Skinner's Mission

37

‘Aw come on, Tommy,’ said Neil McIlhenney, ‘don’t play the poor innocent with us.

‘It might say “Heenan Newsagent” over the door of this rat-hole, but we know the business you run out of this upstairs office. You are a loanshark, a tallyman, like they say in Glasgow, an illegal money-lender like they say in court.

‘You are the sort of bastard that infests places like Craigmillar and Peffermill, where the poor people live, lending them money when no-one else will, then breaking their arms and legs if they can’t meet your wicked interest payments, or if they won’t give you their Giros and their Child Benefit, or steal, or prostitute their wives to pay you off.

‘You know, if I wasn’t a conscientious public servant, I’d wipe my arse with the likes of you, Pierre Cardin blazer and all.’ He paused, eyeing the man fiercely.

‘What was the rate of interest you were screwing out of Carl Medina? Twenty per cent a week, was it, at the end-up.’

Thomas Maxwell Heenan looked back at him, blandly. ‘Who’s Carl Medina?’ he asked.

‘Jesus, and this is a paper-shop too,’ said McIlhenney, sadly. ‘Aged about thirty, five years or so younger than you. Lived in Slateford with his girlfriend. Borrowed a grand off you about six months ago. Last Saturday, you paid a call on him and told him you wanted the grand plus eight hundred interest within a week. You didn’t say “Or else”, but then you wouldn’t, would you. You’d take it as understood.’

Heenan, tall, fair and well-groomed, smiled suavely. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘What we’re talking about,’ said Superintendent Donaldson, ‘is the murder of Carl Medina in his home yesterday. The day after he repaid your thousand pound loan, and told you that you could whistle for the interest.

‘Where were you yesterday morning?’ he asked, suddenly.

Maxwell’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. ‘I was here,’ he said at last. ‘In my upstairs office. My wife was in the shop.’

Donaldson whistled. ‘That’s your only alibi? Your wife? Tommy, you’re in the shit. We’ve got Medina’s girlfriend at St Leonard’s, looking through our rogues’ gallery to pick out the heavy you had with you last Saturday. I think the three of us should join her, don’t you?’

‘Why did you kill him, Tommy?’ asked McIlhenney, roughly. ‘Normally eight hundred’s only a broken-leg job. Was it because he told you to fuck off in front of your minder? Did you think you had to save face? Because if you did, your saved face is going to cost you a life sentence.’

Donaldson stepped up to Heenan and laid a hand on his shoulder, pushing him towards the door. Suddenly, with a quick sideways flick, the loanshark kicked the policeman just below the left knee, with the hard outside edge of the sole of his right shoe. As the Superintendent yelped with pain and collapsed to the floor, clutching his shin, Heenan dived through the doorway, and down the narrow flight of stairs which led out into Peffermill Road.

McIlhenny’s way to the door was blocked by his fallen colleague. Awkwardly, he stepped over him, then crashed down the stairway, bouncing from wall to wall until he reached the door at the foot. In the street he looked first right, then left, where he saw Heenan’s disappearing back, already almost thirty yards away.

It was another mild day and the midday crowds were gathering in Peffermill Road, most of them young men bound for an afternoon in the football grandstands. The natural instinct of many, witnessing a chase, might have been to stand aside for the pursued and impede the pursuer. But Neil McIlhenney, gathering pace, was a formidable object. The pavement throng parted before him, like fans before a Tour de France cyclist as he set off after Heenan. The few unfortunates who did not step aside were sent flying as the big Sergeant swept them out of his way.

McIlhenney, while a laborious runner, was quicker than he looked over a short distance, but he was able to make up little ground on the slimmer Heenan. He dug in, looking for his last yard of speed, but the cause seemed lost. The detective knew that if Heenan avoided arrest, then he would disappear and be swallowed up by the underworld in which he moved. He felt his thighs begin to tighten. He heard his breath begin to rasp. He saw Heenan, almost fifty yards ahead now and without slackening his pace, look over his shoulder, with the faintest of smiles.

And Neil McIlhenney smiled back. By the time it had dawned on Heenan to wonder why, it was too late. The child’s plastic tricycle, which had rolled, seemingly of its own volition, out of an open doorway, was directly in his path. He tripped over it and fell headlong, rolling, tumbling across the pavement.

He scrambled on the ground, trying to regain his footing, but his disaster had given the big detective renewed energy. As Heenan stood up, McIlhenney, travelling at full speed, hit him with a flying tackle which was part Rugby League, part all-in wrestling.

The loanshark went down again, this time with all the Sergeant’s weight bearing upon him. They lay there together, Heenan moaning, McIlhenney recovering his breath in great gasps.

‘Tortoise and the hare, Tommy,’ he wheezed at last, his forearm jammed across his captive’s throat. ‘You should have remembered. Fucking tortoise wins every time.’