Skinner's Mission

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.’