The man rose and greeted the detective warmly. Dressed in a frock coat complete with vest and cravat, he had a soft, plump build and a refined air that was utterly out of place in the Hound and Hare. He looked like a tailor or a law clerk, at sea among dockworkers, bootblacks, and thieves.
“What a pleasant surprise, seeing you here!” he exclaimed, shaking Hamilton’s hand warmly as Jimmy looked on sullenly. Rat Face had taken advantage of the distraction to disappear.
“I didn’t take this to be your sort of establishment,” Hamilton said.
The other man winked. “Scene of the crime and all that, eh?”
Hamilton turned to Dickerson. “Sergeant, may I introduce Mr. George Pearson.”
The sergeant shook Pearson’s hand; the fingers were plump and soft.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant—”
“Dickerson.”
“Anything I can do in the interest of justice—”
Hamilton interrupted him. “And this is Mr. Jimmy—”
“Snead,” the big man said. “Jimmy Snead.”
“A pleasure,” said George Pearson. “Any friend of Detective Hamilton’s is a friend of mine.”
Jimmy shifted his weight to the other foot. “We’re not exactlah—”
“Please,” said Pearson, “allow me to buy the first round.”
Jimmy brightened as Hamilton looked around the room. “Your friend seems to have taken a powder.”
Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe ’e has business tae attend to.” He turned to Pearson. “Now, what were ye sayin’?”
“What can I get you?” Pearson replied genially.
“A pint o’ heavy,” Jimmy said, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
“Capital!” Pearson said, rubbing his hands together. “And you, gentlemen?”
Hamilton did not look pleased, and Dickerson hesitated.
“I’ll, uh, have the same.”
“For you, Detective?” Pearson asked cheerfully.
“The same,” Hamilton replied, gazing at a group of drunken footballers singing bawdy songs at the other end of the bar. “Now then,” he said to Jimmy as they settled into the booth, “what can you tell me about Robert Tierney?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Ye could set yer watch by ’im of a Friday night—come in by eight, regular as clockwork.”
“So is it safe to assume he was in here last Friday at about that time?”
“Ye’d have to ask them what was ’ere that night, but I ’spose so, yeah.”
“You said he liked to fight,” said Dickerson. “With anyone, or just certain people?”
Jimmy looked him up and down and smiled. “I ne’er saw ’im pick on a runt like you.”
Dickerson felt his face redden, but Hamilton laid a hand on his arm.
“You mean he liked to fight with people his own size?” said the detective.
“Righ’ enough. Like I said, him an’ me’s had a few scuffles in our time.”
“You said he fought dirty,” said Dickerson. “Were anyone out to get ’im for that—someone angry at him, maybe?”
Jimmy threw his head back and laughed, the red bruises around his throat still visible. “Ye ’aven’t been around here much, have ye?”
Dickerson took a deep breath and tried not to choke on the smoke-filled air. “Enlighten me.”
“Ev’ry man in this place fights dirty. Some worse ’an others, but there’s not a sod in ’ere what wouldn’t bite yer ear off if he could git away wae’it.”
“Then what made Tierney stand out?”
Jimmy put his face close to the sergeant’s, the gaslight glinting off his narrowed, bloodshot eyes. “Bobby wasn’t just willin’ tae bite—he was lookin’ fer any chance. An’ it weren’t only ears, either—he once bit off a poor sod’s finger.”
Dickerson felt a little sick. The combination of close, smoky air swirling with the fetid fumes of Jimmy’s breath was beginning to turn his stomach.
Just then, George Pearson arrived with an armful of beer mugs, lowering them awkwardly onto the thick oak table, scarred with years of promises deeply carved into its surface. In front of Dickerson were the words Death to the English. He hastily slid his glass over it to obscure the message.
“Here we are,” Pearson declared cheerfully, sliding in next to Jimmy Snead, whose surly expression softened at the sight of alcohol. “I got two for you. You’re a big fellow, and you look thirsty.”
Snead closed his thick fingers around the glass and lifted it in a toast. “Here’s tae yer health.”
“Cheers,” Pearson replied, lifting his drink.
Dickerson drank greedily, savoring the cool, bitter brew. He had waited a long time for this and was determined to enjoy it. DI Hamilton sipped at his without relaxing his watchful, guarded expression.
“How is the investigation proceeding?” George Pearson asked, his large, liquid eyes shining as he leaned forward.
Hamilton frowned. “Mr. Pearson, have you been following me?”
Pearson’s soft body deflated like a balloon losing its air. “I just want to be of assistance.”
“I would appreciate it if you would do your ‘assisting’ from the—”
He was interrupted by a commotion at the table of footballers. Angry shouting was followed by a loud thud and the crashing of broken glass as the table was upended. Glassware, ashtrays, and coins slid to the floor as the yelling became louder.
The other patrons turned to look as one of the footballers squared off with a much smaller opponent. Dickerson saw to his surprise that it was Rat Face.
“Goodness me,” said George Pearson, “I do believe they’re about to have a row.”
Dickerson frowned at Jimmy. “Your friend’s about t’get pulverized.”
“Not if I can ’elp it,” the big man replied, getting to his feet.
Hamilton laid a hand on his shoulder. “Allow me.”
Jimmy tried to push his arm away, but Hamilton tightened his grip and looked him in the eye. “I have a score to settle.”
Jimmy cocked his head to one side and frowned. “Have it yer way.”
“What score is that?” Pearson asked Dickerson as Hamilton removed his coat and shouldered his way past the other patrons.
“I’ve no idea,” said Dickerson. He watched the detective push through the crowd as the bartender lumbered toward the two combatants, shouting.
“Oiy! Take it outside!”
But Hamilton was closer and had almost reached them, when the football player threw a punch at Rat Face. The little man tried to dodge the blow, but it landed on his ear, throwing him off balance. The football player, who was big and blond, grinned as the mob pressed forward, egging them on.
“C’mon, Rat Face, go after ’em!”
“Oiy, Tony, why don’ ye pick on someone yer own size?”
“Pummel tha’ bastard, Rattie!”
The football players supported their teammate with their own catcalls.
“G’wan, Tony, crush the little bugger!”
“Annihilate the wee rat, Tony boyo!”
Tony wiped spittle from his mouth and raised his fist to strike another blow at Rat Face, who had staggered back into the fray.
He never got the chance. Ian Hamilton launched himself at the man, arms wrapped around Tony’s waist in a rugby tackle. The two went down hard, knocking into a table and crashing to the floor amidst broken beer glasses and peanut shells. Dickerson sprang to his feet, craning his neck to see over the heads of the crowd.