘Chief Inspector? Good day to you. How can I help?’

I turned round, waving the photo at her.

‘You can stop lying, for one thing. Don’t you remember me, Sheila?’

Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open. She stopped dead in her tracks and her outstretched hand slowly dropped to her side. She turned to her maid.

‘That’ll be all.’

Janice’s mouth gaped open too. Maybe it was seeing me in the lounge that jolted her memory. When the maid had left us and closed the door, Sheila’s nerve finally broke and she swayed. I didn’t rush to catch her.

‘That’s right, Sheila. Douglas Brodie. Back to haunt you. Shall we sit?’

Her eyes were wild, like a startled horse. She gulped and put her hands to her face. Then, with sheer willpower, she pulled her hands down. She smoothed her skirt round her hips and walked over to the couch. She sank into it and dug out a cigarette from the box on the low table. I stood. She took several goes at getting her lighter to work. Her hands were shaking.

‘I heard… The wireless… How did you…?’

‘Come back from the dead? Well, obviously, I didn’t actually die. Some friends helped me.’

‘They said you’d escaped. That Colin Clarkson is dead.’

‘Yes, I did. And yes, your friend Clarkson is dead.’ She didn’t seem too distraught about Clarkson. Interesting. ‘We confronted him yesterday morning. He confessed. Then his conscience got the better of him. How’s yours, Sheila? I’ve just been to see Fraser.’

She stilled. ‘What?’

‘Very smart he looks too in his straitjacket. He knows you’ve betrayed him. It’s become second nature to you, hasn’t it?’

She took a deep breath and got up. She walked to the drinks tray and filled a glass. She didn’t offer me one. Ghosts don’t drink.

‘You don’t understand.’ She waved her hand with the cigarette as though it was –
I was
– inconsequential.

‘Try me.’

‘Fraser was in trouble. Big trouble. Horrible debts. It couldn’t go on. Everything was out of control. We couldn’t just let it all go to pot. Everything we’d worked for.’

‘He had enough money. The bank’s money. Why didn’t you just run off into the sunset?’

She squeezed her eyes tight shut, a little girl playing hide and seek. Then she opened them and found I was still here.

‘Blackmail. He was being blackmailed by all the
whores
he slept with! And by that little
shit
, Frankie Elliot. Another one of his whores came out of the woodwork last week. It was never going to end.’

I smiled inwardly; Sam would be amused.

‘What was wrong with America, or Canada? Somewhere that small-town thugs like Frankie wouldn’t follow?’

She smiled, a lopsided smile, and emptied her glass. She splashed in some more.

‘Cos wee Colin said he’d had enough. Clarkson was always snivelling. He’d have blabbed and they would have found out about the money Fraser was stealing. They’d come after us. We’d always be looking over our shoulder.’

‘So Mungo was your fall guy. You arranged
his
kidnap and murder. Then you and Fraser were going to slip away. The Caribbean. To your little plantation in the sun. Gulf Stream.’

‘How did you know that?’ She wavered, then got a grip. She was getting her confidence back with every mouthful. She gulped some more. ‘It wasn’t like that. Mungo was dying. His liver was shot. Terrible stuff, booze. Cheers!’ She raised her glass at me. ‘He had months – weeks to live. It was no life, anyway. Stuck in an asylum. The poor man was demented.’

‘Oh, I see. It was a mercy, really? I saw Mungo’s face. His dead face. He died in terror.’

She didn’t hear my last words. ‘Sort of. If you like. It was hopeless. And this way…’

‘Fraser – pretending to be Mungo – could lie low in Ailsa till the dust had settled; then you and he would disappear. No one in the world would care what happened to Mungo once he got out. Certainly not his brother or sister-in-law!’

‘Was a good plan,’ she slurred. ‘Till I found out the bastard wasn’t taking me!’

‘Who told you?’

‘Someone. Our lawyer confirmed it.’

I nodded. ‘Roddie playing both sides, I suppose, until he was sure who’d win. Did you promise a bigger tip than Pamela?’

‘That was never going to happen!’ Even now, Sheila couldn’t resist a sneer. Nor could I.

‘You can’t blame Fraser. Pamela’s very pretty. And so young.’

‘Bastard!’

I ducked as she heaved the glass at me. It shattered against the wall.

‘But wasn’t it a bit stupid of Fraser? Once you’d found out he’d gone off with Pam and not you, wouldn’t you just have told the police?’

She stood, reeling, laid bare. ‘Told them what? That we’d swapped Mungo for Fraser? Anything I said would incrim…
would get me jailed. Besides…’ A look of cunning came over her face.

‘Besides – you had a better plan. A better offer. You keep the insurance money, Gulf Stream passes to you once the probate is through, and Fraser gets locked up for life?’

Her lips pursed. She filled a fresh crystal glass. Gulped at it.

‘Serves him bloody well right.’

‘With a little electroshock therapy to complete the punishment?’

‘For his whoring!’ she snarled.

‘What a shame you and Fraser have split up. You were made for each other. But you’ve got something better lined up. If it’s not Clarkson, can I guess?’

‘I can answer that, pal.’

The door had opened silently on its top-quality hinges. Framed at the entrance was Cammie Millar. Holding a gun. Pointed at me.