Ian leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“For some time now, Sergeant, I have made a study of certain . . . deviant personalities, people who are different from the average run-of-the-mill criminal. They are not different in degree, but in kind—they are a subspecies, as it were, not motivated by mere greed, jealousy, or revenge. Their deeds spring from a darker place.”
Dickerson’s eyes grew wide. “Are you sayin’ the killer is mad, sir?”
“He isn’t a raving lunatic—he might appear quite unremarkable to most people, perhaps even forgettable.”
“What I don’ understand is why some’un would trudge all the way t’top of Arthur’s Seat just to—”
“Perhaps because the place had some special significance to him.”
“I don’ follow, sir.”
“Mountaintops are symbolic places. If he lured Wycherly all the way up there, he may have had a reason.”
“Per’aps Wycherly encountered ’im by chance.”
“I don’t think so. He wasn’t dressed for a hike. I think the killer lured him up there with the express purpose of taking his life. And by doing so, took a tremendous chance. The two men might have been seen together, he might have failed to kill Wycherly, leaving him alive to testify against him. Wycherly was a strong young lad, and might even have managed to turn the tables.”
“So why take such a chance?” Dickerson said, chewing on the tip of his pencil.
“Exactly! I’m convinced that’s a key element to finding our man.”
“Beg pardon, sir, but we are sure it’s a man?”
“A woman of such Amazonian strength? Possible, but unlikely, I think.”
“Or two men—what if th’bloke has an accomplice?”
“Well done, Dickerson. Always question assumptions—that’s Hamilton’s First Rule of Investigative Procedure.”
“An’ what’s the Second Rule, sir?”
Ian stood up from his chair as the castle clock struck six. “Always make time for a pint or two.”
Dickerson grinned. “That’s more like it, sir—first round is on me.”
Just then, Constable Bowers approached Hamilton and Dickerson, accompanied by a stringy little man with lank gray hair and an oily complexion, dressed in a yellow sou’wester and thick-soled Wellingtons.
“Beg pardon, Sergeant, but Frank here says Mrs. McGinty’s pig’s broke out of its pen again.”
Sergeant Dickerson frowned. “Not my problem, Constable—I got more important fish t’fry.”
Bowers shifted his feet and coughed. “Frank here says you have a way with the pig—that you, er, know how to talk to it.”
The fair skin on Dickerson’s neck flushed a mottled red. “An’ just how does one talk to a pig, Constable?”
The stringy little man stepped forward. “Ach, ye jes whisper in her ear, and she’ll do anythin’ ye want—I’ve seen ye do it!” His voice was rough as a metal grate.
Several of the other constables snickered, and Ian glared at them. Dickerson flushed a deeper red and sprang from his seat.
“Come along—let’s get this over with! I’ll join you shortly, sir,” he told Ian, “after I deal wi’ this wretched pig.”
Hamilton smiled. “‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,’ Sergeant.”
“It’s all very well for you t’say, sir,” Dickerson grumbled as he shoved on his hat. “You might feel different if it were you herdin’ a bloody pig.”
He stomped out of the station amidst stifled laughter from his colleagues. Throwing on his cloak, Ian mused that even Edinburgh’s police force needed a good belly laugh now and again. He didn’t much feel like laughing himself as he followed the others from the warmth and light of the station house into the waiting night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sergeant Dickerson looked around uncomfortably as he pushed open the thick front door of the Hound and Hare later that evening, nicked and scarred by centuries of kicks, cuts, and fists. He didn’t protest when Hamilton suggested they meet there—he knew it was pathetic, but he desperately wanted the detective’s approval.
William Chester Dickerson—Billy Boy to his friends in Lancashire—was of meek disposition. Places like the Hound and Hare intimidated him. It catered to rough trade, the sort of fellows who bullied him at school, putting nettles in his trousers or hanging him upside down from the nearest low tree branch. One sadistic Irish hooligan by the name of Charlie Higgins liked to pour treacle into his desk, drowning his books and papers in the sticky stuff.
Seared by his boyhood experiences, Billy Dickerson attempted to conquer his fears by moving to Edinburgh to join the police force. He was shocked to find it filled with the kind of men he left Lancashire to avoid—rugged, rough-spoken Highlanders with blunt manners and loud voices. Some were thugs, of course, but others, like DI Hamilton, seemed truly interested in justice.
He found the detective standing just inside the entrance. He acknowledged Dickerson’s arrival with a nod.
“Try not to act like a policeman,” Hamilton said, pressing through the maze of bodies toward the bar.
“Yes, sir,” Dickerson said, trailing behind like a faithful spaniel, wishing he were in uniform instead of the street clothes Hamilton insisted he wear. At least when he was in uniform, he was treated with some respect—in regular clothes, he was just a short, pudgy fellow with ginger hair.
“If we want information on who killed Robert Tierney, our best bet is to mingle with the regulars.”
“Right you are, sir,” the sergeant replied, sidestepping a puddle of spilled beer near a table full of ruffians in football jerseys.
After just a few days working with Hamilton, he had come to regard the detective with a reverence Dickerson himself knew was absurd. His stern purity inspired the sergeant to feats beyond his usual scope. The climb up Arthur’s Seat was an example—hardly a prime specimen of manhood, Dickerson, anxious to please, had huffed uncomplaining up the hill at the punishing pace Hamilton had set.
Now he stood at the bar, viewing the room and its occupants with dismay. It was one thing to come here in the afternoon, but quite another to dive into the nighttime uproar and chaos. A beady-eyed ruffian with thick shoulders caught Dickerson looking at him and pressed his face close to the sergeant’s.
“What’re ye lookin’ at, boyo?” he growled, his breath stinking of tobacco, herring, and stale beer. He was dressed like a dockworker, in a stained shirt and overalls.
“He’s looking at your lady friend,” Hamilton replied calmly, “wondering if she’s better in bed than your sister.”
The thug stared at him blankly, the words taking some time to register in his dim excuse for a brain. Then his face went scarlet, and he roared like a wounded lion, his meaty hands clawing toward Hamilton’s face.