‘She stayed wi’ Marius, the manager, as far as Ah kent. He’s got a big flat, down Scotland Street. Ah was at a party there one night; nice place.’
‘How big?’ McGurk murmured.
‘Like Ah said, big,’ Mrs Frost retorted.
‘How many could it sleep?’
‘As many as ye bloody like, just aboot. It’s got four bedrooms. Why?’
‘Do you know if she was the only girl who stayed there?’
‘How the fuck would Ah?’
‘Fair enough,’ the DS conceded. ‘When did you see her last?’
‘Three days ago. Mr Head was in. The same night Ah got the call frae Marius, telling me the place wis shuttin’ for a while.’
‘Is that all he said?’
‘Aye. It was sudden, like. Ah finished about ten, and Ah was barely home when he phoned us.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Haddock interrupted. ‘Did you say that was three nights ago? Tuesday?’
‘Aye.’
‘Did Marius say why it was closing?’
‘No. Ah asked him, like, but he telt me to mind my own fuckin’ business if I wanted tae get back there.’
‘Did he say when that would be, when you would be back?’
‘A few days, maybe a week; that was all.’
‘OK.’ The DC looked up at his sergeant, who nodded.
‘That’s all you can tell us, Mrs Frost?’ he asked.
‘That’s it. Now will you please fuck off back tae your prayer meeting?’
McGurk grinned. ‘I hope you’ve got another merry quip for the tax man when he comes calling,’ he chuckled, as he headed for the door.
‘Marius,’ he muttered, when they were back on Dalry Road. ‘He was the guy that Becky lifted, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s right. He came along quietly, she said, and even invited them to have a look round. No girl there last night or she’d have found her.’
‘No.’ The sergeant frowned, dark and menacing. ‘He came quietly. . unlike that bastard that put the nick in Mary Chambers’ throat. I’d like to know where he is right now.’
‘You and our entire station,’ Haddock agreed. ‘I’m not surprised they moved him. I heard it was a headquarters car that picked him up.’
McGurk whistled. ‘In that case he’ll have to take his chances with the Twins. He may wind up wishing that he’d stayed with us.’
‘They wouldn’t, would they?’
‘No, but I’ll bet they scare the shite out of him anyway.’
The young DC pondered Arturus Luksa’s predicament for a few moments. ‘There was something else in there,’ he continued. ‘Did you pick it up?’
‘What?’
‘Maxine said that she got her call from Marius three nights ago, right?’
‘Yes, agreed. So?’
‘So when did Zaliukas kill himself?’
The DS’s eyes widened. ‘A few hours later; you observant young sod. So what do we read into that? Tomas Zaliukas shut down the massage parlour operation, and then he went out and killed himself?’
‘That’s one possibility, but what if it was someone else gave the order?’
‘Who, Valdas?’
‘That’s the obvious assumption. Too bad we won’t be able to ask him.’
McGurk shrugged his shoulders. ‘Personally, I find it hard to grieve about that, especially since we’ve got eleven massage parlour managers in custody who know the answer to the question.’ He started to walk back towards Haymarket. ‘Whatever, Sauce, that’s above our pay grade. All we can do is get back to the office, feed in what we’ve picked up, and maybe suggest that forensics take a look at the Marius guy’s place in Scotland Street, to see if there’s any evidence of the Estonian girls having been kept there, and if we’re lucky, evidence of where they’ve gone, or rather, been taken. But what it all amounts to is a singular lack of progress for all the effort of the last twelve hours or so.’
‘There probably is no more,’ Sauce muttered gloomily. ‘These girls will be scattered all over the place by now.’
‘Speaking of girls and sex,’ said McGurk, as the monument on the distant road junction came in to view, ‘you look fresher this morning.’
‘Weekend coming up, Jack,’ the young DC replied, ‘starting with the disco tonight. We’ve got to save our strength for that.’
Forty-five
Detective Inspector Regan’s mind was still at home as he eased his car up the driveway that led to the pro shop and club house at Witches’ Hill, sticking close to the ten miles per hour speed limit. The morning was bright and, if not exactly warm, much less cold than the previous few days had been, and so he was not surprised to see that the car park was almost half full, even as early as ten past nine.
He slid into the first empty bay, then headed for the shop. Three figures waited outside; the tall, slim Fairley, an older man, dressed for golf in tartan slacks, a crested sweater over a polo neck and a flat cap, and another, in a powered wheelchair.
‘Hello, George,’ the second man called out as he approached.
Regan peered at him, and blinked. He had rarely seen Sir James Proud in anything other than uniform. ‘Good morning, Chief,’ he replied.
‘Not the chief any more, son,’ Bob Skinner’s predecessor pointed out.
‘Ah, but it’s a bit like being President in America,’ the DI countered. ‘You keep the title for life.’
‘But not the salary, unfortunately.’
You must be doing all right if you can afford to be a member here. He kept the thought to himself.
‘Have you met the Marquis of Kinture?’ Sir James continued.
‘No, sir,’ said Regan, adding mentally, he doesn’t drink in my local.
The man in the wheelchair extended a hand, and they shook. ‘Inspector,’ he grunted.
They might never have met, but following his transfer to East Lothian, Regan had made a point of reading up on the county’s movers and shakers. He knew Kinture’s story: latest of an ancient and titled family, a top-class golfer before being crippled in an accident, he had channelled his love for the game into the creation of a world-class course on a piece of otherwise useless land on his estate. After a colourful beginning, Witches’ Hill had matured to a level that had led to its being discussed as the venue for a European Tour event.
‘Good to meet you, sir,’ he replied. He was puzzled. Had Fairley asked him to come along for a lecture on rural crime prevention from Proud Jimmy and his mate?
‘We’re getting in the way here,’ the retired chief declared, putting an end to that supposition. ‘We’ll clear off and leave you and Andrew to it.’
‘Is he playing?’ Regan asked as they left, Proud lengthening his stride to keep pace with the wheelchair.
‘The Marquis, obviously not,’ Fairley replied. ‘Sir James is. He and Lady Proud are in a mixed foursomes tie in about half an hour.’
‘I didn’t know he was a golfer.’
‘Between you and me, he isn’t, not yet, but he’s had a couple of lessons and he’s got the makings.’
‘Like his successor?’
‘Not quite. I hear that Mr Skinner’s playing off seven just now; that makes him the biggest bandit in East Lothian.’ Fairley smiled. ‘That reminds me; we had another of your lot out here a few months back,’ he added, ‘playing against us in a winter league game. A lad called Haddock; he gave our club champion a dog licence.’
‘Eh?’
‘Beat him seven and six. I wish he’d join here; he’d walk into our team.’
‘He won’t be doing that on a DC’s pay, Andrew. Now, what’s the problem? Did our people leave a mess behind yesterday?’
The pro shook his head. ‘No. I’d rather that than what’s happened. You’re not going to believe this: I’ve been bloody well done again.’
‘What?’ Regan gasped.
‘No kidding. I got a local firm in yesterday to fix the damage from the previous night’s robbery, and to make the place secure. They did what they could, but all they could manage short-term was a temporary door, with wired glass. As well as that I asked the alarm people to come in and repair the system. That was buggered when the sensors were ripped off the door frame; somehow it shorted out the control box. They couldn’t fit it in yesterday, but they promised me they’d do it today. Fucking brilliant, that. I got in this morning and found the replacement door jemmied open. Yesterday it was golf clubs; today it was all my clothing.’