Skinner's Mission bs-6
Page 15
‘What did Heenan do?’ asked Donaldson.
‘Nothing. He just said “Within a week”, and left. The loan came through from the bank on Wednesday, and Carl handed the money into his office in Peffermill Road on Thursday morning. In cash.’
The Superintendent looked at her. ‘And you thought that was case closed, did you?’
He turned to McIlhenney. ‘I guess, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘we should pay a visit to our old friend Mr Thomas Maxwell Heenan.’
‘You know him? said Angela Muirhead.
‘Oh yes,’ said Donaldson. ‘We know all the loansharks. We even know where most of them get their money. From the same guy that gave you and Carl your Christmas bonuses.’
35
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I was sure you said nine thirty.’
‘It’s all right, Sammy,’ said Maggie Rose. ‘I did. I’ve only been here myself for ten minutes. I’m still waiting for the system to boot up.’
‘Is Inspector McGuire not coming then?’
She smiled. ‘No. He’s done his bit for the day.’ The changing patterns on the monitor screen settled down and the retrieval menu for the information system came into view. ‘Watch this,’ she said, using the mouse to pull down the Find File command.
She frowned slightly as she keyed in the name, ‘Evan Mulgrew’, and clicked the ‘OK’ box to start the search.
A running man figure appeared on the screen. He ran and ran, for almost thirty seconds, and her heart began to sink. ‘I doubt Mario’s man can’t have gone to jail after . . .’ She stopped in mid-sentence as a file opened on screen. It was headed, ‘Evan Mulgrew’, and under the name there were two photographs, the traditional full-face and profile.
The Vulture stared out at the two detectives from the screen. By any standards, he was an ugly man, with small dark eyes and a bushy moustache which seemed to add emphasis to his leering expression. A long scar ran diagonally across most of his wide forehead, from the hairline down to his left eyebrow.
Rose clicked on to the next section of the file. She read quickly. ‘He’s three years into a twelve-year sentence, imposed in the High Court in Edinburgh for attempted rape. Pleaded guilty.
‘Served six months for serious assault, eight years ago, previous convictions for assault, demanding money with menaces, and breach of the peace.
‘Age thirty-nine, religion Roman Catholic, but divorced twelve years ago, therefore non-practising. Next of kin listed as a son, John Paton Mulgrew, age nineteen.
‘Height five feet ten inches. Weight fourteen stone twelve pounds. Colour of eyes, brown. Colour of hair, red. Distinguishing marks; scar across forehead, large tattoo on right shoulder.’
She turned and smiled up at Pye. ‘Got him! Your theory paid off, and Mario was right too. He’ll be chuffed to bits when I tell him.’
Her grin grew even wider. ‘There’s one thing he won’t like, though.’
‘What’s that, ma’am?’
‘The Vulture’s in Peterhead. Bang goes Mario’s French Toast! Come on, Sammy, let’s head up there.’
She switched off the terminal and headed for the door, a puzzled Detective Constable trailing at her heels.
36
Sergeant Masters was waiting in the Command Suite when Skinner arrived at headquarters at 11.35 a.m. He looked up, slightly startled when he saw her there.
It was the first time he had ever seen her in civilian clothes. She was wearing light blue jeans, which seemed to emphasise the curve of her hips, and a fresh, white cotton shirt. Her lustrous brown hair fell against its high collar, and her big eyes seemed to sparkle.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, with, still, a little uncertainty in her tone.
‘Sorry I’m late, Pamela,’ said Skinner, approaching. ‘My son was at his most playful this morning. He’s cutting some more teeth just now, and kept his mother up all night in the process. When I got there the Bonjela had done its work. He was as bright as a button, but Sarah was sound asleep.’
He stopped beside her in the corridor, outside his office door. ‘Let me explain the layout to you. I’m in here, as you know, and ACC Elder’s office, at the top of the stairs, backs on to mine.’ He nodded to his left. ‘Mr Whitlow, our civilian Head of Finance and Administration, is in there, then there’s the Chief’s secretary’s room, leading into Sir James’ suite.’ He strode on up the corridor, beckoning to her to follow, and nodding to his right. ‘Ruthie’s in there, and beyond is your room.’ He opened the door and stood aside, allowing her to enter a square, bright office, around half the size of his own, furnished with a beech desk, side table, a swivel chair, and two occasional seats. The outlook from the room was the same as that of the DCC, and Maggie Rose had positioned the desk deliberately so that she could always see the Chief Officer’s car park.
‘We’ll settle you in here on Monday, but for now, come along to mine.’ He led the way back and into his office, only to disappear immediately with the jug of the coffee filter.
‘This place runs on coffee and adrenalin,’ he said, as he returned, measuring out three flat measures of grounds, and setting the machine in motion. ‘Oh,’ he added, ‘and paper; lots of paper.’
He ushered her, not to the desk, but to the low-slung leather chairs, set around the coffee table. As she sat down, as neatly and carefully as she had during their first meeting, he caught the scent of her perfume, not overpowering but apparent. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her; a long, slow, easy smile.
‘Since I’ve been in this office,’ he began, ‘yours has been occupied by Brian Mackie and Maggie Rose. Both of them are DCIs now. Before them there was Andy Martin. They and a few others are all part of what I like to think of as my team, the people upon whom, when things are at their toughest, I can rely on above all the rest to get the job done. When the really serious stuff happens, you’ll find them involved. Welcome to the team.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, flushing slightly as she returned his smile.
‘Your job is to act as a barrier between me and the outside world,’ he went on. ‘As a rule, all the submissions, reports, correspondence and the rest which come to me, will be filtered by Ruth through you.
‘Where necessary, I want you to write summaries of their contents. Where particular sections seem important, I want you to draw them to my attention. Where decisions are called for, then in time, once you’ve settled in, I’ll welcome recommendations from you.
‘As well as all that - and it’s an onerous job, believe me - you’ll find me using you as a sounding board. I’ll let you into my thinking on some policy matters, to see if you agree with me. Sometimes I’ll ask for your advice. In fact, I’ll begin right now.
‘We have to sell the concept of public participation in the crime prevention effort. I want you to look at our marketing in that area, tell me in general how well you think we’re doing it, and give me a report on ways in which it could be improved.’
‘How quickly, sir?’ she asked.
‘I don’t want to overburden you in your first few days, so let’s say six weeks from now. Oh, and be sure that your recommendations are costed.’
‘What about funding from external sources, sir? Is that permissible?’
He smiled, again. ‘It is now, if you think we can attract any.’
He paused. ‘Going back to your role as a barrier, there are two exceptions, two areas in which Ruth will ensure that papers come straight to me. The first is material from the Chief. Anything coming up the ladder goes through you. Anything coming down the same way hits the top of my in-tray at once.’ He paused, glancing across to check the state of the coffee filter.
‘The other exception relates to my part-time job. In addition to what I do here, I am also security adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland. Most of the time that doesn’t involve much, but if there is a major incident or, say, a terrorist alert, it can mean a hell of a lot. In that role I am effectively part of an organisation known popularly as MI5.
She nodded vigorously, her eyes wider than ever.
‘Good,’ he said. His eyes dropped to the table. ‘There’s one more thing I should tell you, since we’ll be working so closely. Although you may have figured it out for yourself, given what I told you about calling in to see my son.
‘Sarah, my wife, and I are living apart at the moment. We’re not at daggers drawn, but . . .’ he hesitated, ‘. . . things are not good. So until further notice, my off-duty contact number is the Gullane one on the list which you’ll find in your office, not Edinburgh.’
She nodded, frowning. ‘I understand, sir. I . . . I hope everything works out.’
‘It will, Pamela. One way or another, it will.’
His attention seemed to wander for a few seconds, until he snapped himself back to the present. He jumped to his feet and poured two mugs of coffee from the steaming filter. ‘No sugar, right?’
Returning, he placed the mugs on two coasters on the table. ‘Let’s get to the reason I asked you to come in today. Hold on to your seat while I explain it to you.’ She looked at him, eyes widening again.
‘Eighteen years ago, my first wife, Myra, was killed while she was driving my car. I won’t tell you how, because it’s too complicated a story, but recently, I’ve been faced with the possibility . . .’ he stopped and shook his head, ‘No, it’s stronger than that. I’ve come to believe that she was murdered by someone who sabotaged my car, thinking that I would be driving.
‘At the time, Myra’s death was declared accidental. I’ve read the report to the Fiscal, and there’s nothing there to help us. So what I have to do now is to go back through all the investigations which were running at the time, checking those in which I was involved, to see who it was that I upset so badly that he wanted me out of the way.
‘When Myra died, I was a Detective Sergeant in the Serious Crimes Squad at Headquarters. I want you to help me check their files.
‘As well as that, we’ll need to check the photographic unit. The attending officers took pictures of the car at the scene. The prints will have been destroyed, by now, for sure, and the Mini went into the crusher eighteen years ago, but with a fair wind, we might trace negatives.
‘Let’s get down to the Records Office, and see what secrets we can uncover.’
37
‘Aw come on, Tommy,’ said Neil McIlhenney, ‘don’t play the poor innocent with us.
‘It might say “Heenan Newsagent” over the door of this rat-hole, but we know the business you run out of this upstairs office. You are a loanshark, a tallyman, like they say in Glasgow, an illegal money-lender like they say in court.
‘You are the sort of bastard that infests places like Craigmillar and Peffermill, where the poor people live, lending them money when no-one else will, then breaking their arms and legs if they can’t meet your wicked interest payments, or if they won’t give you their Giros and their Child Benefit, or steal, or prostitute their wives to pay you off.
‘You know, if I wasn’t a conscientious public servant, I’d wipe my arse with the likes of you, Pierre Cardin blazer and all.’ He paused, eyeing the man fiercely.
‘What was the rate of interest you were screwing out of Carl Medina? Twenty per cent a week, was it, at the end-up.’
Thomas Maxwell Heenan looked back at him, blandly. ‘Who’s Carl Medina?’ he asked.
‘Jesus, and this is a paper-shop too,’ said McIlhenney, sadly. ‘Aged about thirty, five years or so younger than you. Lived in Slateford with his girlfriend. Borrowed a grand off you about six months ago. Last Saturday, you paid a call on him and told him you wanted the grand plus eight hundred interest within a week. You didn’t say “Or else”, but then you wouldn’t, would you. You’d take it as understood.’
Heenan, tall, fair and well-groomed, smiled suavely. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘What we’re talking about,’ said Superintendent Donaldson, ‘is the murder of Carl Medina in his home yesterday. The day after he repaid your thousand pound loan, and told you that you could whistle for the interest.
‘Where were you yesterday morning?’ he asked, suddenly.
Maxwell’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. ‘I was here,’ he said at last. ‘In my upstairs office. My wife was in the shop.’
Donaldson whistled. ‘That’s your only alibi? Your wife? Tommy, you’re in the shit. We’ve got Medina’s girlfriend at St Leonard’s, looking through our rogues’ gallery to pick out the heavy you had with you last Saturday. I think the three of us should join her, don’t you?’
‘Why did you kill him, Tommy?’ asked McIlhenney, roughly. ‘Normally eight hundred’s only a broken-leg job. Was it because he told you to fuck off in front of your minder? Did you think you had to save face? Because if you did, your saved face is going to cost you a life sentence.’
Donaldson stepped up to Heenan and laid a hand on his shoulder, pushing him towards the door. Suddenly, with a quick sideways flick, the loanshark kicked the policeman just below the left knee, with the hard outside edge of the sole of his right shoe. As the Superintendent yelped with pain and collapsed to the floor, clutching his shin, Heenan dived through the doorway, and down the narrow flight of stairs which led out into Peffermill Road.
McIlhenny’s way to the door was blocked by his fallen colleague. Awkwardly, he stepped over him, then crashed down the stairway, bouncing from wall to wall until he reached the door at the foot. In the street he looked first right, then left, where he saw Heenan’s disappearing back, already almost thirty yards away.
It was another mild day and the midday crowds were gathering in Peffermill Road, most of them young men bound for an afternoon in the football grandstands. The natural instinct of many, witnessing a chase, might have been to stand aside for the pursued and impede the pursuer. But Neil McIlhenney, gathering pace, was a formidable object. The pavement throng parted before him, like fans before a Tour de France cyclist as he set off after Heenan. The few unfortunates who did not step aside were sent flying as the big Sergeant swept them out of his way.
McIlhenney, while a laborious runner, was quicker than he looked over a short distance, but he was able to make up little ground on the slimmer Heenan. He dug in, looking for his last yard of speed, but the cause seemed lost. The detective knew that if Heenan avoided arrest, then he would disappear and be swallowed up by the underworld in which he moved. He felt his thighs begin to tighten. He heard his breath begin to rasp. He saw Heenan, almost fifty yards ahead now and without slackening his pace, look over his shoulder, with the faintest of smiles.
And Neil McIlhenney smiled back. By the time it had dawned on Heenan to wonder why, it was too late. The child’s plastic tricycle, which had rolled, seemingly of its own volition, out of an open doorway, was directly in his path. He tripped over it and fell headlong, rolling, tumbling across the pavement.
He scrambled on the ground, trying to regain his footing, but his disaster had given the big detective renewed energy. As Heenan stood up, McIlhenney, travelling at full speed, hit him with a flying tackle which was part Rugby League, part all-in wrestling.
The loanshark went down again, this time with all the Sergeant’s weight bearing upon him. They lay there together, Heenan moaning, McIlhenney recovering his breath in great gasps.
‘Tortoise and the hare, Tommy,’ he wheezed at last, his forearm jammed across his captive’s throat. ‘You should have remembered. Fucking tortoise wins every time.’
38
It was as if the vulture was peering out at them. Evan Mulgrew sat across the table, shoulders hunched, in the interview room in
the administration block of Peterhead Prison. His prison uniform shirt was unbuttoned almost halfway down, giving Rose and Pye a clear view of part of his right shoulder, and of the bizarre bird’s head.
‘Memorable, all right,’ thought the Chief Inspector. The scavenger’s beady eye stared out at her. From its beak a piece of bloody carrion hung loosely, red and horribly realistic.
Mulgrew caught her glance and smiled. ‘Want to see the rest, hen?’ he said, beginning to unbutton his shirt still further. At once, he was grabbed by one of two big prison officers who were flanking him. He was hauled roughly to his feet, and his arms were held pinned to his sides while the other officer buttoned his shirt tight, up to the neck.
As he was slammed back into his seat Rose smiled evenly across at him. ‘Sunshine,’ she murmured, ‘I’ve seen better at home.
‘D’you know,’ she said, still smiling, ‘my husband nicked you, Mulgrew. Three years ago. He said that when it came to it, you were a pure pussy-cat. Pity you don’t have a cat’s luck. It has nine lives; you attack a judge’s daughter and get a twelve stretch.’
Mulgrew looked away from her and stared out of the barred window. Early Saturday afternoon in northerly Peterhead was much less mild than in Edinburgh, and thick globules of sleety snow were splashing against the glass. ‘Aye okay,’ he muttered. ‘So what d’yis want?’
‘When you were walking about on the outside, Mulgrew,’ Rose began, ‘you used to work out at the Commonwealth Pool.’
‘Aye.’
‘Do you remember talking there to a man called Carl?’
The Vulture scratched his chin. ‘Youngish chap, fair hair?’ Sammy Pye nodded.
‘Aye. So what?’
‘Do you recall,’ asked Rose, ‘telling Carl about a man named Douglas Terry, and about people who did odd jobs for him?’
Mulgrew’s slightly bored expression changed suddenly to one of real concern. ‘I might have done. I cannae remember.’