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
‘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.’
