Resurrection Men (2002) (8 page)

The Weasel had brought his face a little closer to Rebus’s, as if they were conspirators. “But if they ever got a whiff that you’d said anything . . . ?”

Rebus leaned back. “And what exactly have I said?”

A smile spread across the Weasel’s face. “Nothing, Mr. Rebus. Nothing whatsoever.” He reached out a hand. Rebus took it, felt soft pressure as the two men shook. They didn’t say anything, but the eye contact was enough.

Claverhouse’s words:
Just two fathers having a little chat . . .

Claverhouse and Ormiston dropped him off at Tulliallan. There hadn’t been much conversation on the trip back.

Rebus: “I don’t think he’s up for it.”

Claverhouse: “Then his son’s going to jail.”

It was a point Claverhouse reiterated angrily and often, until Rebus reminded him that he was trying to convince the wrong man.

“Maybe
I’ll
talk to him,” Claverhouse had said. “Me and Ormie, maybe we could be more persuasive.”

“Maybe you could.”

When Ormiston pulled on the hand brake, it sounded like a trapdoor opening. Rebus got out and walked across the car park, listening to the cab moving away. When he stepped into the college, he headed straight for the bar. Work had finished for the day.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked the circle of officers.

“A lecture on the importance of exercise,” Jazz McCullough replied. “It helps work off feelings of aggression and frustration.”

“Which is why you’re all doing some circuit training?” Rebus pointed at the group and made a stirring motion, ready to take their drinks orders. Stu Sutherland was, as usual, the first to reply. He was a brawny, red-faced son of a Highlander, with thick black hair and slow, careful movements. Determined to hang in until pension time, he’d long since grown tired of the job — and wasn’t afraid to admit as much.

“I’ll do my share,” he’d told the group. “Nobody can complain about me not doing my share.” The extent of this “share” had never really been explained, and no one had bothered to ask. It was easier just to ignore Stu, which was probably the way he liked it, too . . .

“Nice big whiskey,” he said now, handing Rebus his empty glass. Having ascertained the rest of the order, Rebus went up to the bar, where the barman had already starting pouring. The group were sharing some joke when Francis Gray put his head round the door. Rebus was ready to add to the order, but Gray spotted him and shook his head, then pointed back into the hallway before disappearing. Rebus paid for the drinks, handed them out and then walked to the door. Francis Gray was waiting for him.

“Let’s go walkies,” Gray said, sliding his hands into his pockets. Rebus followed him down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. They ended up in a sub-post office. It was a pretty accurate mock-up of the real thing, with a range of shelves filled with newspapers and magazines, packets and boxes, and the glass-fronted wall of the post office itself. They used it for hostage exercises and arrest procedures.

“What’s up?” Rebus asked.

“See this morning, Barclay having a go at me for keeping information back?”

“Not still eating you, is it?”

“Credit me with some sense. No, it’s something I’ve found.”

“Something about Barclay?”

Gray just looked at him, picked up one of the magazines. It was three months out of date. He tossed it back down.

“Francis, I’ve a drink waiting for me. I’d like to get back before it evaporates . . .”

Gray slid a hand from his pocket. It was holding a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” Rebus asked.

“You tell me.”

Rebus took the sheet and unfolded it. It was a short, typewritten report, detailing a visit to Edinburgh by two CID officers from the Rico Lomax inquiry. They’d been sent to track down “a known associate,” Richard Diamond, but had spent a fruitless few days in the capital. By the last sentence of the report, the author’s feelings had got the better of him, and he proffered “grateful thanks to our colleague, DI John Rebus (St. Leonard’s CID), for endeavors on our behalf which can only be described as stinting in the extreme.”

“Maybe he meant ‘unstinting,’ ” Rebus said blithely, making to hand the sheet back. Gray kept his hands in his pockets.

“Thought you might want to keep it.”

“Why?”

“So no one else finds it and starts to wonder, like me, why you didn’t say anything.”

“About what?”

“About being involved in the original inquiry.”

“What’s to tell? A couple of lazy bastards from Glasgow, all they wanted was to know the good boozers. Headed back after a couple of days and had to write something.” Rebus shrugged.

“Doesn’t explain why you didn’t bring it up. But maybe it
does
explain why you were so keen to sift through all the paperwork before the rest of us had a chance.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning maybe you wanted to make sure your name wasn’t there . . .”

Rebus just shook his head slowly, as if dealing with a stubborn child.

“Where did you disappear to today?” Gray asked.

“A wild-goose chase.”

Gray waited a few seconds, but could see he wasn’t going to get any more. He took the sheet from Rebus and started folding it. “So, do I slip this back into the case notes?”

“I think you better.”

“I’m not so sure. This Richard Diamond, he ever turn up again?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he’s back in circulation, he’s someone we should be talking to, isn’t he?”

“Could be.” Rebus was studying the sheet, watching the way Gray was sliding his fingers along its sharp edges. He reached out his own hand and took it, folded it into his pocket. Gray gave a little smile.

“You were a late entrant to our little gang, weren’t you, John? The sheet they sent me with all our names on it . . . yours wasn’t there.”

“My chief wanted rid of me in a hurry.”

Gray smiled again. “It’s just coincidence then: Tennant coming up with a case that both you and me worked?”

Rebus shrugged. “How can it be anything else?”

Gray looked thoughtful. He gave one of the cereal boxes a shake. It was empty, as he’d expected. “Story is, only reason you’re still on the force is that you know where the bodies are buried.”

“Any bodies in particular?” Rebus asked.

“Now how would I know a thing like that?”

It was Rebus’s turn to smile. “Francis,” he said, “I even have the photographs.” And with a wink, he turned back and headed for the bar.

5

C
ynthia Bessant’s flat made up the entire top floor of a bonded warehouse conversion near Leith Links. One huge room took up most of the space. There was a cathedral ceiling with large skylights. An enormous painting dominated the main wall. It was maybe twenty feet high and six wide, an airbrushed spectrum of colors. Looking around, Siobhan noted that it was the only painting on display. There were no books in the room, no TV or hi-fi. Two of the facing walls comprised sliding windows, giving views down onto Leith docks and west towards the city. Cynthia Bessant was in the kitchen area, pouring herself a glass of wine. Neither officer had accepted the invitation to join her. Davie Hynds sat in the center of a white sofa meant to accommodate a football team. He was making a show of studying his notebook; Siobhan hoped he wasn’t going to sulk. They’d had words on the stairwell, starting when Hynds had mentioned his relief that Marber hadn’t been, in his words, “an arse-bandit.”

“What the hell difference does it make?” Siobhan had snapped.

“I just . . . I prefer it, that’s all.”

“Prefer what?”

“That he wasn’t an —”

“Don’t.” Siobhan had raised her hand. “Don’t say it again.”

“What?”

“Davie, let’s just drop this.”

“You’re the one who started it.”

“And I’m finishing it, okay?”

“Look, Siobhan, it’s not that I’m —”

“It’s finished, Davie,
okay?
”

“Fine by me,” he’d grunted.

And now he sat with his nose in his notebook, taking in nothing.

Cynthia Bessant sauntered over to the sofa and joined him there, proffering a smile. She took a slug from her glass, swallowed and exhaled.

“Much better,” she said.

“Hard day?” Siobhan asked, deciding at last to sit down on one of the matching chairs.

Bessant started counting off on her fingers. “The taxman, the VAT man, three exhibitions to organize, a greedy ex-husband and a nineteen-year-old son who’s suddenly decided he can paint.” She peered over the rim of her glass, not at Siobhan but at Hynds. “Is that enough to be going on with?”

“Plenty, I’d have said,” Hynds agreed, his face breaking into a smile as he suddenly realized he was being flirted with. He glanced towards Siobhan to gauge her annoyance.

“Not forgetting Mr. Marber’s death,” Siobhan said.

Bessant’s face creased in pain. “God, yes.” The woman’s reactions were slightly exaggerated. Siobhan was wondering if art dealers always put on a performance.

“You live by yourself?” Hynds was asking Bessant now.

“When I so choose,” she replied, dredging up a smile.

“Well, we’re grateful you put aside some time to talk to us.”

“Not at all.”

“It’s just that we have a few more questions,” Siobhan said. “To do with Mr. Marber’s private life.”

“Oh?”

“Could you tell us how often he resorted to prostitutes, Mrs. Bessant?”

Siobhan thought she could see the woman flinch. Hynds glared at her. His eyes seemed to say,
Don’t use her to get at me.
But now Bessant was speaking.

“Eddie didn’t ‘resort to’ anything.”

“Well, how would you put it?”

There were tears in Bessant’s eyes, but she straightened her back, trying for resilience.

“It was how Eddie chose to order his life. Relationships always got messy, that’s what he said . . .” She seemed about to say more, but stopped herself.

“So did he cruise Coburg Street, or what?”

She looked at Siobhan in mild distaste, and Siobhan felt a little of her own hostility ebb away. Hynds’s eyes were still on her, but she refused to meet them.

“He used a sauna,” Bessant said quietly.

“Regularly?”

“As often as he needed. We weren’t
quite
so close that he felt he had to share every detail.”

“Did he shop around?”

Bessant took a deep breath, then sighed. She remembered she was holding a glass of wine and tipped it to her mouth, swallowed.

“Best way to get through this is to tell us everything, Cynthia,” Hynds said quietly.

“But Eddie was always so . . . so
private
in that way . . .”

“I understand. You’re not breaking any confidences, you know.”

“Aren’t I?” She was looking at him.

He shook his head. “You’re helping us try to find whoever killed him.”

She thought about this, nodded her head slowly. The tears had cleared from her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, focusing on Hynds. For a moment, Siobhan thought they were going to hold hands.

“There’s a place not too far from here. Whenever Eddie dropped in, I knew he was either on his way there or on his way home.” Siobhan wanted to ask if she could tell the difference, but she stayed silent. “It’s up a lane off Commercial Street.”

“Do you know what it’s called?” Hynds asked.

She shook her head.

“Don’t worry,” Siobhan said, “we can find it.”

“I just want to protect his name,” Bessant said imploringly. “You do understand?” Hynds nodded slowly.

Siobhan was rising to her feet. “If it has no bearing on the case, I can’t see a problem.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia Bessant said quietly.

She insisted on seeing them to the door. Hynds asked if she’d be okay.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, touching his arm. Then, with the door open, she shook his hand. Siobhan stood just over the threshold, wondering whether to stretch out her own hand, but Bessant had turned back into the room. Davie Hynds pulled the door closed.

“Think she’ll be all right?” he asked as they descended the echoing stairs. The walls were brick, painted pale yellow. The steps themselves were metal, vibrating tinnily. “Bloody creepy place to live.”

“Check on her later, if you like.” Siobhan paused. “Once you’re off duty.”

“This is a new side of you I’m seeing,” Hynds said.

“Stick around,” she told him. “I’ve got more sides than John Rebus’s record collection.”

“Meaning he’s got a lot of records?”

“More than a few,” Siobhan admitted.

Back on the street, she sought out a newsagent’s and bought an evening paper, opened it to the classifieds.

“Buying or selling?” Hynds asked. She stabbed her finger at a list headed “Saunas,” then ran the same finger down the page, checking addresses. “Paradiso,” she said. “VIP suites, TV and on-street parking.”

Hynds looked: the address seemed right. It was two minutes away by car. “We’re not going there?” he asked.

“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.