“W-we ’ave tae get someone,” said Freddie.
“We will,” Derek replied as he backed slowly away from the corpse, all thought of breakfast vanquished by their terrible discovery.
The boys scampered off, unaware they were being watched by a silent observer standing in the narrow space between two buildings in the back of the alley. Hidden in the shadows, the onlooker trembled with pleasure and pride at the sight of the body. It was hard to tear himself away from the scene, but the police would be arriving soon. He shivered with the thrill of it all. Oh, there was so much evil in a man, one hardly knew where to begin . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE
DCI Crawford couldn’t believe it. He had barely sat down at his desk, and here was DI Hamilton, turning up again like a bad penny—on a Saturday, for Christ’s sake. Crawford rubbed his eyes, burning from lack of sleep, hoping it was an apparition from his overwrought brain, but no—before him stood the infernal detective, bright eyed and eager.
“Good Lord, man, don’t you ever sleep?”
“My ‘little life is rounded with a sleep,’ sir.”
Crawford ground his teeth. “Hamlet?”
“The Tempest. You’re not looking terribly chipper, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I do mind,” Crawford growled, pouring a cup of tea from the cracked blue ceramic pot on his desk. He had come in on his day off to clear up a bit of paperwork, and so far the station house was quiet as a tomb. The only sound penetrating the building’s thick stone walls was the city’s church bells tolling the hour. Ten o’clock. Crawford sighed as he stirred his tea. “I don’t like you nearly as much as you might imagine, Hamilton.”
His remark had no discernible effect upon the detective. “Have you seen the morning paper, sir?”
“I haven’t even had my tea, for Christ’s sake.” To make the point, he took a large gulp, nearly scalding the skin off his tongue. He swallowed hard and glared at Hamilton. “Well? Are you going to tell me what is so very interesting in the paper, then?”
“I brought one so you could see for yourself, sir,” Hamilton said, slapping a copy of the Scotsman upon the desk. There, on the front page, the headline screamed out:
MAN GARROTED AT THE HOUND AND HARE. GRISLY FIND BEHIND LOCAL TAVERN. ANOTHER CHALLENGE FOR EDINBURGH CITY POLICE—HOLYROOD STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN?
Crawford quickly perused the rest of the story. The body, hidden behind a trash bin, was discovered early that morning by a couple of street urchins scrounging about for scraps. They claimed to have dutifully alerted the nearest constable, but evidently not before they went to the newsroom of the Scotsman to sell the scoop to the highest bidder. It wasn’t the first time local reporters had word of a crime before the police, and Crawford figured it wouldn’t be the last. All the reporters had informants on their payroll, many from the less savory strata of Edinburgh society.
“That’s just what we need,” he said, pushing the paper away. “A public panic. ‘The Holyrood Strangler’—good Lord.”
“What if the two deaths are related?” said Ian.
“We don’t even know how this poor blighter died, for Christ’s sake! It’s bad enough that those damn reporters sacrifice facts in favor of cheap sensationalism—don’t you make the same mistake, Hamilton.”
Just then Constable Bowers stumbled into the room, his cheeks beet red. He was a very pale young man with blond eyebrows and a matching mustache. “Sir, there’s been a mur—” He stopped, seeing the newspaper on Crawford’s desk. “But I just—”
“Never mind, Constable,” said the chief inspector, fighting the urge to giggle. While there was something comical about Bowers’ red face and wild expression, Crawford suspected his impulse was more a result of his exhaustion. Laughing at a time like this would be utterly inappropriate, which only made the urge harder to resist. Digging his thumbnail into his palm, the chief inspector assumed a scowl. “Those wretched urchins raced to cash in on their knowledge before someone else found the body. Lucky for them, they seem to have arrived just before the paper went to press. No doubt they were well compensated. Is someone watching over the crime scene, Bowers?”
“Constable MacQuarrie, sir.”
“I have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind,” said Ian.
“Are you putting yourself in charge of the investigation, Hamilton?” Crawford inquired drily.
“I feel certain the cases are linked.”
“‘There is no such uncertainty as a sure thing,’” Crawford muttered, taking another sip of tea.
“Robert Burns, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Well done, sir.”
Crawford sighed. Hamilton got on his nerves, yet something about him aroused fatherly instincts Crawford had never had occasion to express, being childless all these years. Much as he tried to dodge the emotion, he felt protective toward the damn fellow. And yet he was so . . . irritating. “Very well, Hamilton—get on with it so Constable Bowers can return to his post.”
“What about the boys who found the body?” asked the detective.
“I’m right ’ere,” came a voice from behind Constable Bowers.
The owner of the voice was a lad of about ten, with dark hair and deep-set eyes in a pale, intense face. The boy appeared curiously self-possessed for one so young. Though he was dressed in a mishmash of ill-fitting clothing obviously plucked from trash bins and charity shops, and in dire need of a bath and a haircut, there was something dignified and solemn about him.
“And who might you be?” DCI Crawford inquired sternly.
His attempt to intimidate failed. The boy met his gaze. “Derek McNair,” he replied calmly. “I found the body along with me friend Freddie Cubbins.”
“Did you now?” Crawford said. “And where is this Freddie Cubbins, may I ask?”
“He don’ like coppers,” Derek replied with a glance at Constable Bowers, whose flush deepened as he fidgeted with the brass buttons of his uniform.
“But you do?” said Crawford.
“Oh, I just love ’em.”
The chief inspector leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Well, that’s good to hear. Isn’t that a relief, Constable?” he added with a glance at Bowers.
The policeman looked at Ian with a pleading expression, then back at Crawford. “If you say so, sir.”
“Oh, yes,” said Crawford, rising from his chair. “One fears that street urchins like Master McNair here have an adversarial relationship with us, yet he assures us that isn’t so. How very jolly—it warms the cockles of me heart, it does,” he said, imitating the boy’s accent. “It seems you have an equally delightful relationship with the press, giving them a chance to write about a murder before you bother to report it to the police.”
Derek shifted his feet and looked uneasily at Hamilton, who took a step forward.