PROLOGUE
EDINBURGH, 1880
She stood over his bed, savoring the moment. This was the pinnacle, the flowering of all her plans and aspirations. As the sun dipped beneath surly gray clouds, she watched him begin to sweat, beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead like translucent pearls. His breathing deepened as his face turned pink, then scarlet, and he began to moan faintly. This was the moment she had been imagining, awaiting patiently during many days and weeks of planning. The anticipation was sweet, and she had drawn it out as long as possible, but nothing equaled the fierce joy of watching a life in the balance between this world and the next. Her body swelled with pleasure far greater than mere sexual longing. It was as if her blood had turned to silk, caressing her veins with every pulse of her heart.
It was time.
She lifted the covers and crept between the sheets to lie next to him. Her own breathing quickened in response to his labored breaths, her limbs hollow with desire. She lost awareness of the room around them, watching the reflection in the window as the sun slid across the Edinburgh sky in its journey westward. She could just make out the Nelson Monument, perched upon the summit of Calton Hill, thrusting bravely into the wintry sky. The clock on the wall continued its relentless ticking, the hands moving inexorably forward as the man’s fingers twitched and clenched the blankets spasmodically, as his moaning crescendoed.
“Shh,” she whispered, cradling his head between her hands. “It will all be over soon.”
But not too soon, she thought as her hand snaked its way down his body. Gently she unbuttoned his pajamas and caressed his limp manhood, fondling its downy softness, until it began to stiffen in her hand. It was always a marvel to her—how, even on the brink of death, bodies responded to the pull of life. Soon, he’d shuffle off this mortal coil, but first, she would savor the sliver of life yet left in his body.
As she stroked him, she pushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead with her other hand, kissing his neck and whispering in his ear.
“You see,” she said, “I told you I’d never leave you.”
At that moment, in a slaughterhouse deep within the bowels of the city, a pig squealed as a sharpened blade pierced its throat.
CHAPTER ONE
On a cold Monday in November, Detective Inspector Ian Carmichael Hamilton entered the High Street police station with a feeling of foreboding. His superior officer, Detective Chief Inspector Crawford, had not been himself lately, and no one seemed to know what the matter was. Not a particularly cheerful man under the best of circumstances, DCI Crawford had been even moodier of late, muttering under his breath, looking peeved and distracted. Worse, he had become absentminded, forgetting orders he had given and countermanding others. Morale was shaky, the men under him jumpy. Officers were coming in late, if they showed up at all, and a sense of chaos pervaded the squad room.
After hanging his cloak on the rack, Ian sat at his desk in the corner, turning his attention to the growing mound of paperwork. But he found it difficult to concentrate, sensing expectant looks from the other officers around him. Conversation had ceased when he entered, and there were low murmurs he couldn’t make out, the words lost in the room’s lofty ceilings. It was clear something had to be done.
DCI Crawford was not the sort of man to take anyone into his confidence, but DI Hamilton was the closest thing he had to a friend on the force. Though it was more of a father-son relationship—and a fraught one at that—Ian knew if anyone could break through the chief’s intimidating personality, he could.
He didn’t relish the idea of confronting Crawford—his commanding officer’s tirades were legendary and, over the years, had reduced more than a few recruits to tears. Ian looked up to see Constable Bowers hovering nervously nearby. His blond eyebrows were knit with concern, terror in his deep-set blue eyes.
“What is it, Constable?”
“Well, sir, he won’t talk to anybody—just sits there in a black mood, starin’ out the window, y’see.” Like Ian, Bowers came from Invernesshire, but DCI Crawford had the ability to intimidate even the Highlanders on the force.
“And you’re waiting for me to do something about it, I suppose?” said Ian.
Constable Bowers fiddled with his truncheon and bit his lip. “Well, are you going to, sir?”
Several other policemen stared at him from their desks. The tension in the room was as thick as the evening fogs that rolled in from the Firth of Forth.
“All right,” Ian declared, standing up and squaring his shoulders. “I’m going in.”
He felt all eyes on him as he strode toward Crawford’s office, projecting a confidence he did not feel. The chief inspector’s office was at the front of the building, separated from the main room by a wood-and-glass partition, the door facing the larger central chamber. Ian knocked on it crisply and waited. No reply. He looked back at Bowers, whose face had gone a shade paler.
“He’s in there, sir,” the constable said.
Ian knocked again more sharply—still no response. He took a deep breath and opened the door. He braced himself for reprimand, but the figure slumped behind the desk barely moved to acknowledge his presence. The seat was turned toward the window, so all he saw was the back of the chief inspector’s bald head over the top of the chair.
“Sir?” he said.
“Do you know what I hate, Hamilton?” Crawford said without turning around.
“What’s that, sir?”
“I hate this whole blasted existence. We eat, we sleep, we trudge off to work, return home again only to eat and sleep some more. What’s the bloody use? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“We also catch criminals, sir. We make the city a safer place to live.”
“Do we, Hamilton? Is it really safer?”
“I should venture to say so, sir.”
“How can you tell? Because it feels like a cesspool to me right now.”
“Then imagine what it would be without us.”
Ian’s remark was met with a thin sigh. “I can’t really imagine anything at the moment—that’s the trouble.”
“Would you care to talk about it, sir?”
Another sigh, then what sounded like a muffled sob, and DCI Crawford slowly swiveled around toward Hamilton.
Ian was shocked by the sight of his superior officer’s face. It had a pasty greenish cast, as though all the blood had drained from it. His cheeks sagged, his eyes were dull and lifeless—even his bushy red muttonchops seemed to droop. Normally a robust, portly man, he looked shrunken and pale.
Ian took the liberty of sitting in the chair in front of Crawford’s desk. Usually a stickler for rules, the chief inspector didn’t take any notice of this violation of protocol. Crawford gazed at Ian listlessly, twisting a piece of string restlessly between his fingers.
“Sir,” Ian began, “the men have noticed something is wrong, and—”
Crawford interrupted him with a laugh—a short, bitter burst of air. “Oh, they have? Bully for them! Perhaps we should promote them all to the rank of detective, eh?” He gave another laugh, but it caught in his throat, becoming a deep, shuddering sob. His body shook as he let his head fall forward to rest on his folded arms.
Ian watched Crawford give in to his grief, his large, ungainly body racked with weeping. Ian felt for the man, but he knew the policemen on the other side of the glass partition could hear them, and when DCI Crawford returned to his senses he would be horrified at the public nature of his breakdown.