He found the detective standing just inside the entrance. He acknowledged Dickerson’s arrival with a nod.
“Try not to act like a policeman,” Hamilton said, pressing through the maze of bodies toward the bar.
“Yes, sir,” Dickerson said, trailing behind like a faithful spaniel, wishing he were in uniform instead of the street clothes Hamilton insisted he wear. At least when he was in uniform, he was treated with some respect—in regular clothes, he was just a short, pudgy fellow with ginger hair.
“If we want information on who killed Robert Tierney, our best bet is to mingle with the regulars.”
“Right you are, sir,” the sergeant replied, sidestepping a puddle of spilled beer near a table full of ruffians in football jerseys.
After just a few days working with Hamilton, he had come to regard the detective with a reverence Dickerson himself knew was absurd. His stern purity inspired the sergeant to feats beyond his usual scope. The climb up Arthur’s Seat was an example—hardly a prime specimen of manhood, Dickerson, anxious to please, had huffed uncomplaining up the hill at the punishing pace Hamilton had set.
Now he stood at the bar, viewing the room and its occupants with dismay. It was one thing to come here in the afternoon, but quite another to dive into the nighttime uproar and chaos. A beady-eyed ruffian with thick shoulders caught Dickerson looking at him and pressed his face close to the sergeant’s.
“What’re ye lookin’ at, boyo?” he growled, his breath stinking of tobacco, herring, and stale beer. He was dressed like a dockworker, in a stained shirt and overalls.
“He’s looking at your lady friend,” Hamilton replied calmly, “wondering if she’s better in bed than your sister.”
The thug stared at him blankly, the words taking some time to register in his dim excuse for a brain. Then his face went scarlet, and he roared like a wounded lion, his meaty hands clawing toward Hamilton’s face.
Hamilton sidestepped him easily. “What do you say we take this outside?” he said with a smile.
His would-be attacker wheeled around, ready to advance again, before thinking better of it. By now they had caught the attention of several other people, including the bartender, who nodded sternly toward the rear exit. Fights were common in the Hound and Hare, but the back alley was the preferred place for brawls if you ever wanted to set foot in the place again.
As Hamilton headed for the rear exit, Sergeant Dickerson looked wildly around, thinking perhaps to corner an ally, but most of the patrons had lost interest, returning to the real business of the evening—drinking. A couple of them laughed and patted Hamilton’s antagonist on the back as he charged past them.
“Mind ye don’ knock ’is teeth out, Jimmy, or ye’ll have tae pay the dentist bill!”
“Oiy, Jimmy! It’s early yet fer a fight, innit?”
These remarks were followed by guffaws and shoulder slapping as the three of them pushed through the crowd toward the exit. Dickerson swallowed hard as he followed the others out. Hamilton’s adversary had at least a two-stone advantage and looked mean as a cornered badger. Dickerson noticed a small chap with a neat little black mustache break off from his companions and follow them as they left the pub.
“Terry McNee,” the little fellow said, extending his hand as they made their way through the narrow wynd leading to the back of the building. “Most people call me Rat Face. I’ll be Jimmy’s second. And you’ll do likewise for your friend, I suppose?”
His voice was light and high and educated, minus the dull, mindless aggression of the pub’s other clientele. Dickerson wondered what he was doing at a place like this.
“William Dickerson,” he said, shaking the man’s hand, smooth and soft as a woman’s, the fingernails neatly trimmed.
“Right, Willie, let’s see what your friend has to say for himself,” McNee, alias Rat Face, said pleasantly. Dickerson tried to apply Hamilton’s methods to figuring out what kind of person this fellow was. Clearly not a menial laborer—but why would a respectable office worker be hanging around with the brutish Jimmy?
The alley behind the pub was squalid and smelly, bordered by a pigsty on one side and a penny tenement on the other. The odor of rotting cabbage and sour cheese assailed Dickerson’s nostrils as he watched Jimmy remove his coat, muscles bulging against the fabric of his flannel shirt. The brute rolled up his sleeves, exposing muscular forearms scored with colorful tattoos. Hamilton did the same, and Dickerson noticed with disappointment that his figure was considerably less bulky than his opponent’s. Though a tall man, DI Hamilton looked scrawny next to the massive Jimmy. Dickerson hoped the detective’s intellectual edge would count for something. He shivered at the thought that one dead body in the back of the pub was already more than enough.
He glanced at Rat Face, whose sharp features registered eager anticipation. Dickerson saw how he got his nickname—there was something feral about the long nose, small eyes, and receding chin. The way he brushed his tiny mustache with his long, tapered fingers was like a rat cleaning its whiskers. Rat Face extruded a long, thin piece of what appeared to be hardtack from his pocket and held it out to Dickerson.
“Beef jerky?”
“Thank you, no,” Dickerson said, realizing how dry his throat was. He dearly wished they had imbibed a pint or two before trudging out to this godforsaken alley. His stomach contracted as the two men squared off and a light rain began to fall. He had no idea what was required of him; he had never been a participant in a bar fight. He looked at Rat Face for a clue, but his counterpart was calmly chewing his beef jerky. The sergeant took a step toward Hamilton.
“Sir—”
The detective shook his head. “Later, Sergeant. Well, shall we?” he said to his opponent, who resembled a bull about to charge. His small eyes were narrowed slits, his broad shoulders puffed up and hunched forward, body tensed and ready for combat.
With a grunt, Jimmy launched his massive form at Hamilton. The two men collided with a dull thud, and Dickerson closed his eyes, expecting to hear the crunch of bone as Hamilton collapsed under the weight of the beast. When he opened them again, he was relieved to see the detective had his opponent in a headlock. One wiry arm was wrapped around Jimmy’s neck, while the other grasped his elbow, pulling it tighter.
Jimmy’s face deepened from scarlet to vermillion as he tried to throw off his opponent. Raising his right arm high, he drove an elbow hard into Ian’s back, dropping them both to their knees. Taking advantage of the moment, Jimmy twisted his body and wrenched free, rolling to the ground. The two staggered to their feet, breathing hard and facing each other.
“C’mon, sir,” Dickerson muttered, fists clenched. He longed to enter the fray, but he knew better. This was a fight between the two of them, a test of courage as much as skill.
Jimmy ran at Ian again, head down, in what looked like an attempt at a rugby tackle, but the detective managed to sidestep his opponent, whirling around like a matador evading a bull. This only enraged the big man, who came at Ian with a roar, fists flailing. Again, Dickerson was afraid to look as the two exchanged punches. Jimmy was bigger, but Ian had the advantage of being more nimble and evaded more blows than he caught. An uppercut to the face appeared to daze him, though, as blood burst from his nose. He staggered backward, leaning against the alley’s stone wall.
Jimmy lunged toward him, and Dickerson had a sinking feeling as the two locked shoulders like wrestlers, sweat dripping from their faces. He could hear their labored breathing as they each tried to bring the other to the ground. Surely the larger man would prevail now, with his superior weight and might.
Suddenly Ian rolled to the ground backward, throwing his opponent off balance, so that Jimmy somersaulted over his head in the direction of the wall behind them. His momentum took him into the wall headfirst, and Dickerson flinched at the sound of bone thwacking against stone.
As Jimmy crumpled to the ground, Ian stumbled over to lean on the rain barrel sitting beneath the building’s eaves. Bloodied and
shaken, he didn’t look much better than his opponent. The sergeant watched as Jimmy slowly pulled himself to his hands and knees. Steam rose from his back as he hung his head between his shoulders, his breath coming in thick, hoarse gasps.
Dickerson looked at Rat Face, whose mouth hung open, a look of astonishment on his ferret-like features. No one spoke as Jimmy slowly got to his feet. Hands on his knees, he took a few more deep breaths hunched over, then straightened up slowly, painfully, like an old man. Stretching his spine to its full length, he took a step toward his opponent and extended a hand. Dickerson tensed as the two men clasped hands, fearing it was a trick.
But Jimmy’s aggression had drained away. Without a word, he fished a grimy handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Ian. It looked filthy, but Ian took it and wiped the blood dripping from his nose.
“How’d ye learn to fight like that?” Jimmy asked in a raspy voice.
“I did a bit of wrestling in school,” Hamilton replied, massaging his right forearm.
“More than a bit, I’d say,” Rat Face remarked.
“If I were you, I’d have someone check out your head injury,” Ian said to Jimmy. “It could be serious.”
“Don’ be daft, man,” Jimmy scoffed. “Ye think it’s the first time I’ve had a poundin’?”
Ian smiled. “I suppose not. Still—”
“Why’d ye wan’ tae fight? Because ye knew right enough ye were bound tae win?”
“I figured it was the best way to gain an introduction.”
The big man looked perplexed. “Why on airth would ye—”
“Well,” ventured Rat Face, “they’re coppers, obviously.”
Dickerson stared at him. “How did you—”
“You smell like coppers.”
“So, what d’ye wan’ from us?” asked Jimmy.
“You’re clearly the most feared man in that establishment,” said Hamilton, “and your friend here is the most intelligent.”
His flattery had the intended effect. Jimmy crossed his arms, a lopsided smile on his broad face.
Rat Face wasn’t so easily convinced. “Why not just talk to us?”
Hamilton smiled. “Come now, Mr. McNee.”
Rat Face frowned. “You know me?”
“You are, I believe, the most skilled pickpocket in Edinburgh.”
“Indeed.” His attempt to look innocent did not suit his features.
“So tell me,” said Hamilton. “Would you have answered my questions twenty minutes ago?”
“I suppose not,” said the pickpocket.
“I assume you would have told me to bugger off?”
“Correct.”
“What makes ye think we’ll talk to ye now?” said Jimmy, rubbing his neck, which was still red.
“Because I was willing to risk a thrashing to get what I want.”
“It’s aboot tha’ fella wha’ was killed a coupla days ago, innit?”
“Yes,” said Dickerson, clearing his throat officiously. “I am Sergeant William Dickerson of the Edinburgh City Police, and this is Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton. We’re investigating—”
“What’s in it for us?” asked Rat Face.
“For starters, I won’t arrest you or tell the gentleman in the green tweed cap that you picked his pocket,” said Hamilton. “Though I would appreciate it if you returned his wallet before leaving tonight.”
Rat Face blanched. “How did you . . . ?”
Hamilton smiled. “You have a ‘tell,’ which I won’t reveal to you, because I’d rather not make you more proficient at your vocation.”
Rat Face stared at him, then laughed. “By God, you are a clever copper! Go ahead—ask me whatever you want.”
“Were either of you at the Hound and Hare this past Friday?”
“That’s the night the fella wa’ killed?” Jimmy asked, scratching his head.
“D’you know anything about it?” said Dickerson.
“Wha’ if we do?” Jimmy said. “What’s it worth to ye?”
“It’s more a question of what it’s worth to you,” Hamilton replied. “Numbers running may be common in Edinburgh, but it’s still frowned upon, I’m afraid.”
“Give it up, Jimmy,” Rat Face said. “This fellow knows more about us than our own mothers, though I’ll be damned if I know how he got his information.”
Dickerson stared at Hamilton, confounded. He was as much in the dark as the other two.
“It’s not difficult to see that you gentlemen are partners in more than just bar fights,” Hamilton said. “So the question becomes where in the underworld is one most likely to find a need for both brains and brawn? Several answers occurred to me, including burglary, but Mr. McNee doesn’t have the look of a safecracker. A pickpocket is likely to be a cardsharp, and possibly a bookie. And every bookie needs someone to collect money from reluctant clients.”
Rat Face laughed again, showing a row of pointed gray teeth. “I declare, Detective Inspector—Hamilton, is it? I really must congratulate you. I do pride myself on a certain facility with a deck of cards, though I would never turn my skills to the service of crime.”
“Of course not,” Hamilton replied with a smile.
Rat Face extracted a toothpick from his pocket and planted it in the corner of his mouth, chewing on it delicately. “So, what can we do for you, gentlemen?”
Dickerson cleared his throat. “Were you acquainted with th’ late Robert Tierney?”
“Do you have a photograph of the fellow in question?” said Rat Face.
Dickerson frowned. “His picture was in the paper for two days.”
“Alas, I’m somewhat lax in my reading habits.”
“I know ’im,” Jimmy said. “Comes in of an evenin’, usually lookin’ fer trouble. Me and him ’ave had a go or two in the past. Fights dirty, likes to bite.”
“I see,” said Dickerson. “And last Friday . . . ?”
“I weren’t here.”
“Might I ask where you were?” said Hamilton.
Jimmy looked at his shoes. “Helpin’ me mum.”
Dickerson started to laugh, but the expression on Jimmy’s face cut him off short.
“It’s true, gentlemen,” Rat Face said. “Jimmy’s a good son to her—aren’t you, lad?”
“She’s me mum, ain’t she?” Jimmy mumbled, still staring down at his shoes, scuffed and caked with mud.
Dickerson turned to the pickpocket. “So were you at the Hound and Hare last Friday?”
“Sergeant,” he replied, pulling his collar up as a thin, cold rain began to fall again, “before continuing, do you suppose we could retire to the comfort of a corner booth and a pint of ale?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The atmosphere inside the Hound and Hare had heated up. Dickerson nearly choked on the cloud of tobacco smoke billowing out the door when he opened it. The air inside was worse. A thick blue haze lay over the room, the noise was deafening, and the floor was slick underfoot. The sawdust sprinkled on the boards wasn’t enough to soak up the puddles of spilled beer. Harsh laughter competed with drunken singing and the clatter of beer mugs as they pushed toward the back of the room. Dickerson rubbed his eyes, burning from the dense layer of smoke hanging like mist in the air. He looked at Hamilton to see if he, too, was suffering, but the detective appeared oblivious to the foul atmosphere.
They squeezed their way to a booth in the far corner. Sitting alone with a pint in front of him was a man who looked so out of place that Dickerson would have noticed him even if he hadn’t been waving at Detective Hamilton.
“You know him?” the sergeant asked, bewildered.
“I’m afraid so,” Hamilton said, frowning.
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 surpri
se, 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.”
Edinburgh Twilight Page 11
