Quintin Jardine - Skinner's trail

`Then they'd better finish up whatever they're doing now, or we'll go and fetch them. I don't think their punters would like that.'

Five minutes later three sullen, dishevelled, stale-smelling women filed into the room. Martin felt Maggie Rose, seated beside him at the manager's desk, give a small shudder of distaste. The women pulled up chairs and sat opposite them.

`Good afternoon, ladies.' Martin introduced himself and Detective Inspector Rose. 'We're told that you've all — how do I put it? — provided services at one time or another to Mr Paul Ainscow. We're very anxious to speak with him on a number of matters, but we can't find him. He's vanished from his home and from his business, without trace. How well did you ladies know Mr Ainscow? We gather he was a fairly regular visitor.'

The three sat, heads bowed and impassive.

`Come on,' snapped Maggie Rose. 'This isn't for the record. Did Ainscow ever say anything about himself to any of you? Did he tell you anything about his life, his haunts?'

The biggest of the three hostesses, a redhead like Detective Inspector Rose, looked up from her contemplation of the centre of the desk. Slowly she shook her head. 'The only things that Ainscow ever says tae us is things that you wouldna want tae hear, miss. He's nobody's favourite punter, that man. Tells ye what he wants, does it, and he's away. Definitely no one for the chat.'

`When did you see him last?' asked Martin.

'A wee while back. Ah cannae really remember.'

`And you three ladies were his regulars.

All three nodded. 'Aye,' said the self-appointed spokes-woman. 'Apart from poor wee Linda that is. Damn shame that. `See men!' she added, with a sudden blazing vehemence.

'So that's all you can tell us? Nothing else, nothing personal?'

The redhead and the woman on her left shook their heads. But the third, a short fat peroxide blonde, looked across the table, hesitantly chewing on her lip.

`Yes?' said Maggie Rose.

`Well, ah don't think he jist came here.'

`Why d'you say that?'

The phony blonde hesitated again, glancing at her companions for signs of approval or disapproval, but seeing neither. 'Well,' she said, almost in a whisper. 'Once he was givin' me a hard time. He was hurtin' me and ah told him, but he said that he didna have this problem wi' big Jo down in Leith.'

Big Jo?' echoed Martin, the green eyes flashing suddenly.

`Aye, there's a wumman works in the Leith place. Big girl fae Glasgow, name o' Joanne. Ainscow seemed tae think that she could dae it every way he ever heard of.'

Martin smiled softly. Now, there's a thing. Maggie, I think we'll make it Leith next stop, to look up my old friend Big Joanne. From what I remember of her, she liked to know all about her punters. And if the big lass asked, they tended to answer. Let's head on down. Thanks for your help, ladies. You deserve the night off. Can't see you getting it, though. Must be tough being in a recession-proof business!'

‘Closed Thursday." Bloody magic! Imagine a knocking shop taking a day off.'

Martin's red sports hatch was pulled up at the door of the drab shop-front in Constitution Street, finished in the same livery as its stable-mate in Powderhall. The front door was secured with a bar and heavy padlock, emphasising the clumsily printed message which was taped to the door.

He pressed the accelerator in his impatience, revving the throaty engine. 'Let's dig the manager out, wherever he is. He dialled a short coded number on the mobile phone, resting in its car cradle by his side. The Fettes switchboard answered with its usual speed.

`This is Mr Martin. Sergeant Mcllhenney, please.'

A few seconds later, McIlhenney's voice boomed out of the car-phone's speaker. 'Yes, sir. 'What can I do for you?'

`Neil, can you dig me out, from our list, the name and address of the manager of the Hot Spot sauna in Constitution Street.'

`Aye, sir. Hold on a minute.' The speaker made a rattling sound, as Mcllhenney laid his phone down. His search took only a few seconds. 'Here it is, sir. His name's Ricky Barratt. He lives more or less over the shop, round in Queen Charlotte Street, number 279a.'

`Thanks, Neil.' Martin pressed the end button and, slipping the car into gear, drove the few hundred yards to Queen Charlotte Street.

Although a light showed through the glass front door to Number 279a, it was opened only on the fourth ring of the, bell, by a sour-faced woman dressed in a dirty off-white top and faded denims.

`Mrs Barratt?' asked Martin.

She eyed him suspiciously, but eventually snapped, 'Aye!' `Police. We'd like to speak to your husband, please.' Ye're in the wrang place, then.'

`Why's that, then?' said Martin, irritation in his voice.

`It's Thursday, 's it no'? Well the fat bastard'll be in Noble's round the corner as usual, fillin' himself up wi' beer. If he's no there, he's fuckin' deid.' Abruptly she slammed the door in Martin's face.

He glanced at Maggie Rose, a smile wreathing his face. `Hardly blame the bastard, can you? Come on, let's see if Ricky's running true to form.'

They returned to the car. Martin spun it in a tight U-turn, and drove back to Constitution Street. Noble's Bar, one of Leith's most celebrated, was less than one hundred yards away from the silent sauna, on the same side of the street. They parked, and Martin shouldered open the swing doors, Rose following close behind him. Within seconds the detective inspector realised two things: she was the only woman on the premises, and Martin was the only man wearing a tie. The thronged saloon paid no attention to the new arrivals.

Martin pressed up to the bar, and beckoned to its middle-aged manager. 'Police,' he said softly. 'We want a word with Ricky Barratt.'

The manager nodded briefly towards a gross man of medium height standing near the door of the gents' toilet. No one else in the pub observed this exchange.

Martin and Rose stepped across the pub. Barratt was deep in conversation with three other men, holding court, the centre of attraction. Martin tapped his shoulder and he turned towards him, an imperious look on his face.

`Who the fuck 'r you?'

The detective superintendent smiled. 'We're the fuckin' polis,' he said, 'and we want a word with you about one of your ladies.'

The man gave him the sneer of a barrack-room lawyer. `Ah don't have to talk to you, or the bird. Piss off, the pair of ye.'

Maggie Rose saw the sudden tensing of muscles at the base of Andy Martin's short neck. For a moment she thought that, for the first time in her life, she would see him lose his temper. She recalled a remark by Bob Skinner that he and Martin made a great team, not least because his occasionally short fuse was counterbalanced by the younger man's impenetrable calm. And, now, in the crowded bar, Martin continued to smile at his insolent, fat protagonist.

`Wrong, Mr Barratt. We are involved in a murder investigation and you will talk to us. We can either do it quietly outside, or loudly, very loudly, right here. By the time I'm finished, everyone in this pub will think you're our best friend in these parts. Fancy that, fat man, do you? If not then get your arse outside, now!'

Barratt's three companions were looking awkwardly at their feet, each one desperate to be somewhere else. The man struggled for a few seconds more to maintain his truculence, but finally his head dropped, and he rolled his great both in short strides towards the door.

Outside they stood on the pavement, as if they were three acquaintances having a casual conversation.

`Right, Ricky. To complete the formalities, I'm DS Martin, head of the Drugs and Vice team, and this is Inspector Rose. We know what your job is, and what sort of a place you run, so I don't let's have any more theatricals. What can you tell us about a man called Paul Ainscow and one of your ladies, Joanne?'