Free Double Mortice by Bill Daly Page A

don’t need me to tell you how she’s going to react.’
    Michael screwed up his face. ‘I’ll get your coat.’
    Having summoned the lift, they descended in silence to the ground floor. When they went outside there were several cabs waiting in line.
    ‘Thanks for the lift,’ Michael said.
    ‘Good luck.’ Sheila proffered her hand. As Michael clasped her hand firmly, she leaned forward and pulled him towards her to whisper in his ear. ‘For God’s sake, Michael, don’t waste yourself on Philippa Scott.’
    Without waiting for his reaction she broke his grip and ran towards the taxi at the head of the queue. She didn’t look back as it sped off.

NINE
    Anne Gibson was in a foul mood as she hailed a passing cab outside the St Andrew’s Bridge Club. She hated losing and her partner had misplayed a straightforward contract at the last table which had cost them the tournament.
    She alighted in front of Dalgleish Tower, stepping carefully from the taxi in order to avoid a large puddle of slush. As the driver got out to open the boot, she belted her coat tightly to protect herself from the chill wind that was whipping round the corner of the building.
    ‘How much is it?’ she asked.
    ‘Four pound fifty,’ he said, lifting out her suitcase.
    She took a five-pound note from her wallet and handed it across. ‘That’s okay.’
    ‘Thanks. Would you like me to carry your case up the stairs?’
    ‘No thanks, I can manage.’
    ‘Mind how you go. It’s starting to freeze and those steps look gey slippy.’
    As the taxi sped off into the darkness, Anne negotiated the steps in front of the building gingerly and when she got to the internal door she slammed her suitcase down in frustration. She had trouble recalling the access code at the best of times, but after she’d been away for a few days she could never remember it. She wrenched her diary from her handbag and flicked it open at the back page. ‘YK1193,’ she muttered to herself, dropping her diary back into her bag. ‘YK1193,’ she repeated under her breath as she tapped at the control panel.
    When she reached the fifteenth floor she opened the apartment door and saw a shaft of light flooding from the lounge into the hallway. She stopped and listened. The noise of the door being opened had roused Brutus and he emerged from the kitchen, bending his back and stretching out his sinewy rear legs. Looking down the hall, he recognised his mistress and padded briskly towards her, tail erect, miaowing loudly.
    ‘Michael, are you there?’ Anne called out anxiously.
    ‘Yes!’ the familiar voice from the lounge replied.
    Anne gave a relieved sigh as she bent to stroke Brutus who was weaving in and out between her legs and rubbing himself up against her. ‘Have you missed me, my beautiful big boy?’ she whispered, running her fingers through his thick black fur. She took off her coat and draped it on the hallstand. ‘You gave me the fright of my life,’ she called out. ‘You’re never home at this time on a Monday. Is everything all right?’
    There was no response. Leaving her suitcase in the hall, she walked into the lounge and saw Michael slumped on the settee, a tumbler clenched tightly in his fist, a half-empty whisky bottle on the coffee table beside him.
    ‘For goodness sake, Michael! Is it not a bit early in the day for that?’
    ‘Sit down, Anne,’ Michael slurred as he struggled to sit up straight. ‘I need to talk to you.’
    Anne walked slowly across the room and sat bolt upright on the edge of the chair facing him as Brutus sprang onto her knee and curled up on her lap, purring contentedly. ‘Hurry up, then. What is it? I want to take a shower.’ Anne sat impassively, gently scratching at Brutus’ forehead with her long fingernails. When Michael glanced up, Brutus’s yellow eyes seemed to be fixed on him – unblinking, threatening.
    ‘I’ve thought about this very carefully,’ he began in a hoarse whisper. ‘Things aren’t right between