Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

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.