Skinner's Mission bs-6

by Quintin Jardine

41

  Neil McIlhenney’s feet were killing him. They hurt from the pounding of his chase after Heenan. Now they were slogging up and down the stairs and along the corridors of the big block of flats in Slateford in which Carl Medina had lived and died.

  On top of that, his trousers were torn at the knee, and his shoulder was starting to hurt, both consequences of his tackle on the fugitive. Still, he smiled inwardly in pleasure at the force with which Heenan had hit the ground, and at the satisfied expressions on the faces of several of the bystanders who had seen his downfall.

  He had knocked on the doors of seventeen flats so far, from the top floor down, and had shown his warrant card, and a newly taken Polaroid photograph of Thomas Maxwell Heenan, to twelve householders, noting the numbers of the five who would require return visits.

  He knocked on door number eighteen. After a few moments a light went on behind the obscured glass panel, and an old woman’s quavering voice called out, ‘Just coming.’

  The door creaked open. McIlhenney read the name on the panel. ‘Mrs Smith?’ he asked.

  ‘Miss,’ said the old woman, abruptly.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said quickly, producing his warrant card once again and holding it up for her to see. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant McIlhenney. I’m investigating the death of a young man yesterday, on the third floor of this building, that’s one above you.’

  ‘Mr Medina,’ she said. ‘Nice young man, considering. They weren’t married you know,’ she added, conspiratorially, ‘him and that young woman Angela.’

  McIlhenney shook his head. ‘That’s the way it is these days, Miss Smith.’

  ‘Not in my world, Sergeant! Now what can I do for you?’

  He produced his Polaroid. ‘I’d like you to look at this, and tell me if you saw this man around midday yesterday, in or near this building.’

  She took the photograph and peered at it through her heavy-framed spectacles. After a few seconds she stepped out into the corridor, holding it up to the stronger light. At last she looked up at him, handing the Polaroid back.

  ‘Do you know, Sergeant, I believe that I did. I was looking out of my front window yesterday, just before twelve.’ She smiled. ‘I do that quite a lot. It overlooks the entrance, you see. There was a tall, well-dressed, fair-haired man. He walked up to the front door, pressed the buzzer and went in.

  ‘This looks like him.’

  McIlhenney beamed. ‘Miss Smith, you have made my day.

  ‘Would you be prepared to attend an identification parade down at the St Leonard’s police station? You needn’t worry about anyone seeing you. We’ll ask you to look at a line of men, but you’ll be behind a one-way glass panel.’

  Miss Smith nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I could do that.’

  ‘That’s great. I’ll send a car for you once it’s arranged. Meanwhile, is there anything else you can remember about this man?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Not really,’ she muttered, almost to herself. ‘Only that he was carrying a Safeway bag.’

  42

  It was almost 2.30 p.m. before Inspector Shields returned Skinner’s phone call. The photographic unit at the Howdenhall Lab was closed for the weekend and its head had been on the golf course.

  ‘You were looking for me, sir?’ boomed the cheery voice.

  ‘Yes, George. Thanks for calling back. You sound as if you had a good day.’

  ‘Can’t grumble, sir. I shot a net 66, off 16 handicap. I should win the medal with that, unless there’s another bandit still to come in.’

  Skinner laughed. ‘Good for you. Listen George, I want to ask you about your negatives, and what happens to them. I know that where major criminal investigations are concerned, they go to the files and are stored there. But what about the others?’

  ‘What others, sir?’ Shields sounded puzzled.

  ‘Photographs from accident scenes, to be specific.’

  There was a hiss of air from the other end of the line as the Inspector thought about the question. ‘Mostly, sir, they’re disposed of once it’s clear that they’re no longer needed. Do you have a specific accident in mind?’

  ‘Yes. It happened eighteen years ago.’

  ‘Then I’d have binned the negs, sir. Chances are they were destroyed long since . . .’ He paused, ‘. . . unless of course, Sergeant Whatnot took them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You remember, sir, Tam Whatling. He worked in the photographic unit for years. Everyone called him Sergeant Whatnot. He kept a lot of the negs once they were done with. He was always going on about writing his memoirs.’

  ‘I remember Big Tam well,’ said Skinner. ‘He retired didn’t he, last year? I made the presentation to him in the Chief’s absence. Where is he now, d’you know?’

  ‘He retired to a pub across the river in Lower Largo, sir. It’s called the Travellers’ Inn, I think. He also does photography: weddings and the like.

  ‘If the negs you’re after still exist, then the only place they’ll be is with ex-Sergeant Whatnot.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Skinner, ‘it looks as if I’m going for a pint in Fife tomorrow.’

  43

  Pamela Masters had never been to Marco’s before. She practised her aerobics at the Edinburgh Club, just off London Road, where she was a member. The reception area was thronged when she arrived and so, while it cleared, she took a walk around the rambling building, looking in on the sweaty glass-walled squash courts and at the lines of snooker tables, a green baize archipelago in the midst of a dark sea.

  Eventually she found herself back at the reception desk, from which the queue had disappeared. Showing her warrant card, she asked to see the duty manager.

  ‘That’s me,’ said the girl on the desk, offering her hand as she stepped out of her cubicle. ‘Sheila King. How can I help you?’

  Sergeant Masters shook the outstretched hand. ‘It’s to do with a death which occurred on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘Mrs Carole Charles. You may have read about it.’

  The manageress nodded. ‘Yes, I did. That was awful. Poor woman.’

  ‘I’m led to believe that Mrs Charles was a member here, and that she attended a Yoga class twice a week?’

  Sheila King’s mouth dropped open in a gasp. ‘No! Was that her? I’d never have known from the picture in the News. Blonde woman, late forties but really good looking and fit for her age. We just knew her as Carole; it’s first name terms in my Yoga class.’

  ‘You take it yourself?’

  ‘Yes, Mondays and Thursdays, eight till nine.’

  ‘Was Carole Charles a regular attender?’

  ‘We-ell.’ Sheila King paused. ‘If you call about once or twice a month regular. She certainly didn’t take every class. No-one does that.

  ‘Fit woman, though, as I say. And no kids.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘The bum, dear.’ She glanced down at Masters’ midsection. ‘Tight, like yours. Pelvis hadn’t spread.’ She slapped her own backside with both hands. ‘Nothing you can do about it. I’ve got two, and look at mine. Dead giveaway.’

  Pamela smiled. ‘I understand that Mrs Charles had a friend at the class, a woman called Donna. Is that right?’

  The yoga teacher looked puzzled. ‘Donna? No Donnas in my class. I’m certain of it. I’ve got Eileens, Aileens, Irenes, a Bernice and a few Maggies, but no Donna.’

  She beckoned the Sergeant to follow. ‘Come on through and we’ll look at the membership records, but I can’t remember a single Donna.’ She led the way into a small back office where a computer sat on a table switched on. Quickly she keyed in ‘Donna’ and pressed the search button. The machine buzzed for about twenty seconds, then flashed up a message: ‘No Donna found.’

  Pamela Masters frowned. ‘How strange. Did Mrs Charles have any other friends at the club?’

  The mother-of-two shook her head. ‘No. She wasn’t a mixer. Friendly enough, but she didn’t invite conversation. Once the class was over, she didn’t han
g around, just showered, changed and out the door.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the Sergeant. ‘A mystery woman. Two of them in fact, her and Donna. My boss isn’t going to like that. Not at all!’

  44

  ‘See if you can get an ID parade set up for six o’clock. I want to show Heenan to your old lady while that picture is still fresh in her mind.’

  McIlhenney laughed. ‘We could hold off for a week and my Miss Smith would still do the business. Old folk like her never miss a trick. She’s probably a nosy old bat and a pain in the arse to her neighbours, but to us, she’s a Godsend.’

  ‘Still,’ said Donaldson, ‘let’s take no chances. We don’t want her to fall off her perch before she’s fingered Heenan for us.

  ‘Did the Muirhead woman pick the muscle who was with him out of our mugshot library?’

  The big Sergeant nodded. ‘Aye she did, and that’s another cracker. She identified Ricky McCartney. I sent a car round to his house to pick him up, but he wasn’t there. We’ll get him, though. He’s pretty obvious, is our Ricky.’

  ‘That he is,’ said Donaldson. ‘Mind you, I don’t know what we’ll be able to put to him. According to Angela Muirhead’s story, he never said a word while he was in the house with Heenan.’

  ‘No,’ said McIlhenney. ‘He just kept eyeing up the furniture as if he was deciding what he would smash first. But he didn’t demand money, or offer violence.’

  ‘Ricky doesn’t have to offer violence. He is violence.’

  ‘Fine, but try putting that down on a charge sheet: “Mr McCartney is charged with giving Miss Muirhead’s sideboard a threatening look.” As my Olive often says, I think not!’

  ‘I know. Chances are he’s heard already that we’ve picked up Heenan and he’s gone to ground for a few days. But let’s keep looking anyway.’

  Donaldson stood up from his chair and walked to the window of his second-storey office. He gazed out towards Holyrood Park and the Radical Road. ‘You handle the parade on your own, Neil. I want to brief the armed officers about tonight’s operation.’

  ‘I thought Mr Martin was having a team talk at eight.’

  ‘He is, but he told me to handpick the people.’

  ‘Mmm. Okay, sir. I’ll look after Miss Smith.’ He turned to leave, but as he did, there was a knock and the door opened. A WPC from the main reception area looked round. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said to Donaldson, ‘but PCs Bridger and Fisher are downstairs. They’re one of the Panda teams. They say they have to see you right away.’

  The Superintendent frowned. ‘They have to see me, do they?’ He paused, then went back to his desk. ‘Okay, send them up. But this better be important. Stay for a minute, Neil, will you.’

  The door closed on the WPC. A minute later, there was another knock. ‘Come!’ shouted Donaldson. PCs Bridger and Fisher seemed to slide into the room. They looked nervous and uncertain as they stood before Donaldson’s desk, caps in hand.

  ‘Well?’ said the Superintendent, sternly.

  ‘Well, sir,’ began the older of the two. McIlhenney recognised him as Bridger. They had worked together once. ‘We were called in to help at Slateford last night, on yon boy’s murder.’

  Donaldson nodded. ‘So?’

  ‘Well. I heard the wee doctor say that the time of death was late morning.’ Bridger hesitated.

  ‘So?’ It was almost a shout.

  ‘It’s like this, sir,’ said Fisher, coming to the rescue. McIlhenney could tell that bad news was about to break, and that the task was beyond Bridger. ‘We heard that you’ve picked up Tommy Heenan for the murder.’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve got an eye-witness too, who says she can put him at the scene, just before twelve.’

  Fisher sucked in his breath. ‘Ahh. That’s a problem, sir. The thing is, Malky and I were on patrol in Peffermill Road yesterday in the Panda. We saw Tommy Heenan going into his office at quarter to twelve. No way could he have killed the boy Medina.’

  Donaldson sat bolt upright in his chair. McIlhenney pushed himself off the wall against which he had been leaning. ‘You sure about that?’ he barked, as the Superintendent glared at him.

  ‘Come on, Neil,’ said Bridger, finding his voice at last. ‘We’ve known Tommy Heenan for years, and we were no more than ten feet away from him.’

  ‘Bugger it!’ cried the big Sergeant furiously. ‘I was dead certain we had the bastard. I’d have loved to put him away for murder.’

  ‘But if it wasn’t him, why did he leg it?’ said Donaldson.

  McIlhenney shrugged. ‘He thought he was done. His wife would have been worse than useless as an alibi, and there’s no-one in Peffermill would lie in the witness box for him. I reckon he must have panicked.’

  The Superintendent looked up at the two Constables, at that moment the least popular men in St Leonard’s. ‘Okay. You can go.’ As the door closed on them once more, he looked up at McIlhenney.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, slowly, ‘we could always tell Bridger and Fisher that they were wrong, and go ahead with the ID parade.’

  The Sergeant gazed back at him, trying to read his expression. ‘No, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘Not we. I couldn’t tell them that, when I know they’re not.’

  With a sigh, Donaldson nodded. ‘In that case, Neil, get a photographer up here to take a shot of the bruise on my leg. If I can do nothing else, I’ll charge the bastard with police assault and stick him up in front of the Sheriff on Monday morning. With his record that should earn him six months.’

  ‘Small consolation,’ muttered the Sergeant.

  ‘It’s the best we’re going to do. But maybe we’ll get a result with Ricky McCartney. Maybe your Miss Smith will identify him.’

  McIlhenney shook his head. ‘McCartney’s a gorilla, sir. No, the old lady saw someone fair-haired and well-dressed, carrying a Safeway bag, which contained, no doubt, a binliner and four other Safeway bags.

  ‘She didn’t see Tommy Heenan, okay. But she did see someone who looks bloody like him.’

  45

  The roar of the crowd in the rebuilt Tynecastle engulfed them as Maggie Rose turned off grey-tenemented Gorgie Road, and parked in the enclosure towards which she had been directed by a uniformed officer. It rose and fell, a joining of two giant voices each singing out its alarm, expectation, disappointment and exultation.

  As they reached the entrance to the main grandstand the sound rose in a crescendo and became a single, sustained shriek of joy. ‘Somebody’s scored,’ said Sammy Pye, a closet Rangers supporter.

  There was a lone policeman on duty at the gate, together with a security guard employed by Heart of Midlothian Football Club, or the Jam Tarts, as they are known by the entire population of Edinburgh; some friends, some foes, very few indifferent.

  Rose and Pye showed their warrant cards. ‘We’re looking for Jimmy Lee,’ the Chief Inspector said to the doorman.

  ‘Ye’ll no’ get him till time up, hen. He’ll be up in his seat among the Willie Bauld Restaurant guests.’

  Maggie fixed him with the special steely glare which she reserved for men who called her ‘hen’. ‘If I want him, I’ll get him,’ she said, then paused. ‘But we’ll wait till full-time. How long is there to go?’

  ‘About thirty-five minutes,’ said Pye.

  ‘On yis go through and watch the rest,’ said the steward. ‘There’s no seats, but if yis go through that door on the left,’ he pointed through the entrance hall, ‘it’ll take ye out on to the pitch. Yis can watch the rest frae the entrance tae the tunnel. Yis’ll find Superintendent Johnston there.’ Rose nodded. Fred Johnston was commander of the police division which took in Tynecastle.

  ‘S’a great game so far. The Jambos have just gone one up.’

  ‘How do you know who scored?’ Maggie asked. ‘You’ve never left the door.’

  ‘Listen,’ said the man, putting hand to ear.

  Inside the stadium, the great single voice of Jambo support boomed out an anthem.

  Can ye h
ear the Rangers sing?

  Cannae hear a fuckin’ thing,

  Nana Na Na Na Na!

  ‘Ahh,’ said the Chief Inspector. She and Pye followed the steward’s directions. A narrow passageway led them past two rooms from which emerged an overpowering liniment smell, then round to the right and up a slight incline towards the field.

  As they emerged into the open air of the arena, floodlit even in the daylight hours, the atmosphere sent shivers through them. Opposite and on either side the three newly-built cantilevered grandstands towered a hundred feet above their heads, each packed tight, blue colours predominant on the left, maroon on the right. Behind them, the crowd in the old stand bayed for more Rangers’ blood, as on the field, Hearts pressed home their advantage against the league leaders, looking to spoil a million football-pool coupons and fixed-odds betting lines.

  As Rose and Pye stood there, suddenly overwhelmed, a tall uniformed man, carrying a walkie-talkie and wearing an overcoat and silver-braided, peaked cap bore sternly down upon them. His expression softened as he recognised the red-headed Rose. ‘Hello, Maggie,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘We need to interview someone called Jimmy Lee. The doorman sent us through here to wait for time up.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Superintendent Johnston, leaning close to make himself heard. ‘But you can’t stay here.’ He pointed to his left, past the Rangers management team in their technical area, who were leaping, jumping and gesticulating manically as they urged on their players. ‘There are two seats down beside the ambulance men. Sit yourselves down there. Go back to the entrance at full-time and I’ll have Jimmy Lee brought to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rose. ‘Has it been a good game?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know,’ said Johnston. ‘The game’s the last thing I can watch.’ They realised for the first time that the man was as tense as a drawn bowstring. ‘I’ve got about eighteen thousand people in here, most of them hysterical, and they’ll all be funnelling out into tight exit roads at the end.