He gazed down at her, lying on the floor, so tranquil and peaceful looking, save for the imprints his fingers had left on her tender white neck. He sighed. He must rid himself of her body as soon as possible. He knew how to dispose of a body, best done under the cover of darkness. He would wait until the wee hours of the morning, when the leeries had finished prowling the city with their long ladders and tapers tucked under their arms.
Night had fallen over the city, and the great unwashed masses had sequestered themselves behind closed doors, locked and bolted against the criminal element always lurking in the darkened alleys and winding wynds of the city. But there was no bolt sturdy enough to keep the citizens of Edinburgh safe from him, no door so thick that he could not penetrate it sooner or later, if he wished. As the unsuspecting inhabitants slept, thinking themselves safe and sound in their beds, he would sit throughout the night and scheme how to consolidate his already growing riches and power.
The séance murders had been pathetically easy to set in motion. It was all a matter of timing—his stooge had motivation; all he had to do was provide the opportunity and watch the dominoes fall. And Ian Hamilton would be too preoccupied to concentrate on what was really going on, who was really behind the slaughter. Like a master magician, he had provided a convincing distraction while consolidating his power in the criminal underworld. Hamilton had gotten too close to solving the one crime that could bring him down in an instant—he had managed to arrange Nate Crippen’s death just in time, but it was a close call, one he did not care to repeat.
The people he preyed on were mere sheep—docile, domesticated, and dull. They had become weak and complacent, unable to see past their own immediate needs. He was an entirely different creature altogether.
He was the Watcher.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The next morning Ian rose before the sun, venturing into the predawn stillness as the city paused to catch its breath before the start of another workday. He arrived at police chambers, well before his shift was due to start, to find Jed Corbin leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette.
“You’re up bright and early,” said the reporter, tossing his cigarette stub into the gutter.
“I could say the same of you,” Ian replied, opening the door to the station house.
Corbin followed him inside. “Any autopsy results yet?”
“Yes.”
“What was the cause of death?” he asked as Ian started up the stairs. When Ian didn’t respond, Corbin followed him.
“If you spend much more time here, we’ll have to start charging you rent,” said Ian.
“I helped you out yesterday,” Corbin said as they reached the landing. “I would say you owe me, wouldn’t you?”
Ian turned to face him. “But it’s up to me how to repay you.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because I haven’t yet told my superior officer. It’s his decision what to release to the press.”
Corbin snorted. “If I waited for permission from my editor to pursue a story, I’d be sitting on my hands all day.”
“As soon as I inform DCI Crawford, your paper will have an exclusive on any information he cares to release.”
The reporter brightened. “An exclusive? Have I your word on that?”
“You have.”
“Do you believe his death is related to the fire that killed your parents?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You are investigating those events, are you not?”
“There is no official police inquiry into the death of my parents.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“What I do in my free time is no one’s business but my own.”
“Then you are looking into it.”
“Don’t press your luck, Mr. Corbin.”
“But isn’t it true—”
“Good day,” Ian said. Entering police chambers, he left the reporter alone on the landing.
It was quiet inside the spacious room, with its high ceilings and tall windows overlooking the High Street. Sleepy constables were finishing their usual routines before heading home. No time of day in Edinburgh was quite like early morning. The rambunctious, bustling city had not yet discarded the blanket of night that muffled the hurly-burly of the workday.
Ian busied himself with paperwork until a faint glow seeped into the room, as the pale light of dawn crept across the windowsills. Yawning, he stretched his stiffening muscles and got up to fetch a cup of tea. He heard voices coming from the small room just the other side of the tea service. The room functioned as a storage area, as well as the place for an occasional furtive nap when the chief wasn’t looking. Recognizing one of the voices as Constable Turnbull’s, Ian paused to listen.
“He’s hardly the one to look for false informants.”
“Why’s that, then?” The voice belonged to Constable McKay, a well-meaning but simple-minded fellow Turnbull had twisted round his little finger.
“What, do you not know?”
“Know what?”
Ian listened, his heart dropping like a stone in his chest. He could take it no longer, and burst into the room, with no idea what he was going to do or say. Both men looked at him in surprise, but Turnbull’s pockmarked face soon assumed its usual superior sneer.
“Do you need something, Detective Hamilton?” he inquired coolly.
Ian’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and it took great effort not to plant a fist in that smug face. The consequences were not worth it, he reasoned—he wouldn’t let a man like Turnbull force him into acting rashly.
“We’re out of biscuits,” he said tersely, opening the cupboard containing tea supplies. Grabbing a tin, he strode from the room. He heard Turnbull snicker softly, but moments later both constables emerged from the room—for now, at least, the spell was broken.
Taking his tea back to his desk, Ian pondered what he had heard. The constable obviously knew Crawford had charged Ian with finding the false informant. But how had he found out? He certainly matched the description James McAllister gave of the man who visited his pawnshop. It was not proof, but it came perilously close.
Just then, Sergeant Dickerson entered the station, shaking snow from his overcoat. Was it Ian’s imagination, or did Dickerson avoid looking at him as he hung his coat on the rack? Was there something guilty about the slope of his shoulders as he shuffled toward his desk? An unwelcome thought burrowed into Ian’s brain: Was it possible that Dickerson was Turnbull’s source of information? After all, who else knew about the assignment?
No, he told himself—Dickerson would not do such a thing, no matter how irritated he was with Ian. It was unthinkable, surely. Ian chided himself for entertaining such a supposition. But as Dickerson took his seat, their gazes met, and Ian did not like what he saw in the sergeant’s eyes. Instead of admiration and deference, he saw resentment and wariness. He was about to say something when the door to Crawford’s office opened and the chief himself appeared.
“Could you come in here a minute, Hamilton?”
Rising too quickly from his chair, Ian felt a stab of pain from his injured ribs, and could not suppress a groan.
Crawford frowned. “Are you quite all right?”