“‘Suspicion is a heavy armor—’”
“‘And with its weight it impedes more than it protects.’ I don’t believe Robert Burns was talking about police work when he wrote those lines, sir.”
Crawford’s jaw went slack with amazement at Hamilton’s audacity. It was well-known around the station house that the chief inspector was fond of quoting Burns, and no one had dared interrupt one of his recitations. It was even more irritating that Hamilton actually knew the blasted quote.
DCI Crawford rose from his chair, the movement rather like a whale breaching the surface of the waves.
“Sergeant Dickerson!” he bellowed.
A short, flame-haired young officer with chin whiskers and a burgeoning potbelly appeared at the door. He was like a fledgling version of Crawford himself, but with more hair.
“You called, sir?”
“Will you be kind enough to escort DI Hamilton to the morgue?”
Dickerson shuffled his feet and coughed. “What about th’ matter of Mrs. McGinty’s pig, sir?” His accent was decidedly North Yorkshire, the vowels twisted and wrung out before finally being released from servitude in his mouth.
“I suppose her pig can look after itself for a while, Sergeant.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Though the City of Glasgow Police had the distinction of being the first of its kind in Britain, the Edinburgh City Police had already produced several distinguished members, notably famed detective and author James McLevy. However, the constabulary duties included such things as “Regulation of the Keeping of Pigs, Asses, Dogs, and Other Inferior Animals.” Mrs. McGinty’s pig was a habitual offender, and the job of keeping the good lady and her porcine cohort in line had fallen to Sergeant Dickerson.
“Never mind the blasted pig,” Crawford said. “DI Hamilton here wants to look at a body. I want you to go with him.”
Hamilton looked at DCI Crawford. “Sir?”
“See here, Hamilton, I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste the coroner’s time. However, I will allow you to view the body in the company of Sergeant Dickerson here, if you promise to be quick about it.”
“But—”
DCI Crawford narrowed his eyes, a scowl tugging the corners of his mouth. “Be grateful I’m in a generous mood,” he said, doing his best to sound fierce.
Hamilton blinked and saluted. “Thank you, sir.”
Crawford glared at him before casting his small blue eyes upon Sergeant Dickerson. “Mind you keep an eye on him in the morgue, Sergeant.”
Dickerson looked puzzled. “Sir?”
Crawford sighed. “He’s liable to go wonky. Doesn’t like enclosed spaces.” Hamilton stiffened at this, but they both knew he was in no position to deny it. “Tag along and keep him steady, eh?”
Dickerson’s pudgy body snapped to attention. “Right you are, sir.”
“Be gone, both of you, lest I change my mind.”
They obeyed, and DCI Crawford turned his attention back to the stack of paperwork on his desk, sweat pricking his forehead. If only his subordinates knew how much of his famous irritability was an act, calculated to intimidate. The effort to project a cantankerous persona often had the effect of making him truly cranky. He gazed glumly at his cold tea, the cream condensing on top in a thin, unappealing swirl of white. He stretched his six-foot-four frame and lumbered over to the center window, its iron crosshatched panes splattered with rain.
Outside, an anemic drizzle speckled the cobblestones. People hurried along High Street, hunched against a cold, damp wind that managed to thread its way through the thickest cloak. Even the horses looked miserable, their hooves sending sprays of water in all directions as they landed in puddles. A lone ragpicker huddled over his heap of clothing, face hidden beneath the broad brim of his oilcloth hat.
February was a foul month, and Crawford was in a foul mood. He pulled the gold-plated watch from his breast pocket and flipped open the cover. The watch had belonged to his grandfather, his namesake and one of the founders of the Edinburgh City Police. Much as he tried, Robert Lyle Crawford never felt up to following in his august ancestor’s footsteps. He tucked the watch back into his pocket as he returned to his desk. He wanted nothing more than to be at Moira’s side, to stroke her hair, and hug her to him. It was a gloomy day, and the sooner it was over, he thought, the better.
CHAPTER THREE
The Edinburgh city morgue was dark and dank; it smelled of mildew and lost promise. Ian heard the scuttling of rats and the slow drip of water from an unseen source—a steady, hollow sound, like the slow knelling of a church bell. The more he tried to ignore it, the more the sound wormed its way into his brain. Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Sergeant Dickerson crept along behind him, noiseless as a cat—he didn’t appear to like the place any more than Ian did. Leading the way through the stone corridor, lantern held high in front of him, was the attendant on duty, a short, bushy-haired Welshman by the name of Jack Cerridwen. Ian had crossed paths with him before, and though Cerridwen was an ill-tempered little man, a fifth of single malt did much to soften the rough edges of his personality. Ian had plied him with a bottle of Cardhu, which cost half a week’s wages. He hoped it would be worth the investment.
Ian felt as if the walls were closing in as he followed the Welshman down the dank corridor. He forced himself to take deep breaths to stave off the dread simmering in his stomach. He did not care for anything that reminded him of the basement he had been trapped in all those years ago. The passage of time had done little to dim the terror of confinement. Cold sweat prickled on his forehead, his hands and feet tingled, and his heart thumped like a kettledrum in his chest. The slow drip of water continued relentlessly. Drip, drop, drip, drop. Taking a deep breath of musty air, he willed himself to put one foot in front of the other.
Cerridwen opened an imposing iron door that appeared to have been hewn in the Dark Ages. It clanged shut behind them with a hollow shudder reverberating through the cavernous building. He led them through to a large room with a tiled floor and stark brick walls, thick with decades of paint. Ian couldn’t help thinking about what those layers of paint had covered up, what misery these walls had seen. Gaslight flickered from sconces hanging from the muddy-colored brick walls; a single bank of long, narrow windows let in what little light managed to struggle through the wet winter haze. Ian relaxed a little, more at ease in the spacious room with its high ceiling and tall windows.
A row of stone platforms on steel supports bolted to the floor lined the room’s far wall. Each was just long and wide enough to support the body of a man. On the third platform lay a body covered by a dingy, stained sheet.
Cerridwen whipped off the sheet covering the body with a flourish, as if he were a magician unveiling a trick. “Here ye go. Poor bugger’s just waitin’ for someone to come claim him.”
Ian stared at him. “No family, no fiancée—nobody?”
Cerridwen shook his head, the smell of stale alcohol wafting from his grizzled whiskers. “Nope. Could be someone came around on the night shift, but I don’t think so.”
Ian gazed down at the young man on the slab. He was still fully clothed, and his head lay at an odd angle—it was evident his neck and possibly several vertebrae had been broken in the fall. But in spite of considerable bruising, contusions, and other injuries, in life he appeared to have been fit and well-groomed, even rather handsome. Thick blond hair framed an oval face with regular, clean features. His clothes, though also damaged, were moderately expensive and of good quality. Ian thought it highly unlikely such a person would have no friends or family to mourn his passing.