Skinner's Mission

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!’