‘They were picked up in Leith.’
‘Arrested, you mean?’
‘Hassling some of the street girls. The mother was hysterical... Taken to Leith cop-shop to make sure she was all right.’
‘And how do you know all this?’
‘Leith phoned here, looking for you.’
Siobhan frowned. ‘You’re still at Gayfield Square?’
‘It’s nice when it’s quiet — I can have any desk I want.’
‘You’ve got to go home some time.’
‘Actually, I was just on my way when the call came.’ He chuckled. ‘Know what Tibbet’s up to? Nothing on his computer but train timetables.’
‘So what you’re actually doing is snooping on the rest of us?’
‘My way of getting acquainted with new surroundings, Shiv. Do you want me to come pick you up, or will I meet you at Leith?’
‘I thought you were on your way home.’
‘This sounds a lot more entertaining.’
‘Then I’ll meet you at Leith.’
Siobhan put down the phone and went into the bathroom to get dressed. The remaining half-tub of choc mint-chip had turned liquid, but she put it back in the freezer.
Leith police station was situated on Constitution Street. It was a glum stone building, hard-faced like its surroundings. Leith, once a prosperous shipping port, with a personality distinct from that of the city, had seen hard times in the past few decades: industrial decline, the drugs culture, prostitution. Parts of it had been redeveloped, and others tidied up. Newcomers were moving in, and didn’t want the old, sullied Leith. Siobhan thought it would be a pity if the area’s character was lost; then again, she didn’t have to live there...
Leith had for many years provided a ‘tolerance zone’ for prostitutes. It wasn’t that police turned a blind eye, but they wouldn’t go out of their way to interfere either. But this had come to an end, and the street-walkers had been scattered, leading to more instances of violence against them. A few had tried to move back to their old haunt, while others headed out along Salamander Street or up Leith Walk to the city centre. Siobhan thought she knew what the Jardines had been up to; all the same, she wanted to hear it from them.
Rebus was waiting for her in the reception area. He looked tired, but then he always looked tired: dark bags under his eyes, hair unkempt. She knew he wore the same suit all week, then had it dry-cleaned each Saturday. He was chatting with the Duty Officer, but broke off when he saw her. The Duty Officer buzzed them through a locked door, which Rebus held open for her.
‘They’ve not been arrested or anything,’ he stressed. ‘Just brought in for a chat. They’re in here...’ ‘Here’ being IR1 — Interview Room 1. It was a cramped, windowless space boasting a table and two chairs. John and Alice Jardine sat opposite one another, arms reaching out so they could hold hands. There were two drained mugs on the table. When the door opened, Alice flew to her feet, tipping one of them over.
‘You can’t keep us here all night!’ She broke off, mouth open, when she saw Siobhan. Her face lost some of its tension, while her husband smiled sheepishly, placing the mug upright again.
‘Sorry to drag you down here,’ John Jardine said. ‘We thought maybe if we mentioned your name, they’d just let us go.’
‘As far as I’m aware, John, you’re not being held. This is DI Rebus, by the way.’
There were nodded greetings. Alice Jardine had sat down again. Siobhan stood next to the table, arms folded.
‘Way I hear it, you’ve been terrorising the honest, hardworking ladies of Leith.’
‘We were just asking questions,’ Alice remonstrated.
‘Sadly, they don’t make any money from chit-chat,’ Rebus informed the couple.
‘It was Glasgow last night,’ John Jardine said quietly. ‘That seemed to go all right...’
Siobhan and Rebus shared a look. ‘And all this because Susie told you Ishbel had been seeing a man who looked like a pimp?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Look, let me fill you in on something. The girls in Leith might have a drug habit, but that’s all they’re supporting — no pimps like the ones you see in the Hollywood films.’
‘Older men,’ John Jardine said, eyes on the tabletop. ‘They get hold of girls like Ishbel and exploit them. You read about it all the time.’
‘Then you’re reading the wrong papers,’ Rebus informed them.
‘It was my idea,’ Alice Jardine added. ‘I just thought...’
‘What made you lose your rag?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Two nights of trying to get hookers to talk to us,’ John Jardine explained. But Alice was shaking her head.
‘This is Siobhan we’re talking to,’ she chided him. Then, to Siobhan: ‘The last woman we spoke to... she said she thought Ishbel might be... I need to think of her exact words...’
John Jardine helped her out. ‘“Up the pubic triangle”,’ he said.
His wife nodded to herself. ‘And when we asked her what that meant, she just started laughing... told us to go home. That’s when I lost my temper.’
‘Police car happened to be passing,’ her husband added with a shrug. ‘They brought us here. I’m sorry we’re being a nuisance, Siobhan.’
‘You’re not,’ Siobhan assured him, only half believing her own words.
Rebus had slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘The pubic triangle’s just off Lothian Road: lap-dancing bars, sex shops...’
Siobhan gave him a warning look, but too late.
‘Maybe that’s where she is then,’ Alice said, voice trembling with emotion. She gripped the edge of the table as though about to stand up and be on her way.
‘Wait a second.’ Siobhan held up a hand. ‘One woman tells you — probably jokingly — that Ishbel might be working as a lap-dancer... and you’re just going to go barging in?’
‘Why not?’ Alice asked.
Rebus gave her the answer: ‘Some of those places, Mrs Jardine, they’re not always run by the most scrupulous individuals. Unlikely to be the patient types either, when someone comes nosing around...’
John Jardine was nodding.
‘Might help,’ Rebus added, ‘if there was one particular establishment the young lady was thinking of...’
‘Always supposing she wasn’t just winding you up,’ Siobhan warned.
‘One way to find out,’ Rebus said. Siobhan turned to face him. ‘Your car or mine?’
They took hers, the Jardines in the back seat. They hadn’t gone far when John Jardine indicated that the ‘young lady’ had been standing across the road, against the wall of a disused warehouse. There was no sign of her now, though one of her colleagues was pacing the pavement, shoulders hunched against the cold.
‘We’ll give it ten minutes,’ Rebus said. ‘Not many punters about tonight. With luck she’ll be back soon.’
So Siobhan drove out along Seafield Road, all the way to the Portobello roundabout, turning right at Inchview Terrace and right again at Craigentinny Avenue. These were quiet residential streets. The lights in most of the bungalows were off, owners tucked up in bed.
‘I like driving this time of night,’ Rebus said conversationally.
Mr Jardine seemed to agree. ‘Place is completely different when there’s no traffic about. Bit more relaxed.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Plus it’s easier to spot the predators...’
The back seat went quiet after that, until they were back in Leith. ‘There she is,’ John Jardine said.
Skinny, short black hair, most of it blowing into her eyes with each gust of wind. She wore knee-length boots and a black mini-skirt with a buttoned denim jacket. No make-up, face pallid. Even from this distance, bruises were visible on her legs.
‘Know her?’ Siobhan asked.