Ricky nodded. “What goes on once they’re in a suite is their business. Maybe they just want a back rub and a bit of chat.”
“How often did he come in?” Siobhan was still holding up the photograph.
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“More than once?”
The doorbell rang. Ricky ignored it. He’d missed his morning shave, started rubbing the back of his hand against his chin. More men, carrying their jackets, shoes not quite laced, were making to exit. As they pulled open the door, the clients outside — a couple of drunken businessmen — stumbled in.
“Laura on tonight?” one of them asked. He noticed Siobhan and proffered a smile, his eyes running the length of her. The phone started ringing.
“Ricky will be with you in a minute, gentlemen,” Siobhan said coldly, “as soon as he’s finished helping me with my inquiries.”
“Christ,” the man hissed. His friend had flopped into a chair, was asking where “the burdz” were. The first man hauled him back to his feet.
“Polis, Charlie,” was the explanation.
“Come back in ten minutes!” Ricky called out, but Siobhan doubted the men would be back, not for a while.
“I seem to be bad for business,” Siobhan said with a smile.
Hynds appeared at the inner doorway. “It’s a bloody maze back there. Stairs and doors and I don’t know what. There’s even a sauna, would you believe. How are we doing?”
“Ricky here was just about to tell me if Mr. Marber was a regular.”
Hynds nodded, reached over and picked up the still-ringing phone. “Sauna Paradiso, DC Hynds speaking.” He waited, then looked at the receiver. “Hung up,” he said with a shrug.
“Look, he came in a few times,” Ricky burst out. “I’m not always on shift, you know.”
“Daytime or evenings?”
“Evenings, I think.”
“What did he call himself?”
Ricky shook his head. “Eddie, maybe.”
Hynds had a question. “Did he take a shine to any one girl in particular?”
Ricky shook his head again. Another phone was sounding: the theme to Mission: Impossible. It was Ricky’s mobile. He unclipped it from his trouser belt, held it to his ear.
“Hello?” He listened for a few moments, his back straightening. “It’s under control,” he said. Then he looked up at Siobhan. “Still here, yes.”
Siobhan knew: it was the owner of the sauna. Maybe one of the girls had called him. She held out a hand.
“She wants to talk to you,” Ricky said, then he listened again and shook his head, eyes still on Siobhan. “Do I need to show them the books?” He blurted this out, as Hynds started prizing a hand beneath the ledger. Ricky’s free hand came down and stopped him.
“I said I can handle it,” Ricky said more firmly, before terminating the call. His face had hardened.
“I’ve told you what I know,” he said, clipping the phone back on his belt, his free hand still resting on the closed ledger.
“Mind if I talk to the girls?” Siobhan asked.
“Be my guest,” Ricky said, his face breaking into a smile.
When Siobhan stepped over the threshold, she knew the place was empty. She saw shower cubicles, lockers, a wooden coffin of a sauna. Stairs down to the rooms where the girls worked. No windows: the downstairs was below ground level. She peered into one room. It smelled perfumed. There was a deep bath in one corner, lots of mirrors. The lighting was almost nonexistent. Sounds of grunts and moans — a TV high up on one wall, playing a hard-core video. Back out in the corridor, she noticed a curtain at the far end. Walked towards it and pulled it open. A door. Emergency exit. It led out into a narrow alley. The girls were gone.
“Done a runner,” Hynds confirmed. “So what do we do now?”
“We could charge him with possession of illegal videos.”
“We could,” Hynds acknowledged. He glanced at his watch. “Or we could call it a day.”
Siobhan started climbing the narrow stairs. The sauna’s phone was ringing again. Ricky was about to answer, but thought better of it when he saw Siobhan.
“Who’s your boss?” she asked.
“Solicitor’s on his way,” Ricky told her.
“Good,” she said, making for the exit. “I hope he charges through the nose.”
The Resurrection Men had moved from the bar to the break-out area, and from alcohol to soft drinks. A lot of the probationers at Tulliallan would be staying through the weekend, but those who were allowed would be heading home. Jazz McCullough and Allan Ward had left already, Ward complaining of the long drive ahead. The others were trying to rouse themselves, or maybe it was that there was nothing about the weekend that they couldn’t live without. The break-out area was an open lounge of leather chairs and sofas, just outside the lecture theater. Rebus had known men get too comfortable there and end up falling asleep, waking stiffly next morning.
“Got plans, John?” Francis Gray asked.
Rebus shrugged. Jean was off to a family wedding south of the border. She’d asked if he wanted to go, but he’d declined.
“How about you?” he asked.
“I’ve been away five days. Pound to a penny things have started to break, drip or leak.”
“You’re a bit of a DIY man then?”
“Christ, no. Why do you think things go wrong in the first place?”
There was tired laughter at this. Five days they’d been at Tulliallan. They felt like they knew each other.
“Suppose I’ll go watch my team tomorrow,” Tam Barclay said.
“Who’s that? Falkirk?”
Barclay nodded.
“Need to get yourself a proper grown-up team,” Gray commented.
“Would that be one from Glasgow, Francis?”
“Where else?”
Rebus got to his feet. “Well, I’ll see you all first thing Monday morning . . .”
“Unless we see you first,” Gray answered with a wink.
Rebus went to his room to pack a few things. The room itself was a comfortable box with en suite bathroom, better than many a hotel he’d stayed in. Only the CID were assured single rooms. A lot of probationers were doubling up, such were their numbers. Rebus’s mobile was where he’d left it, charging at one of the wall sockets. He poured himself a small Laphroaig from his secret stash and switched on the radio, tuning it to some station with pulsing dance music.
Then he picked up his mobile and punched in some numbers.
“It’s me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “How come I haven’t heard from you?” He listened as the person at the other end complained about the lateness of the hour. When Rebus said nothing to this, the person then asked where he was.
“In my room. That’s just the radio you can hear. When do we get to meet?”
“Monday,” the voice said.
“Where and how?”
“Leave that to me. Any luck so far?”
“That’s not what I want to talk about.”
There was silence on the line. Then: “Monday.” And this time the phone’s backlit screen told him the connection had ended. He retuned the radio, switched it off, making sure the alarm function wasn’t set. He had his bag open, but suddenly wondered what the rush was. There was nothing awaiting him in Edinburgh but an empty flat. He picked up his going-away present from Jean—a portable CD player. She’d added some CDs, too: Steely Dan, Morphine, Neil Young . . . He’d brought a few others: Van Morrison, John Martyn. He fixed the headphones on and pushed the START button. The swelling opening of “Solid Air” filled his head, pushing out everything else. He leaned back against the pillow. Decided the song was definitely on the shortlist for his funeral.
Knew he should write the shortlist down. After all, you never could tell.
Siobhan answered her door. It was late, but she was expecting company. Eric Bain always called first, to make sure it was all right. It usually was. Bain worked at Police HQ, the “Big House.” He specialized in computer crime. The two had become good friends — nothing more than that. They talked on the phone; sometimes ended up at one another’s flat, sharing late-night milky coffee and stories.
“You’re out,” Bain called through from the kitchen. Out of decaf, he meant. Siobhan was back in the living room, putting some music on: Oldsolar, a recent purchase — good late-night music.