you said? Means nothing to me.
Martin shook his head. 'I don't buy that. This guy had a business connection with Tony Manson. We're certain he knew Cocozza. We followed him here twice, and on the first occasion Cocozza was here too. So were some other people whose names you sure wouldn't want to know. This wasn't any other punter, mate. This was one of the home team. Just to jog your memory, take a look at this.'
He handed over a blown-up photograph of Ainscow in a dinner jacket, copied from a group shot which Mcllhenney had found in Ainscow's empty house. The manager took it from him, and nodded after barely a glance. 'Aye, okay. He's been here. Has he done a runner, then?'
'Never you mind. You just keep your mouth shut about this visit. Did he use the girls here, or was he only here for meetings?'
The manager glanced nervously at Maggie Rose, then back towards Martin. 'He spent time with the ladies.'
`Any favourites?'
`He used to like Linda.'
'Hall,' said Martin. 'You mean the one you told us you'd never heard of!'
The man flushed. 'What else could ah say? You know the score.'
`Forget it. Was it only Linda?'
`No. Sometimes he'd take on two or three at a time. A beast for his executive relief is Mr Ainscow.'
`Any of those girls here now?'
`Aye, most of them.
`Right, send them in.'
‘But what if they're workin'?'
`Then they'd better finish up whatever they're doing now, or we'll go and fetch them. I don't think their punters would like that.'
Five minutes later three sullen, dishevelled, stale-smelling women filed into the room. Martin felt Maggie Rose, seated beside him at the manager's desk, give a small shudder of distaste. The women pulled up chairs and sat opposite them.
`Good afternoon, ladies.' Martin introduced himself and Detective Inspector Rose. 'We're told that you've all — how do I put it? — provided services at one time or another to Mr Paul Ainscow. We're very anxious to speak with him on a number of matters, but we can't find him. He's vanished from his home and from his business, without trace. How well did you ladies know Mr Ainscow? We gather he was a fairly regular visitor.'
The three sat, heads bowed and impassive.
`Come on,' snapped Maggie Rose. 'This isn't for the record. Did Ainscow ever say anything about himself to any of you? Did he tell you anything about his life, his haunts?'
The biggest of the three hostesses, a redhead like Detective Inspector Rose, looked up from her contemplation of the centre of the desk. Slowly she shook her head. 'The only things that Ainscow ever says tae us is things that you wouldna want tae hear, miss. He's nobody's favourite punter, that man. Tells ye what he wants, does it, and he's away. Definitely no one for the chat.'
`When did you see him last?' asked Martin.
'A wee while back. Ah cannae really remember.'
`And you three ladies were his regulars.
All three nodded. 'Aye,' said the self-appointed spokes-woman. 'Apart from poor wee Linda that is. Damn shame that. `See men!' she added, with a sudden blazing vehemence.
'So that's all you can tell us? Nothing else, nothing personal?'
The redhead and the woman on her left shook their heads. But the third, a short fat peroxide blonde, looked across the table, hesitantly chewing on her lip.
`Yes?' said Maggie Rose.
`Well, ah don't think he jist came here.'
`Why d'you say that?'
The phony blonde hesitated again, glancing at her companions for signs of approval or disapproval, but seeing neither. 'Well,' she said, almost in a whisper. 'Once he was givin' me a hard time. He was hurtin' me and ah told him, but he said that he didna have this problem wi' big Jo down in Leith.'
Big Jo?' echoed Martin, the green eyes flashing suddenly.
`Aye, there's a wumman works in the Leith place. Big girl fae Glasgow, name o' Joanne. Ainscow seemed tae think that she could dae it every way he ever heard of.'
Martin smiled softly. Now, there's a thing. Maggie, I think we'll make it Leith next stop, to look up my old friend Big Joanne. From what I remember of her, she liked to know all about her punters. And if the big lass asked, they tended to answer. Let's head on down. Thanks for your help, ladies. You deserve the night off. Can't see you getting it, though. Must be tough being in a recession-proof business!'
Ninety-four
‘Closed Thursday.' Bloody magic! Imagine a knocking shop taking a day off.'
Martin's red sports hatch was pulled up at the door of the drab shop-front in Constitution Street, finished in the same livery as its stable-mate in Powderhall. The front door was secured with a bar and heavy padlock, emphasising the clumsily printed message which was taped to the door.
He pressed the accelerator in his impatience, revving the throaty engine. 'Let's dig the manager out, wherever he is. He dialled a short coded number on the mobile phone, resting in its car cradle by his side. The Fettes switchboard answered with its usual speed.
`This is Mr Martin. Sergeant Mcllhenney, please.'
A few seconds later, McIlhenney's voice boomed out of the car-phone's speaker. 'Yes, sir. 'What can I do for you?'
`Neil, can you dig me out, from our list, the name and address of the manager of the Hot Spot sauna in Constitution Street.'
`Aye, sir. Hold on a minute.' The speaker made a rattling sound, as Mcllhenney laid his phone down. His search took only a few seconds. 'Here it is, sir. His name's Ricky Barratt. He lives more or less over the shop, round in Queen Charlotte Street, number 279a.'
`Thanks, Neil.' Martin pressed the end button and, slipping the car into gear, drove the few hundred yards to Queen Charlotte Street.
Although a light showed through the glass front door to Number 279a, it was opened only on the fourth ring of the, bell, by a sour-faced woman dressed in a dirty off-white top and faded denims.
`Mrs Barratt?' asked Martin.
She eyed him suspiciously, but eventually snapped, 'Aye!' `Police. We'd like to speak to your husband, please.' Ye're in the wrang place, then.'
`Why's that, then?' said Martin, irritation in his voice.
`It's Thursday, 's it no'? Well the fat bastard'll be in Noble's round the corner as usual, fillin' himself up wi' beer. If he's no there, he's fuckin' deid.' Abruptly she slammed the door in Martin's face.
He glanced at Maggie Rose, a smile wreathing his face. `Hardly blame the bastard, can you? Come on, let's see if Ricky's running true to form.'
They returned to the car. Martin spun it in a tight U-turn, and drove back to Constitution Street. Noble's Bar, one of Leith's most celebrated, was less than one hundred yards away from the silent sauna, on the same side of the street. They parked, and Martin shouldered open the swing doors, Rose following close behind him. Within seconds the detective inspector realised two things: she was the only woman on the premises, and Martin was the only man wearing a tie. The thronged saloon paid no attention to the new arrivals.
Martin pressed up to the bar, and beckoned to its middle-aged manager. 'Police,' he said softly. 'We want a word with Ricky Barratt.'
The manager nodded briefly towards a gross man of medium height standing near the door of the gents'
