A grin broke out on Jimmy Snead’s face. “Hello, mate!” he cried, embracing Ian in a bear hug. “Wha’ brings ye tae this hellhole?”
“Same thing as you. I need a drink.”
Jimmy let out a guffaw like the braying of a mule. “There’s better places tae buy a drink.”
“Seems like you’ve had a few already.”
“Aye. I’m mad wi’ it,” Jimmy said with a grin. “Totally bladdered.”
“Hammered, eh?”
“Aye. I’m wrecked, mate. Oiy, Alan, buy us a drink, won’ ye?” he yelled at a massive bald fellow with a build like a Percheron.
“Yer already oot yer face, Jimmy!” he called back.
“Awa’ an bile yer heid!” Jimmy shouted, and the bald man laughed and moved on.
“His head looks like he’s already boiled it,” Ian remarked.
Jimmy brayed again, wrapping a long arm around Ian’s shoulders. “Come along, boyo, let’s get ye a wee drink.”
As Ian followed his friend through the press of bodies, he noticed a muscular, compact man with sun-bleached hair and a weathered face watching him intently from the far corner of the room. His striped trousers and loose-fitting blouse marked him as a sailor. Years of wind and sun had dug deep grooves in his cheeks, and even in December his face had a sunburnt glow. Ian took a step toward him, and the man bolted like a rabbit, slipping through the crowd toward the back door as smoothly as if he was greased.
Ian took chase, but the bodies seemed to close in around him, and by the time he reached the back alley, his quarry was gone. He looked up and down the narrow wynd leading to the street, but the clatter of wooden wheels and voices obscured any sound of retreating footsteps. Disappointed, he returned to the pub, where Jimmy was waiting for him with a dripping pint of ale.
“Whair hae ye been?” he said, handing Ian the drink.
“Do you know the sailor who was sitting over there?” Ian said, pointing to the recently vacated chair.
“Small but well built, wi’ hair like straw?”
“Aye, that’s him.”
“Mos’ likely that would be Sammy. Always stops in ’ere when his ship’s in at Leith docks.”
“Does he have a last name?”
“I never haerd it.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Nasty piece a’ work. I once had tae gae ’im a beatin’ fer skelpin’ ’is lady friend.”
“Why was he slapping her?”
Jimmy gulped some ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Don’ know an’ don’ care. No proper man does that tae a woman.”
“You’re a prince, Jimmy.”
“I’m a rascal an’ a rogue, but I’d sooner cut off my hand than raise it tae a female. Why are y’interested in the likes a him?”
“He may have murdered a man I was looking for.”
“Oh, aye, Nate Crippen.”
“His hands were tied with a sailor’s knot.”
“Plenty a’ them come through this place,” he said, his fingers tracing the grooves in the table where someone had carved a rude word. His fingernails were tobacco stained, the nails dirty and ragged.
“What have you heard about his death?” said Ian.
“Ah dinnae ken who done it, but Sammy’s as likely as anyone. He’d a needed help tae do a Glasgow smile, though.”
“So you know about that?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Somethin’ like that gets around.”
“If you hear anything, will you let me know?”
“Ye kin count on Jimmy,” the big man said, giving Ian a friendly slap on the back. “But ye didn’ come here tae see me. Who are y’after?”
“Your . . . colleague. Have you seen him?”
“Rat Face? He’s made ’isself scarce lately.”
“He’s frightened, I suppose.”
“Pure bloody terrified is more like it.”
“Do you know how to reach him?”
Jimmy shook his head. “When Terry McNee don’ wannae be seen, there’s nae findin’ him.”
“Oiy, Jimmy!” shouted a tall, thin lad with shaggy brown hair. “Are ye blootered yet?”
“I’m steamin’,” Jimmy yelled back. “Ma heid’s mince!”
“Wannae fight?”
“Ach, maybe later,” Jimmy said, and the man moved on.
“Can we talk somewhere quieter?” said Ian, as the din in the pub had reached a deafening volume.
“Aye,” said Jimmy. “Out back.”
Ian followed his friend through the rear exit, once again stepping into the dim alley behind the pub. The ground was covered in mist, which swirled and twisted around their feet before twirling upward into the unseasonably warm air. The tinny sound of a concertina came from the pub, accompanied by drunken singing.
“Haar fog in December,” Jimmy remarked. “It’s a bad omen.”
His words sent a shiver through Ian. The last time he stood in this godforsaken alley, he was looking at the mutilated body of Nate Crippen.
Jimmy lit a cigarette, the smoke joining the wisps of mist curling around his head. “What did ye wan’ tae talk about, then?”
“Rat Face spoke of a new ‘presence’ among you—a kind of unifying force, uninvited but powerful.”
“Aye,” Jimmy said, blowing a smoke ring.
“What can you tell me?”
“Not much. Some a’ the lads are receivin’ instructions if they do this or that, they’ll get paid a large sum fer it.”
“And do they get the money?”
“Aye. Every time.”
“Where does it come from?”
“No one knows. One morning there’s a note slipped under yer door with instructions, or ye find it in yer coat pocket. Or yer mate says he’s heard from so and so tae do this an’ that.”
“And the money?”
“Same thing. It jes—appears.”
“No one’s ever seen leaving it?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Nope. It’s like he knows everythin’ goin’ on in this bloody town.”
“What sort of things does he ask you to do?”
Jimmy flicked his cigarette into the gutter, where it glowed briefly and died. “Bad things.”
“Have you taken money from him?”
Jimmy hung his head. “Aye. Once.”
“What did you do for him?”
“Don’ ask me that, mate,” he said quietly.
“You wouldn’t know anything about a missing girl, by any chance?”
“No. God, no.”
“Her name is Bridie—”
“I tol’ ye no!” Jimmy said tightly, his face red, big fists clenched, and Ian caught a glimpse of the criminal behind the friendly demeanor.
“All right,” he said. “One more question. What about the big break-in later this week?”
The question took Jimmy by surprise. He gulped like a fish gasping for air, his Adam’s apple jumping up and down in his neck.
“Don’ know what ye mean,” he said lamely.
“Rumor has it the target is Murray and Weston.”