Mulgrew, a few years back from a flat in Brunswick Street. He was a suspect in an indecent assault case. We got there early doors and caught him in bed with his woman.
‘I watched him as he got dressed. He had a big tattoo on his right shoulder. I was fascinated by it. Big vulture. Very realistic.’
‘What happened to him? Did he get sent down?’ Her voice was eager, excited.
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t involved in the investigation. They just called me in as extra muscle to help arrest him. In the event he came like a lamb. If he was convicted, he’d have gone to prison for sure. I remember one of the lads telling me that the victim was a judge’s daughter.’
Maggie jumped out of bed, evading his grab for her. ‘What’s the time?’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Quarter to nine.’
She grabbed her dressing-gown from its hook behind the bedroom door.
‘Mags,’ he said, more than a little petulantly. ‘It’s Saturday morning.’
‘I know, but I’ve got to get back into the Prison Service computer, to see how it responds to the name Mulgrew.’
‘But Mags, on a Saturday morning?’ He was plaintive now. ‘We always have French toast on Saturday morning.’
‘It’ll still be Saturday when I get home. Probably. Anyway, think yourself lucky. I was going to take you with me. You’ve just earned yourself a morning off!’
‘And talked myself out of . . .’
‘French toast!’
33
Pamela Masters was an early riser. She had done her aerobics routine, showered, dressed and made breakfast, all before the telephone rang at five minutes past nine o’clock.
She gulped down a mouthful of toast and apricot jam as she reached across from her perch on a high stool, to pick it up.
‘Hello, this is Pamela.’
‘Good morning, Sergeant. This is DCC Skinner.’ A cold shiver of nerves ran through her. She slipped down from the stool and stood stiffly upright.
‘Listen,’ he went on, ‘I know I said report on Monday, but there’s something I want to let you in on, and to get started on myself; something that’s been in the in-tray for far too long as it is.’
‘
‘I’m at a bit of a loose end today, and I intend to go into the office. This isn’t an order, and I wouldn’t want you to cancel other engagements, but if you’re clear would you like to come in and join me at Fettes?’
She glanced at her wall diary. It showed a hair appointment at 10 a.m., a lunch date at Jenners with a girlfriend, and a 3 p.m. date in the Royal Botanic Garden with an old friend of her former husband, who had called her out of the blue two days earlier. The rest of the day she had left free, just in case. It had been a long time since Alan Royston.
‘Certainly, sir,’ she said. ‘When do you want me there?’
There was a pause. ‘I want to call in to play with my son for a while. Give me a couple of hours, so let’s say eleven thirty. Come straight up to my office.’
‘Very good, sir.’ From the other end of the line she thought she caught a faint chuckle.
‘Oh, and Pamela, remember. Don’t wear uniform this time, just come as you are. I hate formality at weekends. Come to think of it, I don’t like it much at any time.’
34
The little flat was an unexpected find in the heart of the City. It was in the basement of a tall grey Victorian terrace with a small, unadorned but neatly swept courtyard to the front, but opening out at the rear into a large well stocked and lovingly maintained garden.
It would have been quiet on any morning, but at just after 9 a.m. on a Saturday, birdsong was the only sound to be heard.
Angela Muirhead was in the garden, sitting on a wooden bench seat, idly throwing scraps of stale bread on to the grass. As each piece landed, a finch, a sparrow or a tit would plummet down from its perch in the bushes against the boundary wall to snatch it up. Occasionally more than one bird would eye the same morsel and there would be a fight.
She looked up as the policemen approached. She was barefoot, wearing a bulky black sweatshirt, and grey cotton trousers. Her hair was tangled, she wore no make-up and her eyes looked heavy, and slightly puffy.
‘Hello,’ she said to Donaldson, dully, as recognition dawned.
‘Good morning, Miss Muirhead,’ the Superintendent replied. ‘This is Detective Sergeant McIlhenney. He and I are investigating Mr Medina’s murder, and we have to ask you some fairly detailed questions.’
‘Can we do it out here?’ she asked. ‘I don’t like being indoors just now.’
‘Okay,’ said Donaldson. ‘Let’s sit at the patio table.’ She nodded and led the way across to a small grouping of plastic furniture arranged on the paved area on to which the flat’s French doors opened.
‘This isn’t an interview under caution,’ said the Superintendent, ‘but I’d like to tape it for convenience.’ The woman nodded; he placed a small cassette recorder before her.
‘What was your relationship with Carl Medina?’ he began.
‘He was my partner. We lived together,’ she said in a voice that was almost a whisper.
‘Could you speak up, please,’ said Donaldson. ‘For the tape.
‘Were you intending to marry?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, when we were in a position to start a family.’
‘What was stopping you?’
‘Money. Carl hasn’t had a full-time job since he left the garage. Our idea was that if I had a baby, I’d go part- time afterwards, but with Carl out of work we just couldn’t afford to lose half my salary.’
‘What sort of man was Carl?’
‘Lovely. Kind and gentle; quite serious, yet he could be funny when he wanted.’
‘Did it come as a shock to you when he lost his job with Jackie Charles?’ asked the detective.
Angie Muirhead nodded again. ‘Yes, it did. He seemed to be getting on well there. He liked the salesmen, and the company liked him enough to give him the same Christmas bonus as they got.’
‘Are you sure the company knew about the bonus?’
She looked up, offended. ‘Yes, quite sure! There was a letter of thanks with it, from Mr and Mrs Charles.’
‘When he was fired, he told you he’d been made redundant, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you think when you heard us say that he’d been dismissed for fiddling the books?’ Donaldson looked at her, trying to read her expression.
‘I didn’t believe it,’ she said, at once. ‘Carl was on a good salary, and there were the bonuses. He didn’t need to steal anything. I still don’t believe it. After you left on Thursday Carl explained everything that happened. He said that he made up the redundancy story because he was too embarrassed to tell me what Mrs Charles had got up to.’
‘You accepted that?’ A harder tone came into the policeman’s voice. ‘He told you a respectable woman nearly twenty years his senior made a crude pass at him, and you believed it?’
‘Yes. I believed it. I do still. The world’s full of spoiled rich bitches.’
‘And Carl would never have been unfaithful of course.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, defiantly.
