‘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 News. Blonde woman, late forties but really good looking and fit for her age. We just knew her as Carole; it’s first name terms in my Yoga class.’
‘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.’
Pamela smiled. ‘I understand that Mrs Charles had a friend at the class, a woman called Donna. Is that right?’
The yoga teacher looked puzzled. ‘Donna? No Donnas in my class. I’m certain of it. I’ve got Eileens, Aileens, Irenes, a Bernice and a few Maggies, but no Donna.’
She beckoned the Sergeant to follow. ‘Come on through and we’ll look at the membership records, but I can’t remember a single Donna.’ She led the way into a small back office where a computer sat on a table switched on. Quickly she keyed in ‘Donna’ and pressed the search button. The machine buzzed for about twenty seconds, then flashed up a message: ‘No Donna found.’
Pamela Masters frowned. ‘How strange. Did Mrs Charles have any other friends at the club?’
The mother-of-two shook her head. ‘No. She wasn’t a mixer. Friendly enough, but she didn’t invite conversation. Once the class was over, she didn’t hang around, just showered, changed and out the door.’
‘Hmm,’ said the Sergeant. ‘A mystery woman. Two of them in fact, her and Donna. My boss isn’t going to like that. Not at all!’
44
‘See if you can get an ID parade set up for six o’clock. I want to show Heenan to your old lady while that picture is still fresh in her mind.’
McIlhenney laughed. ‘We could hold off for a week and my Miss Smith would still do the business. Old folk like her never miss a trick. She’s probably a nosy old bat and a pain in the arse to her neighbours, but to us, she’s a Godsend.’
‘Still,’ said Donaldson, ‘let’s take no chances. We don’t want her to fall off her perch before she’s fingered Heenan for us.
‘Did the Muirhead woman pick the muscle who was with him out of our mugshot library?’
The big Sergeant nodded. ‘Aye she did, and that’s another cracker. She identified Ricky McCartney. I sent a car round to his house to pick him up, but he wasn’t there. We’ll get him, though. He’s pretty obvious, is our Ricky.’
‘That he is,’ said Donaldson. ‘Mind you, I don’t know what we’ll be able to put to him. According to Angela Muirhead’s story, he never said a word while he was in the house with Heenan.’
‘No,’ said McIlhenney. ‘He just kept eyeing up the furniture as if he was deciding what he would smash first. But he didn’t demand money, or offer violence.’
‘Ricky doesn’t have to offer violence. He is violence.’
‘Fine, but try putting that down on a charge sheet: “Mr McCartney is charged with giving Miss Muirhead’s sideboard a threatening look.” As my Olive often says, I think not!’
‘I know. Chances are he’s heard already that we’ve picked up Heenan and he’s gone to ground for a few days. But let’s keep looking anyway.’
Donaldson stood up from his chair and walked to the window of his second-storey office. He gazed out towards Holyrood Park and the Radical Road. ‘You handle the parade on your own, Neil. I want to brief the armed officers about tonight’s operation.’
‘I thought Mr Martin was having a team talk at eight.’
‘He is, but he told me to handpick the people.’
‘Mmm. Okay, sir. I’ll look after Miss Smith.’ He turned to leave, but as he did, there was a knock and the door opened. A WPC from the main reception area looked round. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said to Donaldson, ‘but PCs Bridger and Fisher are downstairs. They’re one of the Panda teams. They say they have to see you right away.’
The Superintendent frowned. ‘They have to see me, do they?’ He paused, then went back to his desk. ‘Okay, send them up. But this better be important. Stay for a minute, Neil, will you.’
The door closed on the WPC. A minute later, there was another knock. ‘Come!’ shouted Donaldson. PCs Bridger and Fisher seemed to slide into the room. They looked nervous and uncertain as they stood before Donaldson’s desk, caps in hand.
‘Well?’ said the Superintendent, sternly.
‘Well, sir,’ began the older of the two. McIlhenney recognised him as Bridger. They had worked together once. ‘We were called in to help at Slateford last night, on yon boy’s murder.’
Donaldson nodded. ‘So?’
‘Well. I heard the wee doctor say that the time of death was late morning.’ Bridger hesitated.
‘So?’ It was almost a shout.
‘It’s like this, sir,’ said Fisher, coming to the rescue. McIlhenney could tell that bad news was about to break, and that the task was beyond Bridger. ‘We heard that you’ve picked up Tommy Heenan for the murder.’
‘That’s right. We’ve got an eye-witness too, who says she can put him at the scene, just before twelve.’
Fisher sucked in his breath. ‘Ahh. That’s a problem, sir. The thing is, Malky and I were on patrol in Peffermill Road yesterday in the Panda. We saw Tommy Heenan going into his office at quarter to twelve. No way could he have killed the boy Medina.’
Donaldson sat bolt upright in his chair. McIlhenney pushed himself off the wall against which he had been leaning. ‘You sure about that?’ he barked, as the Superintendent glared at him.
‘Come on, Neil,’ said Bridger, finding his voice at last. ‘We’ve known Tommy Heenan for years, and we were no more than ten feet away from him.’
‘Bugger it!’ cried the big Sergeant furiously. ‘I was dead certain we had the bastard. I’d have loved to put him away for murder.’