“As the chief investigating officer in the Wycherly case, sir, I would like permission to question Master McNair.”
Crawford wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead and plopped himself back down in his chair. “Have at it, Hamilton—but mind he doesn’t feed you a load of bosh and bunkum.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, see if you can persuade the little ruffian to inform the constabulary of a crime before he goes running off to the nearest two-bit newshound, would you?”
“Aye, sir,” said Hamilton, laying a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Come along—we’ll get you a hot cup of tea and some biscuits. Would you like that?”
The boy nodded warily, his dark eyes watchful. Crawford suspected he missed little—to survive on the streets, a boy needed his wits about him.
Crawford turned to Constable Bowers. “MacQuarrie is watching over the scene?”
“Yes, sir—the press are swarming over it like blackflies.”
“Why don’t you join him—and do your best to keep them away, Bowers.”
“I’ll be along shortly,” said Hamilton. He led the boy from the room, leaving Constable Bowers behind.
Hands fluttering nervously at his sides, Bowers swallowed hard before saluting awkwardly. “I’ll be off, then, shall I, sir?”
“Mind you close the door on your way out.”
“Right you are, sir,” said Bowers, closing the door behind him.
Crawford rubbed his temples and gazed out the window. The cobblestones glistened in the timid morning sun as it crested over the stolid stone buildings of the Old Town. Maybe Hamilton was on to something after all—this damn city had more secrets than it did alleyways. He shivered and pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders as he turned his attention to the pile of paperwork on his desk.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ian Hamilton studied the intense young boy hunched over his mug, greedily slurping down cup after cup of strong “builder’s tea.” After going through half a tin of biscuits, he wiped his mouth, took a deep breath, and leaned back in the chair, thin hands crossed on his lap. He was a slight lad, his feet well off the ground as he perched upon the thick oak office chair, legs swinging back and forth underneath. They were in a little side office off the main room used for interrogations, small meetings, and—when the constables could get away with it—naps. Apart from a simple oak desk and matching chair, the room’s only amenities were a cot beneath a single window overlooking Old Fishmarket Close, and a worn green hooked rug. The smell of orange peels and boiled turnips snaked through a crack in the yellowing windowpane.
“There now,” Ian said, leaning against the desk, arms crossed. “Feel better?”
“Yer mate don’ like me much,” the boy remarked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“DCI Crawford thinks you should have informed us before selling your story to the newspapers.”
Derek licked his fingers. “At least they pay me fer information.”
His lack of contrition was not surprising. The relationship between the constabulary and Edinburgh’s lower classes left much to be desired. Ian sympathized with the lad, but he knew it would be a mistake to show it—the boy would just think he was weak, and try to manipulate him.
“Do you give them many stories?” he asked.
The boy shrugged. “A few, now an’ then. None good as this ’un, though—makes me wish there were more murders, so help me God,” he added, crossing himself.
“You’re Catholic?”
Derek nodded. “I know it’s wicked t’have such thoughts, but I can eat fer a week wi’ what they paid me for this, and my mate Freddie as well.”
Ian knew that was no exaggeration, and a pang of anger shot through him as he gazed at the boy’s grubby face and mismatched clothing. Scottish Enlightenment be damned, he thought; Edinburgh could not even take care of her dispossessed children.
“Where is your friend now?”
“Can’t say, really—could be anywheres. Though round about now, I expect he’s havin’ a bloody good nap.”
“So you discovered the body at approximately what time?”
Derek cast his eyes hungrily about the room, as if looking for something else to devour. “It were just gone half past six.”
“You’re English—from the West Country?” England’s west coast had a peculiar and unique accent, as rugged and twisty as the inlets staggered along its cliffs and beaches.
The boy studied his filthy hands, the nails blackened and cracked. “What’s it to ye?”
“Your parents—where are they?”
Derek shrugged. “If you run into ’em, don’t let on you’ve seen me.”
Ian decided to test his indifference to see how much of it was real. If he gave the boy some personal information, Derek might reciprocate.
“My parents are dead.”
“Yeah?” Derek said, swinging his legs faster beneath the chair. “I’d a been better off if someone ’ad taken a cudgel to me old man.” He smiled. “But someone may yet—ye never know.”
“Mine died in a fire.”
“Decent, were they?”
“They were.”
“Must be nice,” the boy said without self-pity. Ian imagined life on the streets would knock that out of anyone soon enough.
“So what about you and Freddie—Cubbins, is it?” Ian said. “You get along on your own?”
The leg swinging resumed. “We do all right, with our other mates. Freddie an’ me are pals, but there’s others like us, y’know.”
“Yes, I know,” Ian said. He declined to mention that his aunt Lillian volunteered twice a week at the local charity, or that his parents had given generously to the Dean Orphanage. “So you found this—gentleman—a little after six thirty this morning?”
“That’s wha’ I said, weren’t it? And he weren’t no gentleman, neither.”
“How do you know?”
“Them what goes to the Hound an’ Hare are rough trade.”
“Can you take me there?”
“Yer blokes took the body off to the morgue, but I can show ye where I found ’im.”
“Good.”
“Oh, I ’most forgot—found this near the body,” the boy said, digging in the pockets of his oversized pants. “Here it is,” he said, removing a soiled playing card and placing it on the desk. It was the four of clubs, with the same unusual design of frolicking skeletons as the card found on Stephen Wycherly. Ian snatched it up and slid it into his pocket. His head felt light as his brain spun. At the very least, the two victims were linked—that much was clear. Whether they shared the same killer had yet to be determined. His hand shook as he reached for the tin of biscuits and held them out to his young visitor.
“Why don’t you take another or two for the road?”
The boy peered hard at him, then grabbed a handful and shoved them into his pocket. “Right,” he said. “What’re we waitin’ fer, then?”