Edinburgh Midnight

by Carole Lawrence

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Because I haven’t yet told my superior officer. It’s his decision what to release to the press.”

  Corbin snorted. “If I waited for permission from my editor to pursue a story, I’d be sitting on my hands all day.”

  “As soon as I inform DCI Crawford, your paper will have an exclusive on any information he cares to release.”

  The reporter brightened. “An exclusive? Have I your word on that?”

  “You have.”

  “Do you believe his death is related to the fire that killed your parents?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You are investigating those events, are you not?”

  “There is no official police inquiry into the death of my parents.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “What I do in my free time is no one’s business but my own.”

  “Then you are looking into it.”

  “Don’t press your luck, Mr. Corbin.”

  “But isn’t it true—”

  “Good day,” Ian said. Entering police chambers, he left the reporter alone on the landing.

  It was quiet inside the spacious room, with its high ceilings and tall windows overlooking the High Street. Sleepy constables were finishing their usual routines before heading home. No time of day in Edinburgh was quite like early morning. The rambunctious, bustling city had not yet discarded the blanket of night that muffled the hurly-burly of the workday.

  Ian busied himself with paperwork until a faint glow seeped into the room, as the pale light of dawn crept across the windowsills. Yawning, he stretched his stiffening muscles and got up to fetch a cup of tea. He heard voices coming from the small room just the other side of the tea service. The room functioned as a storage area, as well as the place for an occasional furtive nap when the chief wasn’t looking. Recognizing one of the voices as Constable Turnbull’s, Ian paused to listen.

  “He’s hardly the one to look for false informants.”

  “Why’s that, then?” The voice belonged to Constable McKay, a well-meaning but simple-minded fellow Turnbull had twisted round his little finger.

  “What, do you not know?”

  “Know what?”

  Ian listened, his heart dropping like a stone in his chest. He could take it no longer, and burst into the room, with no idea what he was going to do or say. Both men looked at him in surprise, but Turnbull’s pockmarked face soon assumed its usual superior sneer.

  “Do you need something, Detective Hamilton?” he inquired coolly.

  Ian’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and it took great effort not to plant a fist in that smug face. The consequences were not worth it, he reasoned—he wouldn’t let a man like Turnbull force him into acting rashly.

  “We’re out of biscuits,” he said tersely, opening the cupboard containing tea supplies. Grabbing a tin, he strode from the room. He heard Turnbull snicker softly, but moments later both constables emerged from the room—for now, at least, the spell was broken.

  Taking his tea back to his desk, Ian pondered what he had heard. The constable obviously knew Crawford had charged Ian with finding the false informant. But how had he found out? He certainly matched the description James McAllister gave of the man who visited his pawnshop. It was not proof, but it came perilously close.

  Just then, Sergeant Dickerson entered the station, shaking snow from his overcoat. Was it Ian’s imagination, or did Dickerson avoid looking at him as he hung his coat on the rack? Was there something guilty about the slope of his shoulders as he shuffled toward his desk? An unwelcome thought burrowed into Ian’s brain: Was it possible that Dickerson was Turnbull’s source of information? After all, who else knew about the assignment?

  No, he told himself—Dickerson would not do such a thing, no matter how irritated he was with Ian. It was unthinkable, surely. Ian chided himself for entertaining such a supposition. But as Dickerson took his seat, their gazes met, and Ian did not like what he saw in the sergeant’s eyes. Instead of admiration and deference, he saw resentment and wariness. He was about to say something when the door to Crawford’s office opened and the chief himself appeared.

  “Could you come in here a minute, Hamilton?”

  Rising too quickly from his chair, Ian felt a stab of pain from his injured ribs, and could not suppress a groan.

  Crawford frowned. “Are you quite all right?”

  “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 yo
ung 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.”

  “I see.”

  “She said ye were the best detective in Scotland.”

  “Did she indeed?”

  “She said ye had a gift for seein’ things others might miss.”

  “I hope I can live up to my aunt’s flattering report. Good day, Miss Sullivan.”

  “Good day, sir, and thank you, sir.”

  After she left, Ian looked around for Sergeant Dickerson. Not seeing him, he set off in the direction of Greenside Row. He was about to hail a cab when he heard a voice behind him.

  “You’re not angry wi’ me, are ye, Guv?”

  He turned to see Derek McNair, hands in his pockets, a look of contrition on his grimy face. He appeared sincere, but with Derek, honesty was a matter of convenience rather than policy.

  “Why should I be angry with you?”

  “I haerd the meetin’ didn’ go so well.”

  “Just exactly what did you hear?”

  “Ye were ambushed.”

  “Then you heard right.”

  “I didn’ know nothin’ ’bout that, I swear on me mother’s grave.”

  “Last I heard, your mother is still alive.”

  “Then I swear on—”

  “I don’t blame you for what happened.”

  “Are y’all right, Guv? Rat Face tol’ me it were two blokes wha’ attacked ye.”

  “I’ll live,” Ian said, raising his hand to signal a passing hansom cab.

  “Where y’off to now?”

  “I’m going to investigate a disappearance.”

  “Kin I come?”

  “I think not. It might be dangerous,” Ian said as the cab pulled up in front of them.

  “Derek’s my name, danger’s my game,” the boy said eagerly.

  “It’s official police business,” Ian said, getting in.

  “When has that ever stopped me?”

  “It’s about time that it does,” Ian said, and closed the door. The cab rattled off down the High Street, leaving a very disappointed Derek McNair watching as it swerved to avoid a couple of inebriated toffs staggering out of Old Fleshmarket Close.

  Ian looked out the window at the pair of young men weaving heedlessly down the High Street. He guessed from their clothing that they were law clerks, on their way from the Advocates Library just around the corner, though he didn’t know why they were so obviously in their cups at this time of day.

  As the cab turned onto North Bridge, he thought about Derek McNair. He was genuinely fond of the boy, but hardship had molded him into someone for whom morality, as defined by polite Victorian society, was a luxury. What mattered was to survive, and if that meant lying, stealing, and cheating, then so be it. He didn’t blame the boy for this any more than he blamed a fox for stealing chickens. He sometimes worried that allowing Derek to help him in his cases put the boy in danger, though he knew only too well that life on the street had its own perils.

  Ian gazed out the window as the cab turned onto New Street, leaving the squalor of Old Town behind as it headed toward the steep rise of volcanic rock known as Calton Hill. High atop the hill, Ian could see the Nelson Monument, listing tipsily to the side. Built to honor the vice admiral who lost his life defeating the combined French and Spanish fleets at the Battle of Trafalgar, it was designed to resemble an inverted telescope, an appropriate design for an admiral. While Edinburgh had its share of military statues, it boasted an equal number of memorials to literary luminaries like Walter Scott and Robert Burns.

  Poets and generals, Ian thought as he watched the pale sun glinting off the tower’s windows, opposites in life’s journey, just as he was the reverse counterpart of the criminals he pursued. What accident of fate had led them down the path of crime, he wondered, while he was consigned to pursuing them? Did the same flick of time’s arrow create their inevitable destinies, or were they free to choose their lot in life? The more he saw of Edinburgh, privilege living cheek by jowl to the most abject poverty, the less he believed men were captains of their own destiny.

  Such thoughts swirled like the gathering mist in the streets as the cab rumbled toward its destination. High atop Calton Hill, the tepid December sun still poked feebly through the clouds, but on the cobblestones below, a haar fog was rolling in from the Firth of Forth, blanketing the ground in thickening white wisps. Still the horse trotted briskly onward, urged by his master, no stranger to the changeability of Scottish weather.

  Greenside Row r
an along the northwestern border of Calton Hill, and after the long stretch on Calton Road, they turned onto the narrow lane. Number 41 wasn’t far, and after paying the driver, Ian stood facing the five-story building, its stone façade gray from years of soot and smoke, like so many of its kind in Edinburgh. Behind him was parkland, the increasingly steep cliffs cutting off the buildings from view. The trees were bare, though a few gnarled gorse bushes along the edge clung stubbornly to their leaves.

  Looking up at the darkened windows, Ian felt a shiver slither down his spine. Though just like its neighbor on either side, there was something uninviting about the building, an air of invincibility, as if it was a fortress rather than a perfectly respectable New Town tenement housing with no doubt rather expensive flats.

  Shaking off his feeling of foreboding, Ian rapped the lion’s head knocker smartly against its black iron base. He was met with silence. A dove cooed softly from the gorse bushes across the street. He knocked again, with no response. Just as he was turning to leave, he heard footsteps from inside, then the sound of several locks clicking in their tumblers. The door was cracked open, and Ian saw a sleepy-faced young man peering at him.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a plummy voice. His accent was educated, probably central London, and Ian noticed the fingers holding the door open were well cared for. His manner and grooming suggested money and privilege. Judging by his expensive silk dressing gown and patrician air, he had no plans to alter that status in the near future.

  “Detective Inspector Hamilton, Edinburgh City Police,” Ian said, doing his best to peer at the hallway behind, but the man’s body blocked his view.

  “What’s this all about?” the fellow asked, scratching his head. He had a long, pink-cheeked face, high forehead, and very light-blue eyes. He would have been handsome except for his fleshy lips, which gave him a rather fishlike appearance. From the disheveled look of his hair and beard stubble on his chin, it was evident he had just awakened from a deep sleep.

  “I’m investigating a case,” said Ian. “And who might you be?”

  The question did wonders to jolt him into a more alert state of consciousness.

  “Nigel Metcalf,” he said, his pale-blue eyes wide. “I say, I haven’t done anything wrong, you know.”