The man standing on George IV Bridge Monday night gazed at the city slumbering around him and smiled. His fingers closed around the scarf in his pocket, the cloth cool and smooth against his skin. With his two strong hands, it was the only weapon he needed. He liked the purity of it, being so near to his victims as he watched the light fade from their eyes. He had followed the case closely in the papers, and instinct told him his pursuers were closing in. If caught, he did not intend to go quietly. Life in prison held no allure—he was determined to fight his way to the bitter end.
The easiest thing would be to fade into the night—with the right disguise, he stood a good chance of getting away. But he wasn’t ready to leave—he had one more task to accomplish first. It was risky, he knew, but that was part of the appeal. The threat he posed to his victims was only part of the thrill; the danger he placed himself in during the commission of his crimes was exhilarating. Twice he had nearly been spotted; only the cover of night had allowed him to slip around the corner and escape detection.
He licked his lips, salty sweat mixing with the light rain that had begun to fall. He pulled his sou’wester tightly around his neck as he scanned the streets below. From where he stood, he had a good view of this section of Old Town; sooner or later his prey was bound to pass by. This time he had his victim picked out in advance—and a tasty morsel he was. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be his crowning achievement, a fitting end to his career in Edinburgh. Then he would move on to fresh territory before the net closed in around him.
He caressed the scarf, savoring the familiar tingling in his groin. Sweet anticipation flooded his limbs as he thought about what he was planning. This one wouldn’t go down easy. He pulled his oilskin cap over his eyes and leaned against the railing to wait. He was patient—unlike his victim, he had all the time in the world.
In the glint of a streetlamp, he caught sight of a figure leaving the building he was watching. His heart thumped in his chest—could it be? No, it was someone altogether bulkier and more solidly built. The man stopped beneath the lamp to light a cigarette, and in the flair of the match, the face was plainly visible to his observer. In an instant, the killer’s plan changed. This was not the one he sought, but he would do nicely—very nicely indeed. Deep inside the bowels of the city, a rabbit screamed as an owl’s talons pierced its neck.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
“I say, Sergeant Dickerson—wait up!”
Dickerson turned to see a plump man in an expensive frock coat running toward him. He looked familiar, but the sergeant wasn’t good with faces and couldn’t remember where he had seen him. Having left Lillian’s flat, Dickerson was nearly at the intersection of Cowgate and Grassmarket.
“It’s me—George Pearson!” he said, pulling up next to Dickerson, beads of sweat prickling his broad forehead. He looked even less accustomed to physical exertion than the sergeant. “We met at the Hound and Hare, remember?”
“Right—the same night we met up wi’ those two shady characters. Rat Face and his pal, the big fellow . . . wha’s ’is name?”
“Snead,” Pearson replied. “Jimmy Snead.”
“Yeah, ’at’s it. What can I do for ye?”
“Actually, it’s more what I can do for you.”
“I don’ follow.”
“I’m helping Detective Hamilton on the case—acting as a sort of adviser ex-officio—”
“Hold on a sec,” Dickerson said, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why ’aven’t I been told about this?”
“I’m surprised he didn’t mention it. I’ve been giving him all sorts of advice, you see—”
“Wha’ is it you want wi’ me, then?”
“I’ve just been ’round to his flat and he’s not there, so I thought you might know where he is.”
“Me ’an him parted company half an hour ago. He could be anywheres.” Dickerson was concerned as well as put out by this information. He had been expecting to find Hamilton at his flat; after dropping the sketch off with Hamilton’s aunt, he intended to meet the detective at Victoria Terrace. He wasn’t about to tell Pearson, though—something about the librarian irritated Dickerson. Maybe it was his posh English accent, air of self-importance, or soft white hands—whatever the reason, the sergeant felt antipathy toward him.
“Are you meeting up with him in the near future?” Pearson asked, wiping the sweat from his face with a monogrammed handkerchief.
Dickerson shrugged and resumed walking north. “I don’ see as I can avoid it, since we’re workin’ case together.” The monogram was the last straw—really over-the-top, he thought disdainfully.
“Mind if I join you?” the librarian asked, falling in step beside him.
“Well, it’s not really . . . ,” he began, stopping to watch a stout man lurch past them. The man’s demeanor was preoccupied, his eyes focused straight ahead; he barely seemed to notice Dickerson and Pearson as he passed. His gait was unsteady but determined. There was something familiar about his face—the odd thought occurred to Dickerson that he resembled a much heavier version of Detective Hamilton. Not for the first time, the sergeant cursed his bad memory for faces. Curious, Dickerson decided to follow him.
“Where are we going?” Pearson bleated as the sergeant started off after the man, who was headed east, in the direction of Holyrood Castle.
“Jus’ shut up!” Dickerson hissed as the librarian scurried after him. “I didn’t ask f’your company.”
“Surely a man in this town may walk where he likes,” Pearson replied moodily.
“Then keep quiet, will ye?”
“Very well,” he answered as the two of them passed beneath George IV Bridge. Neither of them noticed another man trailing them at a distance, hugging the shadows of the buildings. They continued on, pressing deeper into the heart of the Old Town, to be swallowed up by the night.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Donald Hamilton wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t see the two men following him along Cowgate Street. Thinking they were thieves planning to roll him, he resolved to give them the slip. He saw his chance in a band of carousing footballers stumbling toward him, singing loudly. As they neared, he abruptly changed direction and joined up with them. Clapping his arm around the shoulder of the brawniest lad, he joined the singing, belting out the words lustily.
If Nell were a lady, she’d be just fine
But since she’s no lady, she’s a gal o’mine