The manager nodded briefly towards a gross man of medium height standing near the door of the gents' toilet. No one else in the pub observed this exchange.
Martin and Rose stepped across the pub. Barratt was deep in conversation with three other men, holding court, the centre of attraction. Martin tapped his shoulder and he turned towards him, an imperious look on his face.
`Who the fuck 'r you?'
The detective superintendent smiled. 'We're the fuckin' polis,' he said, 'and we want a word with you about one of your ladies.'
The man gave him the sneer of a barrack-room lawyer. `Ah don't have to talk to you, or the bird. Piss off, the pair of ye.'
Maggie Rose saw the sudden tensing of muscles at the base of Andy Martin's short neck. For a moment she thought that, for the first time in her life, she would see him lose his temper. She recalled a remark by Bob Skinner that he and Martin made a great team, not least because his occasionally short fuse was counterbalanced by the younger man's impenetrable calm. And, now, in the crowded bar, Martin continued to smile at his insolent, fat protagonist.
`Wrong, Mr Barratt. We are involved in a murder investigation and you will talk to us. We can either do it quietly outside, or loudly, very loudly, right here. By the time I'm finished, everyone in this pub will think you're our best friend in these parts. Fancy that, fat man, do you? If not then get your arse outside, now!'
Barratt's three companions were looking awkwardly at their feet, each one desperate to be somewhere else. The man struggled for a few seconds more to maintain his truculence, but finally his head dropped, and he rolled his great both in short strides towards the door.
Outside they stood on the pavement, as if they were three acquaintances having a casual conversation.
`Right, Ricky. To complete the formalities, I'm DS Martin, head of the Drugs and Vice team, and this is Inspector Rose. We know what your job is, and what sort of a place you run, so I don't let's have any more theatricals. What can you tell us about a man called Paul Ainscow and one of your ladies, Joanne?'
Barratt stared downwards, at the endless folds of his ' stomach. `Ainscow? He was some sort of pal of Tony's. He'd been gettin' too keen on a lassie up at Powderhall — one of Tony's favourites, I think — and Tony sent him down here tae see Big Joanne, tae sort of take his mind off her, ken. Big Joanne's good at that. She's heid girl in there.' He glanced, seedily at Martin. 'In every way.'
`When was this?'
`A right few months ago now.'
`How did they get on?'-
`Like Tony meant them to. I told you, she's good, is Big Joanne.'
`How often does he come to your place?'
`He doesnae, any more. That place isnae one of the nicest, One night when he was in, his car was damaged. He kicked up hell's delight. Since then he's phoned up, and the big yin's seen him at her place. She's got a wee flat in King's Landing, round by the Waterfront pub.'
`That's an unusual thing for a working girl to do, isn't it?' Barratt nodded. 'Aye. But the big beast was quite keen on the boy, too. The rougher they are, the better she likes them and, from what I can gather, Ainscow s a rough type. Pleasant on the surface, but once the doors were closed, a cold hard bastard. Right up her street.'
`Has he called in for her lately — like this week?'
The man shook his great head slowly. Naw, No' this week. He'd have been wasting his time, onyway. The big yin phoned in sick on Monday. Havnae seen her since then.'
Ninety-five
‘You've checked out the address?'
`Yes, sir,' said Maggie Rose. 'It's a one-bedroom flat on the top floor. She's on the board at the door — and you won't believe what her surname is.'
`Try me,' said Skinner.
`Virtue.'
He grinned. 'What's so odd about that? I 'know at least two traffic wardens called Good!'
The Fettes Avenue building wore the quiet feel of evening. Skinner, Rose and Martin sat in the detective superintendent's office.
Did you have a look at the place?'
`Yes, for a while,' said Martin. 'No sign of movement.'
`Okay, let's pay the lady a call, and see if she's got a house guest. I want it done by the book. Maggie, dig up a Sheriff and get a proper search warrant, in case it's needed. Take someone else with you when you go, a bit of extra muscle in case he is there and doesn't feel like being reasonable. Big McIlhenney’s' wife can always use the overtime pay. Take him.'
Rose nodded. 'Yes, sir, I'll tell him. Aren't you coming though?'
Skinner smiled. 'Maggie, I'm a family man again, and I’ve missed too many of my small son's bathtimes lately. I intend to spend my evenings at home from now on, whenever I can.
Privileges of rank, and all that, as both of you will find out some day.'
`Does that mean,' asked Martin, with a show of innocence, `that if we nick Ainscow we don't phone to tell you, but wait till you come in tomorrow?'
`No, son, if that happens, you phone me, but if Sarah answers you'd better disguise your voice!'
`What do I put down as the purpose of the search warrant?' asked Rose.
`Investigation of a conspiracy to import controlled substances. It's all we've got that's solid enough. Although, maybe — ' Skinner paused. 'No, forget it. That's enough, lets us nick him. Once we've done that, we'll just have to catch our man and persuade him to talk, to make it stand up in court.'
`When do we go in?' asked Martin.
`Normally you'd say dawn, wouldn't you. But this time let's make it late evening. Let them get settled down for the night, then go up and thump the door. Say eleven o'clock. If Ainscow's there, it'll be all the easier if his pants are hanging over the bedroom chair!'
Ninety-six
King's Landing was peaceful in the Scottish summer gloaming. The block, one of the first built during the revival of Leith as a living community, was framed against the deepening blue of the northern sky.
`Thank Christ, there's no entry phone this time,' muttered Martin as they approached the entrance. He pushed the door open and led the way up the twisting stairs. On the top landing there were two doors, facing each other. He glanced at each, and on the one on the left, read the name 'Virtue' on a small brass plate set just above a glass spyhole. Beckoning to Rose and Mcllhenney, he strode towards it. There was a bell push, but Martin ignored it, and thumped the surface with the side of his closed fist.
`Joanne he called. 'It's the police. Mr Martin. Open up, please.
He stepped back so that he, and his companions, could be seen clearly through the viewing glass. He listened, and eventually he heard the creak of a floorboard from within the flat. The door swung open slightly, as far as its safety chain would allow. Joanne Virtue peered around its edge. Her blond, hair was tousled, and held back by a band, and she wore no make-up, yet she was still striking. But there was something in her eyes that Martin had not seen before, an expression that was far from her usual cheerful self-confidence — something that he would not expect to see on a woman of her profession, even when receiving a visit from the police. Martin looked at her and saw fear in her face.
Nevertheless, she tried to stick to type. 'What is it, Mr Martin? Some bloody time this! An' three of yis, an' all!'
`Is he here, Joanne?'
There was a flicker, a momentary tensing around those eyes. 'Who?'
`You know who. Paul Ainscow?'
`Naw! Paul's no here. Why should he be?'
`Because he's been missing for about the same time that you've been away from the sauna. Your spell off must have done you good. You look pretty healthy to me. Now open up and let us in. We want to interview Ainscow in connection with serious offences, and we've got reason to believe that he might be here. We've got a Sheriff's warrant to come in, so let that chain off the door.'