“We haven’t moved him yet, sir. If you could just come with me—”
Relief crested over him like a wave. What he had feared, more than anything, was to hear his brother’s name, but . . . His knees buckled, and he grasped the wall to steady himself.
Dickerson stepped forward. “Y’all right, sir?”
Ian’s vision blurred as relief was replaced by boiling rage that the killer had claimed poor, harmless Pearson. The librarian’s only desire was to help Ian—instead, he became another victim. Even though he had tried to keep Pearson at a distance from the investigation, Ian felt responsible for his death, and his guilt was replaced by a cold, hard thirst for vengeance. Without a word, he went to his bedroom and put on his clothes. When he reappeared in the foyer, the face he turned upon Sergeant Dickerson was the stony mask of a basilisk.
“Take me there.”
The sergeant peered at him like a frightened rabbit before scurrying out the door.
DCI Crawford was not prepared for the man who appeared in his office at 192 High Street later that morning. He looked like DI Hamilton, and sounded like him, yet there was something unsettling about the frosty, faraway look in those gray eyes. He showed no traces of human emotion as he stood, stiff as a rod, in front of the chief inspector’s desk.
“Rotten news about your friend, Hamilton,” Crawford began, but the look on the detective’s face silenced him. It was chilling, the gaze of an automaton, not a human being.
“Here are the copies of the sketch my aunt drew last night,” Hamilton said, thrusting a handful of papers onto the desk.
“I’ll see that these are distributed,” Crawford said. “And one for the bulletin board, of course.”
“I would like you to see that an article appears in the evening edition of the Scotsman,” Hamilton said, “announcing we have a suspect in custody in the case of the Holyrood Strangler.”
“But we have no such—”
“Furthermore, it should state that we feel the case will soon be closed, and will soon be revealing the name of the suspect.”
“But why—”
“If you do as I say, it will become clear.”
“You could at least explain what you have in mind,” Crawford said. Damn it, Hamilton was making him uneasy with that bloody stare.
“He knows we’re closing in—he may be planning to leave town. It’s imperative he believe he is safe for the moment so he relaxes his guard.”
“And then . . . ?”
Hamilton gave a grim smile that sent chills up Crawford’s back.
“He will find that there is no safe hiding place in the city of Edinburgh.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Wednesday was Edinburgh’s midweek market day. Local farmers herded their livestock into town and along the Cowgate to the Grassmarket, transforming it into a pulsating mass of bleating and lowing. The smell of the animals was ungodly, especially the cattle, which emanated a noxious odor. People walked by with handkerchiefs pressed to their faces—all except the herdsmen in their rubber boots and flat-brimmed hats, who seemed unperturbed by the stench. Black-and-white border collies paced restlessly beside their masters, sharp eyes fixed on their hooved charges.
Observing the gathering crowd, Derek McNair stood at the top of the same staircase he and Freddie Cubbins had scurried down less than a week ago. Street buskers had set up shop, each claiming their corner. A trio of jugglers wearing motley tossed brightly colored balls into the air while a pair of acrobats did cartwheels; across the wide square, a hurdy-gurdy man cranked the handle of his case, sending out strains of familiar Scottish ballads and folk songs. Derek recognized the tune to “Annie Laurie”:
Maxwelton’s braes are bonnie,
Where early fa’s the dew,
’Twas there that Annie Laurie
Gi’ed me her promise true.
He scanned the crowd, looking for potential marks. He preferred pickpocketing men—for one thing, they were less attentive than women, but he also felt fewer pangs of conscience about stealing from a man. A good-looking toff in an elegant frock coat and gold brocade vest caught his eye. The man was on the young side, with perfectly coiffed hair beneath a well-brushed top hat. Derek licked his lips and rubbed his fingertips lightly across his moistened mouth, to sensitize them and make them stickier. It was his ritual before performing a “lift,” to put himself in the mood and focus his concentration.
He loped casually down the stone steps, taking care not to stare at the man. When he reached the bottom, he was surprised to see his intended victim remove his top hat and release a live dove; with a flutter of wings, the bird flew into the air. Disappointment flared in the boy’s breast—the blasted fellow was just another busker! Bloody magician, Derek thought bitterly as he watched the man pull a row of colorful silk scarves from his sleeve. Several women in the crowd turned, attracted by the flash of color. Their keen expressions softened into something altogether different as they took in the handsome face and graceful figure in the fashionable frock coat.
Caught in the magician’s spell, Derek loitered at the foot of the stairs. All hope of stealing from him had vanished—his lightning hands were quicker even than Derek’s—but the boy lingered to watch. The magician offered a silk scarf to each of the ladies who had formed a semicircle around him. Their tittering and lowered eyes did nothing to relieve the impatience on their husbands’ faces. Attempts to disengage their wives from the spectacle met firm resistance.
The boy couldn’t help admiring the man’s aplomb as he winked and smiled at the delicate flowers of womanhood gathered round him. Hoping to learn a few tricks of the amorous arts, Derek stood at the edge of the crowd as the magician produced an egg from behind a small girl’s ear—which immediately hatched, revealing a snowy white chick. The girl clapped her hands in delight, while her blushing young mother laughed as he presented her with the chirping hatchling. He took out a pack of cards, deftly tossing them into the air. His quicksilver fingers flicked the cards out in a way that made them return to him as faithfully as homing pigeons.
Derek was astonished. Entranced, he watched the magician’s hands slide gracefully through the air. Edinburgh had its share of street performers, but nothing like this. He would have expected such skill only in fancy theaters, at shows you had to pay good money to see. He stood, arms crossed, his mouth open in amazement as the man cut the deck again and again with one hand—then, fanning it out, offered it to the prettiest young woman in the front row.
“Pick a card—any card.”
She blushed and giggled, turning to her exasperated husband, who rolled his eyes. Ignoring him, she plucked a card from the middle of the deck with delicate gloved hands.