Really, it was walking distance to the Salon, but she was in a hurry. She double-parked, knowing she wouldn’t be long. Went to push the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. She peered through the glass: nobody home. The opening hours were posted on a sign behind the window. Closed Wednesday and Sunday. But this was Tuesday. And then she saw another sign, hastily hand-written on a paper bag. It had been stuck to the window but had come loose and now lay on the floor — ‘Closed due to un4seen’. The next word had started out as ‘circumstances’, but the spelling had proved a problem to the writer, who’d crossed it out, leaving the message unfinished.
Siobhan cursed herself. Hadn’t Les Young himself told her? They were being interviewed. Officially interviewed. Meaning a trip to Livingston. She got back in her car and headed that way.
Traffic was light and it didn’t take long. Soon, she was finding a parking spot outside F Division HQ. Went inside and asked the Desk Sergeant about the Cruikshank interviews. He pointed her in the right direction. She knocked on the door of the interview room, pushed it open. Les Young and another CID suit were inside. Across the table from them sat a man covered in tattoos.
‘Sorry,’ Siobhan apologised, cursing once more beneath her breath. She waited in the corridor a moment to see if Young would emerge, wondering what she was up to. He didn’t. She released the breath she’d been holding and tried the next door along. Two more suits looked up at her, frowning at the intrusion.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Siobhan said, walking in. Angie was looking up at her. ‘Just wondered if anyone knew where I could find Susie?’
‘Waiting room,’ one of the suits said.
Siobhan gave Angie a reassuring smile and made her exit. Third door lucky, she was thinking.
And she was right. Susie was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, filing her nails and chewing gum. She was nodding at something Janet Eylot was telling her. The two women were alone, no sign of Janine Harrison. Siobhan saw Les Young’s reasoning — bring them together, get them talking, maybe nervous. No one felt entirely at ease in a police station. Janet Eylot looked particularly twitchy. Siobhan remembered the wine bottles in her fridge. Janet probably wouldn’t say no to a drink right this minute, something to take the edge off...
‘Hello there,’ Siobhan said. ‘Susie, mind if I have a word?’
Eylot’s face fell further. Perhaps she was wondering why she alone was being excluded, why the others were all talking to the police.
‘Won’t be a minute,’ Siobhan assured her. Not that Susie was in a hurry to leave. First, she had to open her leopard-spot shoulder bag, take out her make-up bag, and tuck the nail-file back beneath its little elasticated band. Only then did she stand up and follow Siobhan into the corridor.
‘My turn for the inquisition?’ she said.
‘Not quite.’ Siobhan was unfolding the sheet of newspaper. She held it up in front of Susie. ‘Recognise him?’ she asked.
It was the photo accompanying the Fleshmarket Close story: Ray Mangold in front of his pub, arms folded and smiling genially, Judith Lennox next to him.
‘He looks like...’ Susie had stopped chewing her gum.
‘Yes?’
‘The one who used to pick up Ishbel.’
‘Any idea who he is?’
Susie shook her head.
‘He used to run the Albatross nightclub,’ Siobhan prompted.
‘We went there a few times.’ Susie studied the photo more closely. ‘Yes, now you come to mention it...’
‘Ishbel’s mystery boyfriend?’
Susie was nodding. ‘Might be.’
‘Only “might”?’
‘I told you, I never really got a good look at him. But this is close... might well be him.’ She nodded slowly to herself. ‘And you know the funny thing?’
‘What?’
Susie pointed at the headline. ‘I saw this when it came out, but it never dawned on me. I mean, it’s just a picture, isn’t it? You never think...’
‘No, Susie, you never do,’ Siobhan said, folding the page closed. ‘You never do.’
‘This interview and everything,’ Susie was saying, dropping her voice a little, ‘do you reckon we’re in trouble?’
‘For what? You didn’t gang up and kill Donny Cruikshank, did you?’
Susie screwed up her face in answer. ‘But that stuff we wrote in the toilets... that’s vandalism, isn’t it?’
‘From what I saw of the Bane, Susie, a decent lawyer would argue it was interior design.’ Siobhan waited till Susie smiled. ‘So don’t worry about it... any of you. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘And make sure you tell Janet.’
Susie studied Siobhan’s face. ‘You’ve noticed then?’
‘Looks to me like she needs her friends right now.’
‘Always has done,’ Susie said, regret creeping into her voice.
‘Do your best for her then, eh?’ Siobhan touched Susie on the arm, watched as she nodded, then gave a smile and turned to leave.
‘Next time you need a restyle, it’s on the house,’ Susie called to her.
‘Just the kind of bribe I’m open to,’ Siobhan called back, giving a little wave.
28
She found a parking space on Cockburn Street, and walked up Fleshmarket Close, turning left on to the High Street and left again into the Warlock. The clientele was mixed: workmen on a break; business types poring over the daily papers; tourists busy with maps and guidebooks.
‘He’s not here,’ the barman informed her. ‘Hang around twenty minutes, he might be back.’
She nodded, ordered a soft drink. Made to pay for it but he shook his head. She paid anyway — some people she’d rather not owe a favour to. He shrugged and pushed the coins into a charity tin.
She rested on one of the high stools at the bar, took a sip of the ice-cold drink. ‘So where is he, do you know?’
‘Just out somewhere.’
Siobhan took another sip. ‘He’s got a car, right?’ The barman stared at her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not fishing,’ she told him. ‘It’s just that parking’s a nightmare round here. I was wondering how he managed.’
‘Know the lock-ups on Market Street?’
She started to shake her head, but then nodded instead. ‘All those arch-shaped doors in the wall?’
‘They’re garages. He’s got one of those. Christ knows how much it cost him.’
‘So he keeps his car there?’
‘Parks it and walks here — only exercise I’ve ever known him take...’
Siobhan was already heading for the door.
Market Street faced the main railway line south from Waverley Station. Behind it, Jeffrey Street curved steeply towards the Canongate. The lock-ups sat in a row at pavement level, tapering in size depending on Jeffrey Street’s incline. Some were too small to fit a car inside, all but one were padlocked shut. Siobhan arrived just as Ray Mangold was pulling his own doors closed.
‘Nice bit of kit,’ she said. It took him a moment to place her, then his eyes followed hers to the red Jaguar convertible.
‘I like it,’ he said.
‘I’ve always wondered about these places,’ Siobhan went on, studying the lock-up’s arched brick roof. ‘They’re great, aren’t they?’