“Yes, sir,” he replied, and followed the chief, trying not to wince as he passed Turnbull, who gave him a smug smile and muttered something under his breath.
“What’s that, Constable?” said Ian.
“Nothing,” said Turnbull.
“Nothing—what?”
“Nothing, sir,” he muttered sulkily.
Ian experienced a moment of victory for which he knew he might pay a price later. But he had no idea how high that price might be.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Close the door,” Crawford said as Ian entered the office. “So what have you done to yourself this time?”
“It’s nothing, sir—just a touch of muscle strain.” Telling the chief about his injuries would mean revealing the reason for his trip to King’s Stables Road, and he didn’t think Crawford would take kindly to it.
The chief looked unconvinced. He grunted and lowered himself gingerly into the chair behind his desk.
“How are your piles, sir?”
“My piles aren’t the issue,” he said, shifting his weight in the chair. He did not look comfortable. “What’s this I hear about you collecting information about the jewelry store theft from—a resetter?”
“James McAllister of Gullan’s Close, to be exact.”
“What on earth of value could he tell you?”
“I asked him if he had heard anything, and he had not, which leads me to suspect the report we received is false.”
“McAllister is one of the most notorious resetters in Edinburgh!”
“Which is precisely why he is valuable. If any large robbery such as that were in the works, he would be in the forefront of people who knew about it.”
“Why would you trust him to tell the truth?”
“I gave him a very convincing incentive.”
“I see what you’re getting at,” said Crawford, stroking his muttonchops. “The thieves would look to him to fence the stolen property—”
“Precisely. He would certainly be among the first to hear of such a plan, so that he could prepare for such a haul.”
“Damn,” said Crawford, shifting his weight in the chair again. “We’re right back where we started.”
“Not entirely, sir. The information we received may be partly correct.”
Crawford pointed to a cushion on the chair next to Ian. “Hand me that, would you? What do you mean, ‘partly correct’?”
“Perhaps there is to be a robbery, but somewhere else,” Ian said, giving him the cushion.
“I fail to see how that could be helpful,” Crawford said, slipping it underneath his backside. “What good is it if we don’t know the location?”
There was a timid knock on the office door.
“What is it?” Crawford bellowed.
The door opened a crack. Sergeant Bowers stuck his head in, his pale cheeks pink, his light-blue eyes apprehensive. The chief rather liked Bowers, so the task of interrupting Crawford often fell to him.
“Yes, Sergeant?” said Crawford. “What’s so important that it can’t wait?”
“Sorry sir, but she’s insisting on speaking to Detective Hamilton.”
“Who?”
“The young lady, sir.”
“Very well, Bowers,” Crawford said, and the sergeant slipped out of the office.
Crawford sighed. “Off you go, then, Hamilton. And try to stay out of trouble, will you? Can’t afford to have you knocked about like that.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Ian said, and left the office.
Returning to his desk, he saw a young woman standing near the entrance, looking around nervously. Clad in a forest-green cloak over a simple woolen skirt and bodice, she was plump and robustly built, with delicate features and dark, wavy hair that looked as if it had been hastily pinned up. A few loose strands dangled around her face, which was pink and damp. It appeared she had come in a great hurry.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, approaching.
“Detective Hamilton, is it?” she said shyly.
“At your service. What can I do for you?”
“I want tae report a missin’ person.” Her accent was unmistakably Irish, possibly from Donegal.
“And who might that be?”
“It’s me mate, Bridie.”
“Does she have a last name?”
“Mallon. Bridie Mallon.”
“And your name?”
“Mary Sullivan.”
“And why do you believe your friend is missing, Miss Sullivan?”
“I haven’ seen her since Monday.”
“Is that unusual?”
“We share rooms, y’see, an’ she always comes home after work. She don’ show up Monday night, nor last night neither.”
“Is it possible she has a beau?”
“She has a fella she sees, but she’s not that kind o’ girl,” Mary said, reddening. “Always comes home at night, so she does.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Monday, afore she left fer work.”
“And her occupation?”
“She’s a charwoman—we both are. We work fer diff’rent folks.”
“Who was she working for on Monday?”
“It’s funny, because it’s a client she’s supposed to clean for on Tuesday, y’see.”
“So why did she go on Monday?”
“She got it into her head t’go on a diff’rent day, so she did.”
“And who is this client?”
Mary averted her gaze. “I don’ know.”
“Is there anyone who might know?”
“I know where he lives, I jes don’ know him personal-like. He’s very . . . mysterious, ye might say.”
“How so?”
“He doesn’t seem to want us to lay eyes on him.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t say. It’s very odd, so it is.”
“Can you give me the address, then?”
“Forty-one Greenside Row. Four F, flat on the top floor.”
“Where can you be reached?”
“Leith Wynd, across from Happy Land, if ye know where that is—”
“Only too well,” Ian said. Happy Land was one of two notoriously run-down tenement buildings on Leith Wynd, the other being Holy Land. The residents who weren’t members of the criminal class were poor souls who could afford nothing better.
“We’ve been savin’ money tae be able t’afford a better place,” she said, seeing his expression.
“Please let me know if your friend returns. Meanwhile, have a care for your own safety. If something happened to her, you may be in danger as well.”
Her eyes widened. “Do ye really think so?”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“So I will, sir—thank you, sir.”
She turned to leave.
“Just a moment,” said Ian. “Why did you ask for me?”
She blushed. “Your aunt—Lillian, isn’t it?”
“You know my aunt?”
“She sometimes teaches paintin’ classes at the church. One time she mentioned her nephew was a policeman.”