Ian was not prepared for the scene outside the station house. A crowd had gathered, completely blocking the pavement in front of the building and spilling out into the High Street. He estimated it was well over a hundred people, mostly working class, with a few expensively dressed citizens sprinkled in. Some of them clutched copies of the Scotsman, which they waved at Ian, yelling and clamoring for his attention.
“Oiy! What’re you lads gonnae do aboot the Holyrood Strangler?”
“The streets aren’t safe nae mere!”
“When’re ye gonnae catch ’em?”
“Good Lord,” he muttered, pushing his way through, taking deep breaths to stave off the familiar panic. He hated crowds even more than enclosed spaces. You are not going to pass out, Hamilton, he told himself. Keep breathing. Just as he had nearly cleared the throng, a heavy hand clamped upon his shoulder, pulling him back in. Terror swept over him like a bolt of electricity, and he reacted blindly. Without looking, he spun and let loose a right hook, felt his knuckles collide with the bridge of a nose, heard the crunch of cartilage. A fist connected with his jaw, sending him to the cobblestones. The last thing he remembered was his head meeting the curb so hard that it bounced off as the din of voices receded into the blackness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Well done, Hamilton. Not only did you manage to get yourself knocked unconscious, but you started a street brawl.”
Even with his eyes closed, Ian knew the voice belonged to DCI Crawford. He hoped if he didn’t stir, the chief might leave him in peace, but Crawford was on a roll.
“I was just thinking we didn’t have enough on our plate at the moment, and a good street fight would be just the ticket. You’ve outdone yourself this time, Hamilton.”
Ian opened one eye. He was lying on the cot in the little back room where he had questioned Derek McNair, but there was no sign of the boy. Looming over him was DCI Crawford, and behind him stood a worried-looking Sergeant Dickerson. Ian’s hand went to his forehead, where an egg-shaped lump was forming.
“Does it ’urt much, sir?” said Dickerson.
“I should bloody hope so,” Crawford muttered. “Well, what are you standing there for? Get him a towel and some ice,” he commanded the sergeant.
Dickerson scampered off to obey, and Crawford ran a hand through his sparse ginger hair. “Christ, Hamilton.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It was—I mean, I was—”
“I know what happened,” Crawford said. “There were plenty of eyewitnesses.”
“Was anyone badly hurt?”
Crawford shook his head. “They dispersed before our lads could round up the troublemakers. That’s what comes of freedom of the press,” he said glumly. “That damn rag of a paper has everyone terrified of the bogeyman.” He sat wearily on the side of the bed. “I hear you took a swing at someone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I panicked.”
“I asked you this once before, and I’m going to ask you again. Do you think that your—problem—will continue to interfere with your ability to function as a police officer?”
Ian opened his mouth to answer, but Crawford interrupted him. “It’s no use saying that it doesn’t, because it already has. The question is, will you be able to control it in the future? Because if not—”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“How?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“But—”
“I will find a way.”
Crawford looked at him with something like pity, then sighed. “You’re not the only one who looks bad if you fail.”
“I understand that, sir.”
He started to sit up just as Sergeant Dickerson returned with a towel and a bucket of ice.
“Lie down,” Crawford commanded. “You’re not going anywhere for at least thirty minutes. That’s an order,” he added before Ian could object. “And if you had any bloody sense, you’d go straight to hospital.” Heaving himself to his feet, the chief inspector lumbered from the room.
“Here y’are, sir,” said Dickerson upon his return, handing him the towel.
“Thanks,” said Ian, lying down again.
Precisely thirty minutes later, he left the station house via the back entrance, and was surprised to see Derek McNair slouching against the side of the building, waiting for him. The boy grinned when he saw Ian’s forehead.
“Oiy, ye got a nice one, din’ ye?”
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Long enough ta miss tea. Ye can buy me somethin’ t’eat.”
After two helpings of fish-and-chips from a street vendor, the two wound their way through the streets of Old Town to the Hound and Hare. The back alley of the pub yielded little of interest, having been well trodden and picked over by members of the press. Ian didn’t spy any of them loitering about—the body had already been taken down to the morgue pending further investigation.
“Where exactly did you find the body?” he asked Derek.
“It were right here,” the boy replied, pointing to a spot between rubbish bins and a rain barrel.
“Was it covered in any way?”
“Nope, it were just lyin’ out in the open, like.”
So, Ian thought, no real effort had been made to hide the body—another similarity to the Wycherly case. Was the killer in a hurry, reckless, or just arrogant? Or maybe he enjoyed the idea of people finding his handiwork.
“Let’s go inside,” he said.
The pounding in his head was growing worse as he entered the pub, young McNair in tow. They picked their way across the unswept floor, last night’s discarded peanut shells crunching beneath their feet. A couple of tables were occupied by middle-aged couples enjoying a quiet lunch—quite a different scene from the rowdy nighttime crowd.
The barkeep was a muscular, bald fellow with a thick Glaswegian accent—which is to say, he was nearly unintelligible.
“Afore ye ask, I dain’t know who kilt yer fren,” he said when he saw Ian, wiping down the counter with a soiled cloth. His lips did not move perceptibly when he spoke. Aunt Lillian had grown up in Glasgow, but years in Edinburgh had softened her accent considerably.
“He says he didn’t notice yer friend leavin’,” said Derek. Perched on a bar stool, legs swinging idly, he traced the stain patterns on the bar with his index finger.
“I speak Glaswegian,” Ian replied curtly, though in truth he was struggling to make out the bartender’s guttural dialect. The man swallowed his vowels, which sounded much like his consonants, swirling together deep in his throat.
Derek shrugged and helped himself to a pickled egg from a jar on the counter, swallowing it in two gulps.
“Oiy!” said the bartender, snapping his towel at the boy.
Ian dug a penny from his pocket and flipped it onto the counter. “And he isn’t my friend—he’s a murder victim.”
The bartender pocketed the coin and began polishing beer mugs with the same grimy cloth. “’At’s as may be—seen ’im ’ere afore, though.”
“He’s a regular?”
“Fridays, mostlah, yeah.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Bobby, I thaink . . . yeah, ’at’s it—Bobby. Dunno ’is last name.”