Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“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.