He had no apples in his pocket now, he mused as his stomach contracted with another hunger pang. Where the blazes was that good-for-nothing Freddie Cubbins? As Derek contemplated what he would say to his friend when he arrived, he heard quick footsteps and turned to see Freddie running toward him. Though they were both ten years old, Freddie was taller and half a stone heavier than Derek, with sandy hair and a foolish, friendly face. Derek was small and wiry and dark, and the undisputed leader of the two. Freddie was like a big, gangly puppy, whereas Derek was reserved and watchful. Arms crossed, he stood, frowning as Freddie approached, quite out of breath.
“Where ha’ ye been?”
“I’m sorry, Derek, really I am. I overslept.”
“Well, let’s get to it afore there’s naught left.”
“Right,” Freddie said, following Derek down the steps leading to the cluster of pubs underneath South Bridge. The weary winter sun was just cresting over the Firth of Forth as they began scanning the back alleys of Stevenlaw’s Close.
“Oiy—over here!” Freddie called out as Derek pawed through a barrel of discarded oyster shells. “Come on—I got a good one!” Derek hurried over to where his friend was, in back of a pub. “Look at this, then!” Freddie said triumphantly, pulling back an oilcloth to reveal two only slightly chewed loaves of bread and half a nice, fat sausage.
“Wait,” said Derek, pointing to what appeared to be a sack of clothes. “What’s that?”
“It’s a shoe,” Freddie said, poking it. Then he turned pale. “Christ. It’s . . . it’s—”
“Jesus,” said Derek, his face grim.
There, between the rubbish bins and the rain barrel nestled against the back wall, a man lay on his back, his sightless eyes staring up at the newly dawning day. Neither boy had ever seen a dead person before, but they both knew instantly what they were looking at.
“W-we ’ave tae get someone,” said Freddie.
“We will,” Derek replied as he backed slowly away from the corpse, all thought of breakfast vanquished by their terrible discovery.
The boys scampered off, unaware they were being watched by a silent observer standing in the narrow space between two buildings in the back of the alley. Hidden in the shadows, the onlooker trembled with pleasure and pride at the sight of the body. It was hard to tear himself away from the scene, but the police would be arriving soon. He shivered with the thrill of it all. Oh, there was so much evil in a man, one hardly knew where to begin . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE
DCI Crawford couldn’t believe it. He had barely sat down at his desk, and here was DI Hamilton, turning up again like a bad penny—on a Saturday, for Christ’s sake. Crawford rubbed his eyes, burning from lack of sleep, hoping it was an apparition from his overwrought brain, but no—before him stood the infernal detective, bright eyed and eager.
“Good Lord, man, don’t you ever sleep?”
“My ‘little life is rounded with a sleep,’ sir.”
Crawford ground his teeth. “Hamlet?”
“The Tempest. You’re not looking terribly chipper, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I do mind,” Crawford growled, pouring a cup of tea from the cracked blue ceramic pot on his desk. He had come in on his day off to clear up a bit of paperwork, and so far the station house was quiet as a tomb. The only sound penetrating the building’s thick stone walls was the city’s church bells tolling the hour. Ten o’clock. Crawford sighed as he stirred his tea. “I don’t like you nearly as much as you might imagine, Hamilton.”
His remark had no discernible effect upon the detective. “Have you seen the morning paper, sir?”
“I haven’t even had my tea, for Christ’s sake.” To make the point, he took a large gulp, nearly scalding the skin off his tongue. He swallowed hard and glared at Hamilton. “Well? Are you going to tell me what is so very interesting in the paper, then?”
“I brought one so you could see for yourself, sir,” Hamilton said, slapping a copy of the Scotsman upon the desk. There, on the front page, the headline screamed out:
MAN GARROTED AT THE HOUND AND HARE. GRISLY FIND BEHIND LOCAL TAVERN. ANOTHER CHALLENGE FOR EDINBURGH CITY POLICE—HOLYROOD STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN?
Crawford quickly perused the rest of the story. The body, hidden behind a trash bin, was discovered early that morning by a couple of street urchins scrounging about for scraps. They claimed to have dutifully alerted the nearest constable, but evidently not before they went to the newsroom of the Scotsman to sell the scoop to the highest bidder. It wasn’t the first time local reporters had word of a crime before the police, and Crawford figured it wouldn’t be the last. All the reporters had informants on their payroll, many from the less savory strata of Edinburgh society.
“That’s just what we need,” he said, pushing the paper away. “A public panic. ‘The Holyrood Strangler’—good Lord.”
“What if the two deaths are related?” said Ian.
“We don’t even know how this poor blighter died, for Christ’s sake! It’s bad enough that those damn reporters sacrifice facts in favor of cheap sensationalism—don’t you make the same mistake, Hamilton.”
Just then Constable Bowers stumbled into the room, his cheeks beet red. He was a very pale young man with blond eyebrows and a matching mustache. “Sir, there’s been a mur—” He stopped, seeing the newspaper on Crawford’s desk. “But I just—”
“Never mind, Constable,” said the chief inspector, fighting the urge to giggle. While there was something comical about Bowers’ red face and wild expression, Crawford suspected his impulse was more a result of his exhaustion. Laughing at a time like this would be utterly inappropriate, which only made the urge harder to resist. Digging his thumbnail into his palm, the chief inspector assumed a scowl. “Those wretched urchins raced to cash in on their knowledge before someone else found the body. Lucky for them, they seem to have arrived just before the paper went to press. No doubt they were well compensated. Is someone watching over the crime scene, Bowers?”
“Constable MacQuarrie, sir.”
“I have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind,” said Ian.
“Are you putting yourself in charge of the investigation, Hamilton?” Crawford inquired drily.
“I feel certain the cases are linked.”
“‘There is no such uncertainty as a sure thing,’” Crawford muttered, taking another sip of tea.
“Robert Burns, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Well done, sir.”
Crawford sighed. Hamilton got on his nerves, yet something about him aroused fatherly instincts Crawford had never had occasion to express, being childless all these years. Much as he tried to dodge the emotion, he felt protective toward the damn fellow. And yet he was so . . . irritating. “Very well, Hamilton—get on with it so Constable Bowers can return to his post.”
“What about the boys who found the body?” asked the detective.
“I’m right ’ere,” came a voice from behind Constable Bowers.
The owner of the voice was a lad of about ten, with dark hair and deep-set eyes in a pale, intense face. The boy appeared curiously self-possessed for one so young. Though he was dressed in a mishmash of ill-fitting clothing obviously plucked from trash bins and charity shops, and in dire need of a bath and a haircut, there was something dignified and solemn about him.
“And who might you be?” DCI Crawford inquired sternly.
His attempt to intimidate failed. The boy met his gaze. “Derek McNair,” he replied calmly. “I found the body along with me friend Freddie Cubbins.”
“Did you now?” Crawford said. “And where is this Freddie Cubbins, may I ask?”
“He don’ like coppers,” Derek replied with a glance at Constable Bowers, whose flush deepened as he fidgeted with the brass buttons of his uniform.
“But you do?” said Crawford.
“Oh, I just love ’em.”
The chief inspector leaned back in his chair and crossed
his arms. “Well, that’s good to hear. Isn’t that a relief, Constable?” he added with a glance at Bowers.
The policeman looked at Ian with a pleading expression, then back at Crawford. “If you say so, sir.”
“Oh, yes,” said Crawford, rising from his chair. “One fears that street urchins like Master McNair here have an adversarial relationship with us, yet he assures us that isn’t so. How very jolly—it warms the cockles of me heart, it does,” he said, imitating the boy’s accent. “It seems you have an equally delightful relationship with the press, giving them a chance to write about a murder before you bother to report it to the police.”
Derek shifted his feet and looked uneasily at Hamilton, who took a step forward.
“As the chief investigating officer in the Wycherly case, sir, I would like permission to question Master McNair.”
Crawford wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead and plopped himself back down in his chair. “Have at it, Hamilton—but mind he doesn’t feed you a load of bosh and bunkum.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, see if you can persuade the little ruffian to inform the constabulary of a crime before he goes running off to the nearest two-bit newshound, would you?”
“Aye, sir,” said Hamilton, laying a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Come along—we’ll get you a hot cup of tea and some biscuits. Would you like that?”
The boy nodded warily, his dark eyes watchful. Crawford suspected he missed little—to survive on the streets, a boy needed his wits about him.
Crawford turned to Constable Bowers. “MacQuarrie is watching over the scene?”
“Yes, sir—the press are swarming over it like blackflies.”
“Why don’t you join him—and do your best to keep them away, Bowers.”
“I’ll be along shortly,” said Hamilton. He led the boy from the room, leaving Constable Bowers behind.
Hands fluttering nervously at his sides, Bowers swallowed hard before saluting awkwardly. “I’ll be off, then, shall I, sir?”
“Mind you close the door on your way out.”
“Right you are, sir,” said Bowers, closing the door behind him.
Crawford rubbed his temples and gazed out the window. The cobblestones glistened in the timid morning sun as it crested over the stolid stone buildings of the Old Town. Maybe Hamilton was on to something after all—this damn city had more secrets than it did alleyways. He shivered and pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders as he turned his attention to the pile of paperwork on his desk.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ian Hamilton studied the intense young boy hunched over his mug, greedily slurping down cup after cup of strong “builder’s tea.” After going through half a tin of biscuits, he wiped his mouth, took a deep breath, and leaned back in the chair, thin hands crossed on his lap. He was a slight lad, his feet well off the ground as he perched upon the thick oak office chair, legs swinging back and forth underneath. They were in a little side office off the main room used for interrogations, small meetings, and—when the constables could get away with it—naps. Apart from a simple oak desk and matching chair, the room’s only amenities were a cot beneath a single window overlooking Old Fishmarket Close, and a worn green hooked rug. The smell of orange peels and boiled turnips snaked through a crack in the yellowing windowpane.
“There now,” Ian said, leaning against the desk, arms crossed. “Feel better?”
“Yer mate don’ like me much,” the boy remarked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“DCI Crawford thinks you should have informed us before selling your story to the newspapers.”
Derek licked his fingers. “At least they pay me fer information.”
His lack of contrition was not surprising. The relationship between the constabulary and Edinburgh’s lower classes left much to be desired. Ian sympathized with the lad, but he knew it would be a mistake to show it—the boy would just think he was weak, and try to manipulate him.
“Do you give them many stories?” he asked.
The boy shrugged. “A few, now an’ then. None good as this ’un, though—makes me wish there were more murders, so help me God,” he added, crossing himself.
“You’re Catholic?”
Derek nodded. “I know it’s wicked t’have such thoughts, but I can eat fer a week wi’ what they paid me for this, and my mate Freddie as well.”
Ian knew that was no exaggeration, and a pang of anger shot through him as he gazed at the boy’s grubby face and mismatched clothing. Scottish Enlightenment be damned, he thought; Edinburgh could not even take care of her dispossessed children.
“Where is your friend now?”
“Can’t say, really—could be anywheres. Though round about now, I expect he’s havin’ a bloody good nap.”
“So you discovered the body at approximately what time?”
Derek cast his eyes hungrily about the room, as if looking for something else to devour. “It were just gone half past six.”
“You’re English—from the West Country?” England’s west coast had a peculiar and unique accent, as rugged and twisty as the inlets staggered along its cliffs and beaches.
The boy studied his filthy hands, the nails blackened and cracked. “What’s it to ye?”
“Your parents—where are they?”
Derek shrugged. “If you run into ’em, don’t let on you’ve seen me.”
Ian decided to test his indifference to see how much of it was real. If he gave the boy some personal information, Derek might reciprocate.
“My parents are dead.”
“Yeah?” Derek said, swinging his legs faster beneath the chair. “I’d a been better off if someone ’ad taken a cudgel to me old man.” He smiled. “But someone may yet—ye never know.”
“Mine died in a fire.”
“Decent, were they?”
“They were.”
“Must be nice,” the boy said without self-pity. Ian imagined life on the streets would knock that out of anyone soon enough.
“So what about you and Freddie—Cubbins, is it?” Ian said. “You get along on your own?”
The leg swinging resumed. “We do all right, with our other mates. Freddie an’ me are pals, but there’s others like us, y’know.”
“Yes, I know,” Ian said. He declined to mention that his aunt Lillian volunteered twice a week at the local charity, or that his parents had given generously to the Dean Orphanage. “So you found this—gentleman—a little after six thirty this morning?”
“That’s wha’ I said, weren’t it? And he weren’t no gentleman, neither.”
“How do you know?”
“Them what goes to the Hound an’ Hare are rough trade.”
“Can you take me there?”
“Yer blokes took the body off to the morgue, but I can show ye where I found ’im.”
“Good.”
“Oh, I ’most forgot—found this near the body,” the boy said, digging in the pockets of his oversized pants. “Here it is,” he said, removing a soiled playing card and placing it on the desk. It was the four of clubs, with the same unusual design of frolicking skeletons as the card found on Stephen Wycherly. Ian snatched it up and slid it into his pocket. His head felt light as his brain spun. At the very least, the two victims were linked—that much was clear. Whether they shared the same killer had yet to be determined. His hand shook as he reached for the tin of biscuits and held them out to his young visitor.
“Why don’t you take another or two for the road?”
The boy peered hard at him, then grabbed a handful and shoved them into his pocket. “Right,” he said. “What’re we waitin’ fer, then?”
Ian was not prepared for the scene outside the station house. A crowd had gathered, completely blocking the pavement in front of the building and spilling out into the High Street. He estimated it was well over a hundred people, mostly working class, with a few expensively dressed citizens sprinkled in. Some of them clutched copies
of the Scotsman, which they waved at Ian, yelling and clamoring for his attention.
“Oiy! What’re you lads gonnae do aboot the Holyrood Strangler?”
“The streets aren’t safe nae mere!”
“When’re ye gonnae catch ’em?”
“Good Lord,” he muttered, pushing his way through, taking deep breaths to stave off the familiar panic. He hated crowds even more than enclosed spaces. You are not going to pass out, Hamilton, he told himself. Keep breathing. Just as he had nearly cleared the throng, a heavy hand clamped upon his shoulder, pulling him back in. Terror swept over him like a bolt of electricity, and he reacted blindly. Without looking, he spun and let loose a right hook, felt his knuckles collide with the bridge of a nose, heard the crunch of cartilage. A fist connected with his jaw, sending him to the cobblestones. The last thing he remembered was his head meeting the curb so hard that it bounced off as the din of voices receded into the blackness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Well done, Hamilton. Not only did you manage to get yourself knocked unconscious, but you started a street brawl.”
Even with his eyes closed, Ian knew the voice belonged to DCI Crawford. He hoped if he didn’t stir, the chief might leave him in peace, but Crawford was on a roll.
“I was just thinking we didn’t have enough on our plate at the moment, and a good street fight would be just the ticket. You’ve outdone yourself this time, Hamilton.”
Ian opened one eye. He was lying on the cot in the little back room where he had questioned Derek McNair, but there was no sign of the boy. Looming over him was DCI Crawford, and behind him stood a worried-looking Sergeant Dickerson. Ian’s hand went to his forehead, where an egg-shaped lump was forming.
“Does it ’urt much, sir?” said Dickerson.
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