“Now you’re talking proper nonsense—get along, then!”
With a quick kiss on her cheek, he went.
CHAPTER FIVE
The lone figure standing on George IV Bridge looked out over the sleeping city and lit a cigarette. The match flickered briefly before dying out. He inhaled deeply, the ember of his cigarette a glowing red eye in the darkness. The night enfolded him in its arms like an old friend. He felt safe, invisible in the inky blackness.
But even darkness was no protection when he was a child. He would creep up to bed, hoping his father was passed out from drink. If he was lucky, he would fall asleep to the old man’s snores shaking the roof rafters. The next morning, he would tiptoe past his father, who would still be sleeping it off, splayed out over the kitchen bench. Those were the good days. On the bad ones, the steps would creak with heavy footfalls as his father staggered upstairs, muttering curses. When he saw the dreaded crack of light at his bedroom door, he knew it was all over.
“Get up, you little faggot! Time to prove you’re a piece of chicken sheit who couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”
The covers would be thrown off as his father dragged him from his bed, down the stairs, out to the yard behind the house—or if there was snow on the ground, to the cold, damp basement. The two boys would do their best to satisfy their father’s commands, battling until they were slippery with sweat and exhausted, but even that failed to placate him. The fights only stopped when the old man ran out of booze or cigarettes, or fell asleep perched on the rain barrel.
At first, he thought his brother was as much a victim as he was, but later resented him for not intervening—after all, he was older. Was it not his duty to protect his younger brother? He began to hate his brother, blaming him for not standing up to their tyrant father.
Stephen Wycherly reminded him of his brother, but that wasn’t what sealed Wycherly’s fate. Their friendship had begun well enough, over a pint at the local pub. Wycherly initiated the conversation, but the next day they were in his digs on Leith Walk, and Stephen made a play for him. That was when the poison began to seep in again. He had been trying to mend his ways—dear God, he had tried, even moving to Edinburgh from another continent in hopes of breaking the spell—but to no avail. He was attracted to Wycherly, and the idea of killing him held a thrill nothing else could touch.
He began to think about killing Stephen, until he could think of nothing else. It was easy enough to lure him up to Arthur’s Seat by threatening to reveal his secret, which would ruin his law career. Wycherly took the bait, and agreed to pay his “blackmailer.” After strangling him, he pushed the law clerk over the ledge for good measure—maybe the death would seem like a suicide. The familiar feeling of power was irresistible, and the lust for more victims returned, stronger than ever. He realized Wycherly was just the beginning of a new cycle. He needed more.
A faint moon struggled to break through the overcast sky, and for a moment the buildings in the eastern sky were sharply etched silhouettes in its pale light. The clouds soon won the struggle, vanquishing the pallid moon, and the streets lay once again in shadow. The man on the bridge finished his cigarette, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strode off into the darkness. He smiled a secret smile as he headed into the heart of the city. The thrill of the hunt tingled in his loins, and his blood quickened at the thought of new conquests. Oh, there was so much evil in a man, one hardly knew where to begin . . .
Somewhere deep in the Old Town, a hound howled mournfully. Another responded, and soon the air rang with the sound of dogs baying to the moon. The moon had already succumbed to the darkness, but still they howled, the sound plaintive and hollow in the empty air.
CHAPTER SIX
“Ligature strangulation, sir.”
DCI Crawford looked up from his desk. The bell on Greyfriars Kirk had not yet struck nine on this Friday morning, he was still on his first cup of tea, and standing before him was his most irksome lieutenant. DI Hamilton looked triumphant—smug, even. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes actually sparkled. By God, that was too much, Crawford thought glumly as he drained the dregs of his tea. He was exhausted, having been up half the night with Moira. He had sent the scullery maid’s son to fetch the doctor, but the good man was out all night attending to the cases of cholera that had struck the city like a bolt of divine vengeance. Crawford had finally administered his wife a dose of laudanum before taking some himself and falling into a comatose state until shortly before dawn.
“Very well, Hamilton, let’s hear what you have.” He sighed, looping his fingers through the piece of string he kept in the drawer. Even that calming ritual sometimes failed him on days like this, he thought as he twisted it round his palm.
Ian pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and dropped it on the desk.
Crawford sniffed at it as though it were three-day-old fish. “What is this?”
“Open it, sir.”
As the chief inspector lifted the envelope, three photographs fell onto the desk. They showed the corpse of a young man—Steven Wycherly, no doubt. Ringing the lad’s neck were ugly purple bruises.
Hamilton cleared his throat. “Judging by the placement and shape, I’d say most likely ligature strangulation, sir.”
Crawford looked up at the detective. Why were people so damn irritating, even when they were admirable? Especially when they were admirable, he thought as he tossed the photos back onto the desk.
“Where did you get these?”
“My aunt took them.”
Crawford sat bolt upright in his chair. “And how did your aunt get into the morgue, I’d like to know?”
“I let her in.”
“Where was the morgue attendant at the time?”
“Nursing a bottle of single malt.”
“Which he procured . . . ?”
“The same place anyone would, I suppose.”
“Do you find it strange that a morgue attendant could afford to drink single malt?”
“‘The miserable have no other medicine.’”
“I am not in the mood for your quotes this morning,” Crawford said icily, glaring at Hamilton with his most intimidating expression. Sergeant Dickerson nearly wet himself when Crawford looked at him like that. But it had no effect on the detective, who gazed back at him with a placid expression on his annoyingly good-looking face. Crawford didn’t trust handsome men—and he trusted beautiful women even less.
Crawford rubbed his throbbing forehead and tossed the photos across the desk. “Very well—have your investigation. Sergeant Dickerson!” he called.
The sergeant appeared at the office door, and Crawford beckoned him in.
“Take Dickerson along with you. You deserve each other.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Crawford waved a hand at Hamilton, dismissing him, but the detective didn’t move.
“I’ll keep you informed on what I find, sir.”
“No doubt,” Crawford said. “On your way out, ask the desk sergeant to bring me more tea.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and, Hamilton . . . ?”
“Sir?”
“When are you next seeing your aunt?”
“We have tea every Sunday.”