The shock of it washed over him, chilling him suddenly to the bone. Cold sweat spread on his forehead as he dropped the folder, shaking. Proud Jimmy’s warning leapt back into his mind.
‘You don’t want to see that report. Take my word on it.’
‘No wonder, Jimmy, no wonder,’ he sighed. ‘For eighteen years you spared me the knowledge that I’d lost a son as well as a wife. What a decision for a friend to have to take. What a friend to take it.’
32
‘Good morning, ma’am.’ Mario McGuire, propped on an elbow, kissed his wife as she swam back into wakefulness. ‘And where the hell were you last night? I tried to stay awake, but I don’t think I made it past midnight.’
Maggie pulled him down towards her and moulded herself against his thick, muscular body. She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, passing them gently over the scar from his old wound.
‘I was with a young man,’ she murmured. ‘We were alone all evening. I got home around one, absolutely done in. I didn’t think it, er . . . appropriate, to wake you.’
His big hand ran smoothly down her back and gripped her buttocks, squeezing them gently, pulling her even tighter against him. ‘And what were you and this young man up to?’
‘We were looking for another man.’
‘What, isn’t two enough for you?’ He kissed the side of her neck, and gave it a sudden light bite, sending a shiver through her.
‘This is a very special man,’ she said. ‘Carl Medina told us about him. He may have information which can tie Douglas Terry to a serious assault five years back, on a young Hearts footballer, Jimmy Lee.’ Her hand moved down from his chest, until it found its pathway blocked.
‘Indeed,’ he whispered. ‘I thought the Hibs casuals did that. So what’s his name, this very special man?’ He rolled her gently on to her back.
‘I don’t know. I only know that he has a big vulture tattooed on his right shoulder.’ She reached up and bit him. ‘Right there.’
He leaned over her, head still, eyes closed. His hand moved, very slowly, up the inside of her thigh, towards the warmth. She began to move under his touch. He whispered in her ear. ‘Mulgrew. Evan Mulgrew.’
She sat bolt upright, her eyes suddenly wide. ‘You know him?’
Mario rolled backwards, smiling at her surprise, looking up at her, smugly. ‘I lifted a guy, name of Evan 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.’
‘He’s got a nice voice,’ Pamela thought, as her nervousness left her. ‘I hadn’t noticed that before.’
‘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.