‘How about you, Miss Muirhead? Were you faithful to him?’ To the detectives’ surprise the woman flushed, and looked away.
‘Answer, please,’ said Donaldson.
‘Yes.’ It was a whisper. ‘Apart from one time.’
‘When? Speak up, remember.’
‘At an office party.’
‘Your office?’
‘No. Carl’s, the Christmas before he left the company. It was at Mr Charles’ house. Everybody had a bit to drink, and I got talking to Mr Charles. He seemed very nice and he made me laugh. It’s a big house, and before I knew it we had sort of drifted away from everyone. There was a back bedroom. All of a sudden, I just felt out of it, completely gone, absolutely helpless. I’ve always suspected there was something in my last drink. When he came on to me, I knew what was happening, but . . . I was just numb; couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything.’ Her voice was barely audible, but instead of interrupting her, McIlhenney picked up the tape and held it close to her. ‘He did it, then he helped me into a bathroom, and left me there.’ Her eyes were filled with tears.
‘And afterwards? You didn’t think of making a complaint? ’
She shook her head, helplessly. ‘How could I? I mean, I’d let him, hadn’t I? Oh I felt so dirty, yet if I’d said that my drink had been spiked, who’d have believed me?’
‘We would have, love,’ said McIlhenney, quietly. ‘But proving it would have been another matter.’
‘Did Charles contact you again after that night?’ asked Donaldson.
‘No. Never. Not once. A few months later, Carl was fired. I haven’t seen Mr Charles since that night at his house.’
‘Did you ever tell Carl about the . . . encounter?’
‘Of course not. I was afraid to.’
‘Why? Because of what Carl might have done to Jackie Charles?’
She shook her head, vigorously. ‘No. Because of what it might have done to us,’ she said vehemently.
‘When Carl was made redundant, I thought that it might have had something to do with it; that perhaps Mr Charles was scared I’d tell him, and that in turn he’d tell Mrs Charles.’
Donaldson took the tape from McIlhenney, and looked at it to check that it was still running. ‘Did Carl have any sort of work after that?’ he asked, replacing it on the table.
‘Only bar stuff,’ she said, ‘and occasional messenger jobs. Nothing full-time.’
The detective pointed to her left hand, where gold and diamonds sparkled on the third finger. ‘Did he give you that ring?’
‘Yes, six months ago, to mark our being together for five years.’
‘It looks a bit pricey. How could he afford that?’
She hesitated. ‘He told me that he’d borrowed the money from his dad. I was surprised, since his dad’s a miserable old sod. I only found out the truth a month ago. He borrowed it from a private finance company.’
‘Do you know the name of the company?’ asked McIlhenney.
‘It was a man. A Mr Heenan. I found out about it all when he came to the house one night. He told Carl that with interest he owed him double the thousand pounds he’d borrowed, and that he wanted the interest paid within a week.’ She paused, rubbing her throat absent-mindedly with the fingers of her right hand. ‘He didn’t make any specific threats, but I was scared.’
‘What did Carl do?’
‘I had a thousand in a savings account. I gave it to him, to give to Heenan. Then I arranged to borrow the other thousand from the bank. But Heenan came back last Saturday and said that he wanted another eight hundred in interest and the capital sum repaid, all within a week. This time he had another man with him.
‘Carl told him to fuck off. He said that he would get the thousand and that was it.’
‘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.
