Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“Well then,” Jazz said, slipping his own phone back into his jacket, “might as well use your mobile, eh?”

Francis Gray’s face went pink with laughter, the color reminding Rebus of a baby being lifted from its bathtub.

He didn’t mind making the call actually. After all, he reckoned he’d had a pretty good morning so far. The only thing he was wondering was: when would he get a minute to himself to delve into Strathern’s report?

Siobhan was splashing water on her face when one of the uniforms, WPC Toni Jackson, came into the women’s toilets.

“Will we see you Friday night?” Jackson said.

“Not sure,” Siobhan told her.

“Yellow card if you miss three weeks on the trot,” Jackson warned her. She went to one of the cubicles, locked the door after her. “There’s no paper towels, by the way,” she called. Siobhan checked the dispenser: nothing inside but fresh air. There was an electric dryer on the other wall, but it had been broken for months. She went to the cubicle next to Jackson’s, pulled at a clump of toilet paper and started dabbing at her face.

Jackson and some of the other uniforms went for a drink every Friday. Sometimes it went beyond a drink: a meal, then a club, dancing away all the frustrations of the week. They pulled the occasional bloke: never any shortage of takers. Siobhan had been invited along one time, honored to have been asked. Hers was the only CID face. They seemed to accept her, found they could gossip freely in front of her. But Siobhan had started skipping weeks, and now she’d skipped two in a row. It was that old Groucho Marx thing about not wanting to be part of any club that would have her. She didn’t know why exactly. Maybe because it felt like a routine, and with it the job became a routine, too . . . something to be endured for the sake of a salary check and the Friday-night dance with a stranger.

“What have they got you doing?” Siobhan called.

“Foot patrol.”

“Who with?”

“Perry Mason.”

Siobhan smiled. “Perry” was actually John Mason, only recently out of Tulliallan. Everyone had started calling him Perry. George Silvers even had a name for Toni Jackson: he called her “Tony Jacklin,” or had done until a rumor had spread that Toni was sister to footballer Darren Jackson. Silvers had treated her with a bit of respect after that. Siobhan had asked Toni if it was true.

“It’s bollocks,” she’d said. “But I’m not going to let that worry me.”

As far as Siobhan knew, Silvers still thought Toni was related to Darren Jackson, and he still treated her with respect . . .

The “Toni” was short for Antonia: “I never call myself that,” Toni had said one night, seated at the bar in the Hard Rock Café, looking around to see what “talent” might be lurking. “Sounds too posh, doesn’t it?”

“You should try being called Siobhan . . .”

Siobhan had met almost no one who could spell her name. And if they saw it written down, they almost never connected it with her. “See Oban?” they’d guess.

“Shi-vawn,” she would stress.

She had a Gaelic name but an English accent; Toni couldn’t call herself Antonia because it was too posh . . .

Such a strange country, Siobhan thought to herself. From behind the cubicle door, she could hear Toni uttering a string of curses.

“What’s up?” Siobhan called.

“Bloody loo roll’s finished. Is there any next door?”

Siobhan looked: she’d used most of the paper drying her face. “A few sheets,” she said.

“Chuck them over here then.”

Siobhan did as she was asked. “Look, Toni, about Friday night . . .”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a date?”

Siobhan considered this. “Actually, I have,” she lied. It was the one acceptable excuse she could think of for missing a Friday session.

“Who is he?”

“Not telling.”

“Why don’t you bring him along?”

“I didn’t know men were allowed. Besides, you lot would devour him.”

“Looker, is he?”

“He’s not bad.”

“All right . . .” The toilet flushed. “But I’ll want a report afterwards.” The door clicked open and Toni emerged, adjusting her uniform and making for the sink.

“No towels, remember?” Siobhan told her, pulling open the door.

WPC Toni Jackson started cursing all over again.

Derek Linford was standing in the corridor directly outside. It was obvious to Siobhan that he’d been waiting for her.

“Can I have a word?” he said, sounding pleased with himself.

Siobhan led him down the corridor, wanting him out of the way before Toni emerged. She was afraid Toni would think Linford was her breakfast partner for Saturday. “What is it?” she asked.

“I spoke to the lettings agency.”

“And?”

“No sign that it’s owned by Cafferty . . . seems aboveboard. The property they rented to Marber is a flat in Mayfield Terrace. Only, Edward Marber didn’t live there.”

“Of course not. He had a bloody big house of his own . . .”

He looked at her. “The woman’s name is Laura Stafford.”

“What woman?”

Linford smiled. “The woman who walked into the lettings agency and asked about renting a flat. They showed her several, and she took one.”

“But the rent comes out of Marber’s account?”

Linford was nodding. “One of his more obscure accounts.”

“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.