‘These people will not be Kamikaze pilots, but like you said, if any one of them offers a threat with a weapon, shoot him. Fill the fucking car with bullets if you have to.’
He looked down at his personal assistant and saw her face go pale. ‘Shocked, Pamela?’ he asked, his tone suddenly gentle. ‘Of course you are, listening to us talking about shooting people. But it’s part of the job. I’ve had to do it, Mr Martin’s had to do it, so has DCI Mackie . . . yes, Sergeant, big quiet Brian could shoot your eyes out at four hundred yards.
‘None of us wants to, but it’s important that the people on the other side know that if they as much as present firearms at us, then we will, without a second’s hesitation, shoot them dead. That way, they won’t take the chance.
‘You’ll see, tonight there’ll be lots of light and lots of noise, but no shooting. That’s how it works out, nearly always.’ He glanced at Martin and gave a short, grim, laugh. ‘Except when I’m around, of course. Some daft bastard always has a go then!
‘But don’t worry, Andy. I won’t be there tonight. I’m taking myself out of the firing line for a while. And anyway, I’ve got other things to do.’
He made towards the door, then stopped. ‘Oh yes. A thought occurred, Chief Superintendent, about the Carole Charles murder. Are we still trying to find her friend, the woman Donna, that Jackie mentioned?’
Martin frowned. ‘She’s not at the top of my list, boss. We’re still trying to trace anyone who was passing the scene and might have seen the killer arrive or leave. We’ve had people coming forward, but nothing so far that’s stood up. We’re looking into all Jackie’s business records. Plus we’re checking through his properties, trying to trace the ledger Medina claimed to have seen.
‘On top of that, we’ve had Medina’s death to deal with - although that may be cleared up - and now there’s this Birmingham lead. Maybe the Brummies were behind last Wednesday’s fire. Who knows?’
‘We’ll find out when you arrest them,’ said Skinner. ‘Still, Donna’s a loose end and she should be tied up. I’ll tell you what, since your resources are so stretched, I’ll put Sergeant Masters on to it.’
He looked at his PA. ‘Pamela, I’ll carry on alone for now with the check through CID records. I want you to go up to Marco’s leisure club in Grove Street. They run a Yoga class twice weekly, and Carole Charles, last Wednesday’s murder victim, was a regular attender. Have a look at the club’s membership records, and see if you can put a surname and an address to this woman Donna that her husband spoke about.
‘It’s probably of no consequence. It’s just a piece of information that we don’t have, and us coppers, being curious, like to know everything, about everything. It’s what being a detective’s about, really.’
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?’