Resurrection Men ir-13 Read online

  “Too right we are.”

  “Shouldn’t we give them some warning?”

  “Don’t be soft; it’ll be fun.”

  The look on Hynds’s face told her he didn’t quite believe this.

  The “commercial” aspect of Commercial Street had long ago withered, but there were signs of rejuvenation. Civil servants now had a sparkling glass edifice to call home at Victoria Quay. Small restaurants had appeared — though some had already been forced to close — catering to suits and expense accounts. Farther along the road, the Queen’s old yacht Britannia attracted tour parties, and a huge new redevelopment was penciled in for the surrounding industrial wasteland. Siobhan guessed that Cynthia Bessant had bought her warehouse conversion in the hope of being one of the early settlers in what would become Edinburgh’s equivalent of London’s Docklands. It was entirely possible that the placement of the Sauna Paradiso was no accident either. It seemed, to Siobhan’s thinking, that it was placed halfway between the money and the working girls in Coburg Street. The working girls kept their prices low but attracted the dregs. Sauna Paradiso was after the more upmarket punter. Its frontage had been boarded over and painted a Mediterranean blue, with palm trees and surf prominent. The VIP suites were again advertised. It had probably been a shop of some kind at one time. Now, it was an anonymous door with a square of one-way mirrored glass in its center. Siobhan pressed the buzzer and waited.

  “Yes?” came a voice.

  “Lothian and Borders CID,” Siobhan called out. “Any chance of a word?”

  There was a pause before the door opened. Inside, the cramped space was mostly taken up with armchairs. Men had been sitting there, dressed in blue toweling robes. Nice touch, Siobhan thought: the blue matched the paintwork. The TV was on, showing a sports network. Some of the men had been drinking coffee and soft drinks. Now they were on the move, heading for a doorway at the back where Siobhan guessed their clothes were hanging up.

  Just to the side of the front door was a reception desk, a young man seated on the stool behind it.

  “Evening,” she said, showing him her warrant card. Hynds had his open, too, but his eyes were elsewhere, scoping the room.

  “Is there any problem?” the young man asked. He was skinny, wore his dark hair back in a ponytail. There was a ledger book in front of him, but it was closed now, a pen sticking out of it.

  Siobhan brought out a photo of Edward Marber. It was recent: taken on the night he’d died. He was in his gallery, a sheen of sweat on his face. A nice big smile for the camera, a man with not a care in the world and about two hours to live.

  “You probably don’t go in for second names around here,” Siobhan said. “He might’ve called himself Edward or Eddie.”

  “Oh?”

  “We know he was a customer.”

  “Do you now?” The young man glanced at the picture. “And what’s he done?”

  “Someone killed him.”

  The young man’s eyes were on Hynds, who was over at the back doorway.

  “Did they now?” he said, his mind elsewhere.

  Siobhan decided enough was enough. “Okay, you’re not telling me anything. That means I have to talk to all the girls, find out who knew him. You better call your boss and tell him the place is shutting down for the night.”

  She had his attention now. “This is my place,” he said.

  She smiled. “Sure it is. Every inch of you’s a born entrepreneur.”

  He just looked at her. She held the photograph in front of his nose. “Take another look,” she said. A couple of the sauna’s customers, dressed now, brushed past, averting their eyes as they escaped to the outside world. A woman’s face appeared at the back doorway, then another.

  “What’s going on, Ricky?”

  The young man shook his head at them, then met Siobhan’s gaze. “I might have seen him,” he admitted. “But that could just be because his face was in the paper.”

  “It was,” Siobhan agreed, nodding.

  “I mean, we get a lot of faces in here.”

  “And you take down their details?” Siobhan was looking at the ledger.

  “Just the first name, plus the girl’s.”

  “How does it work, Ricky? Punters sit in here, choose a girl . . . ?”

  Ricky nodded. “What goes on once they’re in a suite is their business. Maybe they just want a back rub and a bit of chat.”

  “How often did he come in?” Siobhan was still holding up the photograph.

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “More than once?”

  The doorbell rang. Ricky ignored it. He’d missed his morning shave, started rubbing the back of his hand against his chin. More men, carrying their jackets, shoes not quite laced, were making to exit. As they pulled open the door, the clients outside — a couple of drunken businessmen — stumbled in.

  “Laura on tonight?” one of them asked. He noticed Siobhan and proffered a smile, his eyes running the length of her. The phone started ringing.

  “Ricky will be with you in a minute, gentlemen,” Siobhan said coldly, “as soon as he’s finished helping me with my inquiries.”

  “Christ,” the man hissed. His friend had flopped into a chair, was asking where “the burdz” were. The first man hauled him back to his feet.

  “Polis, Charlie,” was the explanation.

  “Come back in ten minutes!” Ricky called out, but Siobhan doubted the men would be back, not for a while.

  “I seem to be bad for business,” Siobhan said with a smile.

  Hynds appeared at the inner doorway. “It’s a bloody maze back there. Stairs and doors and I don’t know what. There’s even a sauna, would you believe. How are we doing?”

  “Ricky here was just about to tell me if Mr. Marber was a regular.”

  Hynds nodded, reached over and picked up the still-ringing phone. “Sauna Paradiso, DC Hynds speaking.” He waited, then looked at the receiver. “Hung up,” he said with a shrug.

  “Look, he came in a few times,” Ricky burst out. “I’m not always on shift, you know.”

  “Daytime or evenings?”

  “Evenings, I think.”

  “What did he call himself?”

  Ricky shook his head. “Eddie, maybe.”

  Hynds had a question. “Did he take a shine to any one girl in particular?”

  Ricky shook his head again. Another phone was sounding: the theme to Mission: Impossible. It was Ricky’s mobile. He unclipped it from his trouser belt, held it to his ear.

  “Hello?” He listened for a few moments, his back straightening. “It’s under control,” he said. Then he looked up at Siobhan. “Still here, yes.”

  Siobhan knew: it was the owner of the sauna. Maybe one of the girls had called him. She held out a hand.

  “She wants to talk to you,” Ricky said, then he listened again and shook his head, eyes still on Siobhan. “Do I need to show them the books?” He blurted this out, as Hynds started prizing a hand beneath the ledger. Ricky’s free hand came down and stopped him.

  “I said I can handle it,” Ricky said more firmly, before terminating the call. His face had hardened.

  “I’ve told you what I know,” he said, clipping the phone back on his belt, his free hand still resting on the closed ledger.

  “Mind if I talk to the girls?” Siobhan asked.

  “Be my guest,” Ricky said, his face breaking into a smile.

  When Siobhan stepped over the threshold, she knew the place was empty. She saw shower cubicles, lockers, a wooden coffin of a sauna. Stairs down to the rooms where the girls worked. No windows: the downstairs was below ground level. She peered into one room. It smelled perfumed. There was a deep bath in one corner, lots of mirrors. The lighting was almost nonexistent. Sounds of grunts and moans — a TV high up on one wall, playing a hard-core video. Back out in the corridor, she noticed a curtain at the far end. Walked towards it and pulled it open. A door. Emergency exit. It led out into a narrow alley. The girls were gone.
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  “Done a runner,” Hynds confirmed. “So what do we do now?”

  “We could charge him with possession of illegal videos.”

  “We could,” Hynds acknowledged. He glanced at his watch. “Or we could call it a day.”

  Siobhan started climbing the narrow stairs. The sauna’s phone was ringing again. Ricky was about to answer, but thought better of it when he saw Siobhan.

  “Who’s your boss?” she asked.

  “Solicitor’s on his way,” Ricky told her.

  “Good,” she said, making for the exit. “I hope he charges through the nose.”

  The Resurrection Men had moved from the bar to the break-out area, and from alcohol to soft drinks. A lot of the probationers at Tulliallan would be staying through the weekend, but those who were allowed would be heading home. Jazz McCullough and Allan Ward had left already, Ward complaining of the long drive ahead. The others were trying to rouse themselves, or maybe it was that there was nothing about the weekend that they couldn’t live without. The break-out area was an open lounge of leather chairs and sofas, just outside the lecture theater. Rebus had known men get too comfortable there and end up falling asleep, waking stiffly next morning.

  “Got plans, John?” Francis Gray asked.

  Rebus shrugged. Jean was off to a family wedding south of the border. She’d asked if he wanted to go, but he’d declined.

  “How about you?” he asked.

  “I’ve been away five days. Pound to a penny things have started to break, drip or leak.”

  “You’re a bit of a DIY man then?”

  “Christ, no. Why do you think things go wrong in the first place?”

  There was tired laughter at this. Five days they’d been at Tulliallan. They felt like they knew each other.

  “Suppose I’ll go watch my team tomorrow,” Tam Barclay said.

  “Who’s that? Falkirk?”

  Barclay nodded.

  “Need to get yourself a proper grown-up team,” Gray commented.

  “Would that be one from Glasgow, Francis?”

  “Where else?”

  Rebus got to his feet. “Well, I’ll see you all first thing Monday morning . . .”

  “Unless we see you first,” Gray answered with a wink.

  Rebus went to his room to pack a few things. The room itself was a comfortable box with en suite bathroom, better than many a hotel he’d stayed in. Only the CID were assured single rooms. A lot of probationers were doubling up, such were their numbers. Rebus’s mobile was where he’d left it, charging at one of the wall sockets. He poured himself a small Laphroaig from his secret stash and switched on the radio, tuning it to some station with pulsing dance music.

  Then he picked up his mobile and punched in some numbers.

  “It’s me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “How come I haven’t heard from you?” He listened as the person at the other end complained about the lateness of the hour. When Rebus said nothing to this, the person then asked where he was.

  “In my room. That’s just the radio you can hear. When do we get to meet?”

  “Monday,” the voice said.

  “Where and how?”

  “Leave that to me. Any luck so far?”

  “That’s not what I want to talk about.”

  There was silence on the line. Then: “Monday.” And this time the phone’s backlit screen told him the connection had ended. He retuned the radio, switched it off, making sure the alarm function wasn’t set. He had his bag open, but suddenly wondered what the rush was. There was nothing awaiting him in Edinburgh but an empty flat. He picked up his going-away present from Jean—a portable CD player. She’d added some CDs, too: Steely Dan, Morphine, Neil Young . . . He’d brought a few others: Van Morrison, John Martyn. He fixed the headphones on and pushed the START button. The swelling opening of “Solid Air” filled his head, pushing out everything else. He leaned back against the pillow. Decided the song was definitely on the shortlist for his funeral.

  Knew he should write the shortlist down. After all, you never could tell.

  Siobhan answered her door. It was late, but she was expecting company. Eric Bain always called first, to make sure it was all right. It usually was. Bain worked at Police HQ, the “Big House.” He specialized in computer crime. The two had become good friends — nothing more than that. They talked on the phone; sometimes ended up at one another’s flat, sharing late-night milky coffee and stories.

  “You’re out,” Bain called through from the kitchen. Out of decaf, he meant. Siobhan was back in the living room, putting some music on: Oldsolar, a recent purchase — good late-night music.

  “Middle cupboard, top shelf,” she called.

  “Got it.”

  Eric — the officers at Fettes called him “Brains” — had told Siobhan early on that his favorite film was When Harry Met Sally. Letting her know where he stood, and that if she wanted things to go any further, the first move would have to come from her.

  Of course, none of their colleagues believed it. Eric’s car had been spotted parked outside at midnight, and next morning both police stations had been buzzing. It didn’t bother her, didn’t seem to bother Eric. He was coming into the living room now, carrying a tray containing cafetière, a jug of steamed milk, two mugs. He set it down on her coffee table, next to some notes she’d been writing.

  “Been busy?” he asked.

  “Just the usual.” She noticed the grin on his face. “What is it?”

  He shook his head, but she dug her pen into his ribs.

  “It’s your cupboards,” he confessed.

  “My what?”

  “Your cupboards. All the tins and jars . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “They’re arranged with the labels facing out.”

  “So?”

  “It just spooks me, that’s all.” He wandered over to her CD rack, pulled a disc out at random, opened its case. “See?”

  “What?”

  “You put your CDs back in the case so they’re the right way up.” He snapped the case shut, opened another.

  “It makes them easier to read,” Siobhan said.

  “Not many people do it.”

  “I’m not like other people.”

  “That’s right.” He kneeled in front of the tray, pushed down on the cafetière’s plunger. “You’re more organized.”

  “That’s right.”

  “A lot more organized.”

  She nodded, then jabbed him with her pen again. He chuckled, poured milk into her mug.

  “Just an observation,” he said, adding coffee to both mugs, handing hers over.

  “I get enough grief at the office, Mr. Bain,” Siobhan told him.

  “You working this weekend?”

  “No.”

  “Got plans?” He slurped from his mug, angled his head to read her notes. “You were at the Paradiso?”

  A little vertical frown appeared between her eyes. “You know the place?”

  “Only by reputation. It changed hands about six months back.”

  “Did it?”

  “Used to be owned by Tojo McNair. He has a couple of the bars down Leith.”

  “Salubrious establishments, no doubt.”

  “Sticky carpets and weak beer. What was the Paradiso like?”

  She considered the question. “Not as seedy as I’d expected.”

  “Better than having the girls walking the streets?”

  She thought this over, too, before nodding agreement. There was a plan afoot to zone off part of Leith, turn it into a safe area for streetwalkers. But the first choice had been an industrial estate, badly lit and the scene of an attack a few years before. So now it was back to the drawing board . . .

  Siobhan tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa; Eric slumped in the chair opposite.

  “Who’s on the hi-fi?” he asked.

  She ignored this and asked her own question instead. “Who owns the Paradiso nowadays?”

  “Well . . . that all
depends.”

  “On what?”

  He patted the side of his nose with his index finger.

  “Do I have to thrash an answer out of you?” Siobhan asked, smiling above the rim of her mug.

  “I bet you’d do it, too.” But he still wasn’t telling.

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “We are.”

  “No point coming round here if you don’t want to talk.”

  He sighed, sipped some coffee, leaving a milky residue along his top lip. “You know Big Ger Cafferty?” he said. The question was entirely rhetorical. “Word is, if you burrow deep enough, it’s his name you’ll find.”

  Siobhan sat forward. “Cafferty?”

  “He’s not exactly advertising the fact, and he never goes near the place.”

  “How do you know?”

  Bain wriggled in his chair, not at all comfortable with this conversation. “I’ve been doing some work for the SDEA.”

  “You mean Claverhouse?”

  Bain nodded. “It’s hush-hush. If he finds out I’ve been blabbing . . .”

  “They’re after Cafferty again?”

  “Can we drop it, please? I only have to get through this one job, then I’m off to the Forensic Computer Branch. Did you know their workload’s increasing twenty percent every three months?”

  Siobhan was on her feet, walking over to the window. The shutters were closed, but she stood there as though staring at some startling new vista. “Whose workload? The SDEA?”

  “The FCB — you’re not listening . . .”

  “Cafferty?” she said, almost to herself.

  Cafferty owned the Paradiso . . . Edward Marber had frequented the place . . . And there was a story that Marber had been cheating his clients . . .

  “I was supposed to interview him today,” she said quietly.

  “Who?”

  She turned her head towards Bain; it was as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Cafferty,” she told him.

  “What for?”

  She didn’t hear him. “He was across in Glasgow . . . due back tonight.” She checked her watch.

  “It’ll wait till Monday,” Bain said.

  She nodded agreement. Yes, it could wait. Maybe if she could gather a bit more ammo first.

  “Okay,” Bain said. “So sit down again and relax.”

  She slapped a hand against her thigh. “How can I relax?”