Resurrection Men ir-13

by Ian Rankin

“Meaning he wanted it kept hidden? You think this Laura woman was his mistress?”

  “Except he wasn’t married.”

  “No, he wasn’t.” Siobhan chewed at her bottom lip. The name Laura . . . there was something . . . Yes: the Sauna Paradiso. The two businessmen who’d had a drink. One of them had asked if Laura was on duty. Siobhan wondered . . .

  “You going to talk to her?” she asked.

  Linford nodded. He could see how interested she was. “Want to tag along?”

  “Thinking of it.”

  He folded his arms. “Listen, Siobhan, I was wondering . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, I know things didn’t work out between us . . .”

  Her eyes widened. “Tell me you’re not about to ask me out?”

  He shrugged. “I just thought Friday, if you’re not doing anything.”

  “After last time? After you spying on me?”

  “I just wanted to know you.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  He gave another shrug. “Maybe you’ve got other plans for Friday?”

  Something in his tone alerted her. “You were listening at the door,” she stated.

  “I was just waiting for you to come out. It’s hardly my fault if you and your pal were yelling so loud half the station could hear.” He paused. “Still want to go to Mayfield Terrace?”

  She weighed up her options. “Yes,” she stated.

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Ooh, look at the lovebirds!” Toni Jackson said, pausing beside them. When Siobhan shot out an arm, Jackson actually ducked. But all Siobhan did was pick a remnant of toilet paper from her face.

  Mayfield Terrace was only a five-minute drive from St. Leonard’s. It was a wide avenue between Dalkeith Road and Minto Street. Those two were busy routes in and out of the city, but Mayfield Terrace was a quiet oasis, with vast detached and semi-detached houses, most on three and four floors. Some of these had been split into flats, including the one where Laura Stafford lived.

  “Didn’t suppose she’d get a whole house around here for six-seventy a month,” Linford said. Siobhan remembered that property was something of an obsession with him. He would pore over the real estate agency guide each week, comparing prices and areas.

  “What, do you reckon to buy one?” she asked.

  He shrugged, but she could see he was doing the sums. “You’d probably get a one-bedroom conversion for a hundred K.”

  “And a whole house?”

  “Detached or semi?”

  “Detached.”

  “Maybe seven, eight hundred K.” He paused. “And rising.”

  They’d climbed four steps to the front door. There were three names, three buzzers. None of the names was Stafford.

  “What do you think?” Siobhan asked. Linford stood back, craned his neck. “Ground, first and top,” he said. Then he looked down to either side of the steps. “But there’s a garden flat, too. Must have its own door.”

  He went back down the steps, Siobhan following him around to the side of the house where they found the door, and a buzzer with no name. Linford pressed it and waited. When it opened, a woman was standing there. She was stooped and in her sixties. Behind her, they could hear the playful yelps of a child.

  “Ms. Stafford?” Linford asked.

  “Laura’s not in. She’ll be back soon.”

  “Are you her mother?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m Alexander’s granny.”

  “Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Dow. Thelma Dow. You’re from the police, aren’t you?”

  “Are we that obvious?” Siobhan asked with a smile.

  “Donny . . . my son,” Mrs. Dow explained. “He used to be an awful one for getting in trouble.” She suddenly started. “He’s not . . . ?”

  “It’s nothing to do with your son, Mrs. Dow. We’re here to see Laura.”

  “She’s gone to the shops. Should be here any minute . . .”

  “Do you mind if we wait?”

  Mrs. Dow didn’t mind. She led them down a narrow set of stairs into the flat proper. There were two bedrooms, and a living room which opened into a bright conservatory. The door to the conservatory was open, showing a four-year-old boy playing in the back garden. The living room was cluttered with toys.

  “I can’t control him,” Mrs. Dow said. “I do my best, but laddies that age . . .”

  “Or any age,” Siobhan said, raising a tired smile from the woman.

  “They’ve split up, you know.”

  “Who?” Linford asked, seemingly more interested in the room than his own question.

  “Donny and Laura.” Mrs. Dow was staring out at her grandson. “Not that he minds me still coming here . . .”

  “Doesn’t Donny see much of Alexander?” Siobhan asked.

  “Not much.”

  “Is that his choice or Laura’s?” Linford asked, still not paying much attention. Mrs. Dow decided not to answer, turning instead to Siobhan.

  “It’s tough enough being a single parent these days.”

  Siobhan nodded. “Or any days,” she added, noting that this struck a chord with the woman. Obviously, Thelma Dow had brought her son up by herself. “Do you look after Alexander when Laura’s at work?”

  “Sometimes, yes . . . There’s a nursery he goes to, too . . .”

  “Does Laura work nights?” Siobhan asked.

  Mrs. Dow looked down at the floor. “Sometimes, yes.”

  “And you stay here with Alexander?” Siobhan watched the woman nod slowly. “Thing is, you didn’t ask why we’re here, Mrs. Dow. That would be the normal question. Makes me think Laura’s had a few run-ins over the years, and you’ve become used to it.”

  “I might not like what she does for a living, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand her reasons. Lord knows, I’ve been through plenty of hard times myself.” She paused. “Years back, I mean. When Donny and his brother were young, and no money coming in . . . Who knows now whether that thought ever crossed my mind back then?”

  “You mean you thought of going on the game?” Linford asked coldly. Siobhan could have slapped him, but had to content herself with a glower.

  “I apologize for my colleague, Mrs. Dow,” she said. “He has all the sensitivity of a goat.”

  Linford looked at her, seeming shocked by this pronouncement. Just then a door opened and closed. Feet on the steps.

  “Just me, Thelma,” a voice called. Moments later, Laura Stafford walked into the living room, carrying two bags marked SAVACENTRE — the name of the supermarket at the bottom of Dalkeith Road. Her eyes went from Siobhan to Linford and back again. Saying nothing, she walked into the kitchen and started emptying the shopping. It was a small kitchen, not enough room for a table. Siobhan stood in the doorway.

  “It’s about Edward Marber,” she said.

  “I wondered when you’d come.”

  “Well, here we are. We can talk now, or make an appointment for later.”

  Stafford looked up, sensing that Siobhan was doing her best to be discreet. “Thelma?” she called. “Think you could go play with Alexander for five minutes while I get this done with?”

  Mrs. Dow got up without a word and went into the garden. Siobhan could hear her talking to her grandson.

  “We haven’t said anything to her,” she said. Laura Stafford nodded.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Does she know about Marber?”

  Stafford shook her head. She was five foot four, slim, late twenties. Short black hair in a neat cut with a side parting. She wore a little makeup on her face: eyeliner and maybe some foundation. No jewelry, and a white T-shirt tucked into faded blue denims. Open-toed pink sandals on her feet.

  “I don’t look like a whore, do I?” she said, making Siobhan aware that she’d been staring too hard.

  “Not the stereotype, anyway,” Siobhan admitted. Linford was in the doorway, too, now.

  “I’m DI Linford,�
� he said, “this is DS Clarke. We’re here to ask you a few questions about Edward Marber.”

  “Of course you are, Officer.”

  “He pays for this place?”

  “Until the payments stop.”

  “What happens then, Laura?” Siobhan asked.

  “Maybe I’ll keep the place on. I haven’t decided.”

  “You can afford it?” Linford asked, with what to Siobhan sounded almost like a hint of envy.

  “I make enough,” Stafford said.

  “You didn’t mind being a kept woman?”

  “His choice, not mine.” She leaned back against the kitchen countertop and folded her arms. “Okay, here’s the story . . .”

  But Siobhan interrupted her. She didn’t like Linford standing so close to her. “Maybe if we sat down first?” she suggested.

  They moved into the living room. When Linford settled into the sofa, Siobhan took the chair, meaning Laura Stafford had to sit next to Linford, a move which seemed to make him uncomfortable.

  “You were saying . . . ?” he said.

  “I was going to give you the story. It’ll be short and to the point. Eddie was a client of mine, as you’ve already gathered.”

  “At the Sauna Paradiso?” Siobhan interrupted. Laura nodded.

  “That’s where I met him. He came in every couple of weeks or so.”

  “Did he always ask for you?” Linford asked.

  “As far as I know. Maybe he came in sometimes when I wasn’t on shift.”

  Linford nodded. “Go on, please.”

  “Well, he was always wanting to know about me. Some of the punters are like that, but Eddie was different. He had that quiet, insistent sort of voice. In the end, I started talking. Me and Donny had split up. I had Alexander and we were in this poxy place in Granton . . .” She paused. “Next thing I know, Eddie says he’s fixed me up. I thought it was some kind of con. That’s another thing the punters do: they’re always offering you stuff that never comes to anything.” She had crossed one leg over the other. There was a thin gold chain around her right ankle. “Eddie seemed to realize that. He gave me the address and number of this lettings agency, told me to head down there myself and pick out a flat for me and Alexander.” She looked around her. “So here we are.”

  “Nice place,” Siobhan said.

  “And what did Mr. Marber want in return?” Linford asked.

  Stafford shook her head slowly. “If there was a catch, he didn’t stay around long enough for me to find out what it was.”

  “No home visits?” Linford asked.

  Stafford bristled. “I don’t do anything like that.” She paused. “I’m still not sure why he did it.”

  “Maybe he just fell for you, Laura,” Siobhan said, further softening her voice, prepared to play “nice” to Linford’s “nasty.” “I think there was a bit of the romantic in him . . .”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Stafford’s eyes were glinting with emotion, and Siobhan knew she’d said the right thing. “Maybe that’s what it was.”

  “Did you ever go to his house?” Siobhan asked. Stafford shook her head. “You knew what he did for a living?”

  “He sold paintings, right?”

  Siobhan nodded. “Some of the paintings he owned, they were taken down from the walls — any idea why he’d do that?”

  “Maybe to send to his place in Tuscany.”

  “You know about it?”

  “He told me about it. It’s true then . . . ?”

  Stafford had obviously heard a lot of stories and boasts in her time. “He has a place in Italy, yes,” Siobhan confirmed. “Laura, one of his paintings seems to be missing. He didn’t give it to you, did he?” She held up the photo of the painting. Stafford looked at it, but wasn’t really concentrating.

  “He talked about Italy,” she said wistfully, “how he’d take me there one day . . . I thought it was just . . .” She lowered her eyes.

  “Eddie opened up to you then, Laura?” Siobhan asked quietly. “He talked about himself?”

  “Nothing too personal . . . a bit about his background, stuff like that.”

  “Problems he was having?” Stafford shook her head. “Nothing troubling him recently?”

  “No, he seemed happy enough. Had some money coming to him, I think.”

  “What makes you say that?” Linford asked brusquely.

  “I think maybe he said something about it. When we were talking about this place, how he could afford it.”

  “And he said he had money coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could he have meant the exhibition, Laura?” Siobhan asked.

  “I suppose so . . .”

  “You don’t really think so?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked out through the conservatory. “It’s getting cold out there. Alexander needs to come in . . .”

  “Just a couple more questions, Laura. I need to ask about the Paradiso.”

  Stafford looked at her. “What about it?”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Ricky Marshall.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Siobhan teased her. “He might run the desk, but that’s all, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve always dealt with Ricky.”

  “Always?”

  Stafford nodded. Siobhan let the silence lie between them for a minute.

  “Have you ever come across a man called Cafferty? Big Ger Cafferty?”

  Stafford shook her head. Again, Siobhan let the silence lie. Stafford shifted on the sofa, as if about to say something.

  “And all the time,” Linford broke in, “that Marber was paying for this place, he never asked you for any extras?”

  Stafford’s face became a mask, and Siobhan knew that they’d lost her.

  “No,” she was saying, in reply to the question.

  “You’ll appreciate that we find that hard to believe,” Linford said.

  “I don’t,” Siobhan interrupted, her eyes on Stafford while Linford fixed her with a frown. “I believe it,” Siobhan said. Then she got up and handed her card to Laura Stafford. “Anytime you want to talk . . .”

  Stafford studied the card, nodded slowly.

  “Well, thanks again for your time,” Linford said grudgingly.

  They’d reached the door when they heard Stafford calling from the living room. “I liked him, you know. That’s more than I can say for most of them . . .”

  Outside, they walked towards Linford’s car in silence. After they’d got in and fastened their seat belts, he turned the ignition, fixing his gaze on the road ahead.

  “Well, thanks for your support back there,” he said.

  “And thanks so very much for yours. Teamwork’s what it’s all about at the end of the day.”

  “I don’t remember saying I didn’t believe you.”

  “Let’s just leave it, eh?”

  He fumed for a good two minutes before speaking. “The boyfriend . . . or whatever he is.”

  “Donny Dow?”

  Linford nodded. “The mother of his kid is shacked up in a posh flat. He decides to thump the sugar daddy, but ends up thumping him too hard.”

  “How did he know about Marber?”

  “Maybe she told him.”

  “Mrs. Dow doesn’t even know.”

  “We’ve only the prossie’s word for that.”

  Siobhan screwed shut her eyes. “Don’t call her that.”

  “Isn’t that what she is?” When she didn’t answer, his look said he’d won that particular argument. “We need to talk to him anyway.”

  Siobhan opened her eyes again. “His mum said he used to get into trouble. He’ll be on the files.”

  Linford nodded. “And so will his ex. Maybe there’s more to her than just soliciting, eh?” He risked a glance at Siobhan. “You think Cafferty knew about the arrangement?”

  “I don’t even know for sure that he owns the Paradiso.”

  “But it’s likely?”

  With a nod, Siobhan conceded that it was. She
was thinking: if Cafferty had known about Marber’s crush on Laura . . . well, then what? What could it mean? Was it even possible that he had put Laura up to it? Why would he do that? She could think of reasons. Maybe Marber had a painting or paintings Cafferty wanted . . . something Marber was unwilling to sell. She still didn’t see how blackmail or anything like it would have helped. Marber was single. It was the married ones you blackmailed, the ones who needed to be whiter than white. Marber worked with artists, the wealthy, the cosmopolitan. Siobhan didn’t think they’d be shocked to learn that their art dealer friend had been sleeping with prostitutes. If anything, it might have made him more popular.

  Had some money coming to him, I think . . . Laura’s words came back to her. How much money, and from what source? Enough money to get him killed? Enough to interest someone like Big Ger Cafferty?

  “What do they do when they retire?” Linford was asking, signaling to pull into St. Leonard’s.

  “Who?”

  “Working girls. I mean, she looks okay just now, but that won’t last. The work’ll start to dry up . . . amongst other things.” He failed to stifle a grin.

  “Jesus, Derek, you disgust me,” Siobhan said.

  “So who is it you’re seeing on Friday night?” he asked.

  14

  Leith police station was an elderly and distinguished building on the outside, but referred to by most of its occupants as “the geriatric.” Pulling on his jacket as he led them back down its steps into the waiting afternoon, DI Bobby Hogan explained why.

  “It’s like somebody in a nursing home. They might look well enough dressed — presentable and all that — but inside, their body’s started breaking down. The plumbing might leak, the heart’s a bit dicky, and the brain’s given up the ghost.” He winked at Allan Ward.

  Three of them had made the trip from St. Leonard’s: Rebus was the obvious choice, of course, but Tam Barclay had made a song and dance about needing some fresh air, and Allan Ward had volunteered, even though Rebus suspected that what the young man wanted to see were signs of prostitution.

  The day was bright but windy. Hogan’s jacket flapped like a sail as he finally secured his arms into its sleeves. He was glad of the excuse to be out of the station. They’d only needed to mention the Zombie Bar and he’d sprung up from his desk, looking around him for his jacket.