The footballers seemed quite content to embrace him as part of their drunken band, as they continued their merry way west toward Edinburgh Castle. Donald concluded his pursuers weren’t very experienced—when he peeled off, slipping into a narrow wynd just past Old Fishmarket Close, they failed to spot him. He leaned against the wall of the building, breathing in the heavy night air, the sandstones damp against his back.
When the last strains of the footballers’ singing had disappeared into the distance, he stepped back out into the street. It was late, but a few pubs were still open. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and pushed on in the direction of his favorite, the Lion and the Lamb.
He failed to notice the figure following him at a distance—a man far more experienced in the art of tracking than the two clumsy fellows now engaged in a desultory wild-goose chase trailing a harmless band of footballers.
Monday night at the Lion and the Lamb was much like any other—loud, smoke-filled, and crowded. Donald shouldered his way to the bar, ordered a pint, and headed for a corner booth. As he did, his elbow caught another man’s sleeve, and his beer splashed all over the stranger’s jacket.
“So sorry,” Donald said. “I do beg your pardon.”
“My fault entirely,” the man replied in an educated English accent. “Let me buy you another.”
“But it wasn’t—”
“Please—I insist.”
A glance at the quality of his London tweed jacket and Italian leather shoes told Donald the man was well-heeled.
“Jolly decent of you,” he said, unconsciously sliding into his companion’s British inflections. There was something compelling about the man’s commanding personality, though Donald felt oddly repulsed at the same time.
His companion handed him a pint and held up his own mug. “That’s better—cheers.”
The two men touched glasses, and the stranger gave him a smile. Donald was struck by the power of his gaze, concentrated in the deep-set, powder-blue eyes. The smile, though intended to be friendly, was intense and strangely cold. He felt the man was sizing him up, and yet there was an energy about him that made resistance difficult. Though the room was warm, Donald gave an involuntary shiver.
“Do you like card tricks?”
“I suppose so.” Donald wanted to walk away, but he couldn’t seem to summon the will. “I’ve never thought much about it.”
With a flourish, the man produced a deck of cards. “Pick one.”
Feeling the heat of his gaze, Donald hesitated.
“Go ahead—any card.”
Donald reached for a card.
Outside the pub, deep in the night, an owl hooted as the pale moon slid behind a dark cloud.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
“Shall we call it a night?” Sergeant Dickerson said to George Pearson as the two stumbled down Cowgate Street in the company of the gang of footballers.
The footballer nearest to him put a hairy arm around his neck. “Oiy—ye can’t go yet, lads! The fun’s only just beginnin’!”
Pearson shot Dickerson a desperate look. The footballers had appropriated George and the sergeant, annexing them to their merry little band when they’d pressed forward in search of the man they’d thought they were following. Sandwiched between two swarthy fellows with calves like hitching posts, the librarian was sweating miserably, the beery fumes coming from his companions making him nauseated. He squirmed uncomfortably in their embrace, but the larger one gave him an affectionate squeeze.
“Oiy, Georgie boy, what position d’ye play?”
“Uh—forward?” Pearson replied hopefully, trying to catch Dickerson’s eye. But the sergeant was trying to fend off the flask of whisky another of the players was pressing upon him.
“Forward, is it?” the giant roared. “Hey, lads, Georgie ’ere plays forward!”
The hulk on George’s other side bellowed with laughter. “Fer which team, then—George Heriot’s School fer boys?”
The others howled and slapped one another on the back. A flat palm between George’s own shoulder blades knocked the air out of him, and he gasped as he stumbled forward.
Two strong pairs of hands reached to steady him, but Pearson saw his chance and wriggled away, twisting off to stand on the side of the road. With a final frantic pull, Dickerson wrenched himself from the clutches of his companions and staggered after the librarian.
The two men took to their heels, scurrying away as fast as their lack of fitness would allow, followed by the disappointed cries of their newfound friends.
“Don’ go, Georgie boy!”
“Oiy—where ye off tae?”
“The night’s still young!”
The two kept running until they reached Tron Square, where they stood panting, their breath forming white puffs in the chill air.
“I thought we’d never git away,” Dickerson said finally.
“We were lucky to escape with our lives,” Pearson remarked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The sergeant barked out a laugh. “I were tryin’ t’imagine you as a footballer—not bloody likely!”
“I might say the same of you.”
Dickerson laughed again, out of relief. “Yer not ’alf bad, mate.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Pearson replied. “But I think I’ll be getting along home before we are apprehended by another gang of sports-minded ruffians.”
“Me, too,” said the sergeant. “I’ve ’ad enough for one night.”
“Good night, then,” said the librarian, heading off toward New Town.
“’Night,” Dickerson replied, watching him for a moment before turning in the other direction.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
It was well after midnight when Ian staggered back to his flat. He had searched every pub and gambling den nearby, but exhaustion tore so fiercely at his body that after two hours he was forced to give up the search. With the beating he had sustained two days earlier, combined with lack of sleep, he felt as if he had been drugged. He had no sooner crawled into bed than he succumbed to the pull of sweet oblivion.
A pounding at the front door jolted him into consciousness. He sat bolt upright in bed, aware of morning sounds coming from the street below, the clatter of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves vying with the cries of street vendors and tradesmen. The angle of the sun suggested it was midmorning. The knocking sounded again, and he sprang from the bed. Seized by a wave of dizziness, he grasped the bedpost to steady himself before hurrying to answer the door.
Sergeant Dickerson stood alone on the stoop, a grave expression on his pale face. The implication was clear: another victim. Without a word, Ian let the sergeant in, closing the door behind him. He headed back to the bedroom to get dressed, but Dickerson’s voice stopped him.
“Sir.”
Something in his tone made Ian’s blood freeze. He turned slowly and regarded Dickerson, dread seeping into his limbs.
“What is it?”
Dickerson opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Unable to hold Ian’s gaze, he averted his eyes, which were rimmed with red.
“Who is it this time?” said Ian. “For God’s sake, who?”
Staring at his shoes, the sergeant muttered in a strained monotone. “He was found this morning, sir, outside the Lion and the Lamb. Just like the others.”
“Who, Sergeant?”
“It’s . . . Pearson, sir.”
“What?” Ian said. “George Pearson?”