`Try another,' said Martin.
Mario McGuire began to press other buttons in turn, beginning with the other ground-floor flats, and working up the building. On the fourth attempt there was a response.
`Yes?' A male voice answered, sleep-sodden even through the tinniness of the speaker.
`Sorry to disturb you, sir, but this is the police. We have to call on one of the flats in this building. Could you come down and let us in, please.'
`Yeah, sure.'
Less than a minute later, a dishevelled young man in a blue towelling robe emerged from the lift, which faced the glass entry door. He walked barefoot across the hall, and turned the wheel of the Yale lock. 'I suppose I should ask to see—'
Before he could finish his sentence, McGuire held up his warrant card.
`Of course you should, sir. Sorry we had to wake you. Nightshift, are you?'
The man nodded. 'This week anyway. I work in the bakery in Leith.'
`Okay, you get back to sleep, then. We'll make as little noise as we can.
`Which may have to be quite a lot,' muttered Martin, as the steel lift doors closed.
The entrance to Cocozza's flat was set back in an alcove off the hall. There was a second bell-push in the centre of the door. Martin pressed it for a good twenty seconds, but its buzz was the only sound from within the apartment. He took his finger from the button. 'Okay, I have reason to believe that there may be a person in this flat who is involved in the commission of crime. Mario, see if you can do it the quick way. If the thing's mortised we may have to send for the locksmith, but try the size elevens first.'
Obediently, McGuire kicked out with his right heel, once, twice, three times. With the third blow, they heard the keeper of the lock tear loose, and the oak door swung open.
Four doors opened off a central corridor. One, at the end, lay ajar. Martin led the way along the hall and stepped into the room.
'Oh Jesus. Not another.'
Cocozza was sitting slumped in a dining chair, with his back to the door. He was held in his awkward position by black insulating tape which secured his forearms and ankles to the frame of the chair. He was naked, save for a pair of badly soiled white underpants. On his back, shoulders and upper arms, large angry bruises stood out against the yellowness of his skin. The back of his head was a mass of hair, bone and gristle matted together by blood and brain tissue.
Slowly and hesitantly, the three detectives stepped around the body, being careful not to bump against it, or touch anything in the room. Martin crouched on one knee and looked up into Cocozza's face. It was covered in blood, not only from the cranial wounds, but from the nose and from a cut over the right eye, which was bruised and swollen. A facecloth or small hand towel had been stuffed into the mouth, making the cheeks puff grotesquely.
`Look there, sir.'
Martin followed McGuire's pointing finger. A line of blue circular indentations ran up each shin. Each knee was swollen and distorted. On the stained wooden floor, between Cocozza's feet, a heavy metal-shafted hammer with a black rubber grip lay in a pool of blood and urine.
Martin shuddered as he stood up. 'Mario, did you see anyone go out — anyone at all?'
McGuire shook his head vigorously. 'No, sir. And John was told to call me on the radio if he spotted anyone.'
`Right,' said Martin assertively. 'Guard that front door. Brian, you and I'll search this place carefully.'
Splitting up, they moved swiftly through the flat, checking behind every door, in every wardrobe, in every cupboard, even in the shower compartment and the kitchen cabinets, but the house was empty.
`Andy.' Brian Mackie's call drew Martin back to the living room. The tall, thin man was leaning out of the window. For a second Martin thought that he was being sick, until he stood upright once more. 'I think this is how he got away. This window was open. From here he could have dropped down towards the river, and on to the walkway, without being seen by either Mario or young John.'
`How would he have got in?'
With the postman, maybe. It must have been while Cocozza was at his office, and our two weren't here. There were stairs back in the hall leading to basement storage. He could have hidden there till everything was quiet, then picked Cocozza's Yale. From what the boss was saying, it looks like Lucan.'
`Maybe. Let's see-what he thinks. I'll call him now. When he sees this mess he'll wish he hadn't eaten that lunch at the Balmoral!'
Ninety-one
‘Poor little guy. The last half-hour of his life doesn't bear imagining. Tied up and systematically tortured, then finally dispatched like an animal in a badly-run slaughterhouse.'
Sarah turned to the ambulance crew. 'Okay. If the photographers and technicians are finished, you can take him away now.' At a nod from Skinner, they set to work, noisily ripping off the tape which bound Cocozza's body to the chair.
He put an arm around Sarah's shoulders and, led her from the flat, away from the scene and from its smell, which had grown overpowering. 'Thanks, love, for coming down. Let's get back.' As soon as he had digested Martin's call, he had rushed to Dean Village, calling at home to pick up Sarah and to drop off his beaming secretary as a very willing baby-sitter for Jazz.
They climbed back into Skinner's car. As he drove up the steep incline of Bell's Brae, out of the Village, he glanced towards her. 'Any idea from that back there as to whether our man was waiting for Cocozza inside the flat, or whether the wee chap answered the door?'
`It is essential that you know?'
`No. It's just a small detail but, if I can, I like to know all the answers.'
Sarah was silent for a few seconds. 'Well, don't stand me up in court and ask me to say this, but there was a single bruise behind the right ear that didn't look like all the rest. It was a different shape. I'd say that whoever it was had been waiting inside the flat already. When Cocozza came in, he stepped up behind him, slugged him, stuffed the towel in his mouth, ripped off his clothing and trussed him up. Then he picked up the hammer, and began to give him tender loving care. So do you think it was your runaway Frenchman taking revenge for his brother?'
As the BMW crossed the high Dean Bridge, Skinner gestured with his left hand. 'The picture fits the frame. Norrie Monklands said Lucan blamed the Scottish end for their being nicked. If Vaudan told him all the detail, who was who, and so on, he'd know who to look for, and probably where to go.'
Sarah looked across at him doubtfully. 'Even down to the address?'
He smiled. 'Research document number one: the telephone directory. There aren't too many Cocozzas in the phone-book. Once he got to Edinburgh, he'd have had no problem pinning down the address.
She leaned back in her seat. Her smile was teasing. 'So why don't you believe it was him?'
He grinned back. 'Who says I don't? All the evidence points to Lucan, and I have to go on evidence, not hunches, don't I?' He gripped the steering wheel. 'Tell you one thing. I'm going to find Mr Ainscow, come hell or high tide, and, when I do, he'll sing his heart out just to stay alive. Otherwise I might just let him go — to take his chances with Cocozza's unexpected caller.'
Ninety-two
‘Boss, since yesterday we've interviewed everyone we can find who knows Ainscow, his other golfing buddies apart from Norrie Monklands, the people in his business, both here and in Spain, bankers, lawyers, everyone. Since he disappeared, there hasn't been a trace of the man, not even a withdrawal from a cash machine. We've got nothing else to go on. There were no address books in his house or his office.'
Skinner and Martin, with Maggie Rose as their guest, were lunching in the senior officers' small dining room in the Fettes Avenue Command corridor.
`What about Lucan? What are we doing there?'
Maggie Rose leaned forward to answer Skinner's question. `Just before we came here, I had a call from Crown Office giving us the go-ahead to release a photograph of Lucan to press and television, and to issue a "Do not approach" warning to the public. The ACC Operations has put e
very one of our traffic cars and pandas on the look-out, and he's arranged for every other force in the UK to do the same. We're watching ports and oil terminals and we're trying to contact every major haulier in the UK, including companies with big in-house lorry fleets, to get them to warn their drivers. Once Alan Royston's press release appears, then the sightings are bound to come rolling in, although you know there's only a slim chance of a result there. Can't think of anything else that can be done
Skinner nodded in agreement. 'Yes, that covers it, all right He paused as a waitress served his salad. 'Thanks, Jessie.'
He waited till his companions had their main course before them, then looked at Martin. 'About Ainscow, Andy, you said we'd covered all his contacts. Does that include the Powderhall Sauna?'
The detective superintendent looked up sharply. 'God, no it doesn't. Of course, we followed him there twice, and we’ve heard that he has a liking for rough trade, in the female department. I'll have it checked out this afternoon.'
`Do it yourself, Andy. Lean on the guy with your rank. And take Maggie along with you. You might find that some of the girls are more likely to talk about a punter to another woman It's probably just another piece of routine, but you never know’
Martin nodded. He took a mouthful of steak and kidney pie, then glanced up at Skinner. 'How are we doing on formal identification of Cocozza?'
Not too well. He didn't have any partners in his practice only a qualified assistant and a secretary. As far as we can find out, there's only one relative, a brother. He's an on-course bookie in the south of England. All the race meetings down there are being covered this afternoon. Once we find him we'll fly him up to complete the formalities. Until then all can say is that we're investigating the murder of an unnamed man. Officially, no one knows yet that Cocozza's dead!'
Ninety-three
You know how it is, Mr Martin. Punters come, and punters go—'
`So they say,' Martin interjected, with a slight grin. The manager acknowledged, feebly, his slip of the tongue.
`Aye, but the last thing you're going to do is ask their name, if you want them to come back. Paul Ainscow, 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 dir
ty 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' 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.'
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