Resurrection Men (2002) (16 page)

13

S
iobhan 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.

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.”