“Not yet. That reminds me—are you still a member of the Amateur Photography Society?”
“I’m the treasurer!” she declared proudly.
“I wonder if you would be so kind as to lend me your expertise.”
“I should be delighted.”
“Are you free tomorrow?”
“I am.”
“Can you meet me at the morgue first thing in the morning—is seven too early?”
“Ach, nae—I’m up with the sun. Have you cleared it with DCI Crawford?”
“No, but I will.”
“How exciting. But let’s eat. I’m famished, and I’ll wager you are as well.”
“Let me help you serve.”
“Stay where you are.”
“But—”
“You can clean up, if you insist,” she said, bustling to the kitchen. Though utterly independent and self-sufficient, Lillian missed having a man around to wait on. She had enjoyed serving dear Alfie his tea, fussing and clucking over him, and now that Ian had taken his place, she was not about to let the opportunity slip by.
“Eat up, Skinny Malinky Longlegs,” Lillian said, sliding a hot plate of sausages, potatoes, and cress salad in front of her nephew. She enjoyed trotting out archaic Scottish phrases.
Ian grimaced. “Auntie—”
“You’ll never catch the eye of a young lady if ye don’t put on a stone or two,” she said, spreading some fresh butter on a scone.
“I’m not looking to catch anyone’s eye.”
“Your brother never had a problem with his appetite,” she replied as she bit into the scone, savoring the flaky sweetness. “Have you heard from Donald lately?”
“No,” he said flatly. “Last I heard, he was working his way through all the pubs in Glasgow.”
His older brother, Donald, had been on his way to a promising medical career when the fire took their parents, reducing all of the family’s possessions to ashes. Donald never recovered from the shock of returning in the middle of the night to find their home in flames, his younger brother trapped in the basement, their parents perished in the fire. He dropped out of the University of Edinburgh, and had spent the past seven years slouching around Scotland and the Continent, working odd jobs as a longshoreman, sheepherder, and bartender.
“Is he still gambling, then?” Lillian asked.
“And drinking.”
“What a pity,” she said, and silence settled over them. It was an uncomfortable subject, one she regretted bringing up.
“A leopard doesn’t change its spots,” Ian remarked, and she was sorry to hear the bitterness in his voice.
Outside, the rain beat hard upon the roofs of saints and sinners alike, hammering a steady, insistent tattoo upon the city’s ancient dwellings. Anyone with the misfortune to be out on a night like this might peer through the parlor window at the two people huddled before the crackling fire with envy at the cozy, peaceful scene. Lillian knew that her nephew’s mind was elsewhere, though—his long fingers fiddled with his napkin, and he gazed silently into the leaping flames.
“More sausages?” she offered hopefully.
“No, thank you.”
“Go on with you, then.”
He looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“I know well enough when you need to be alone. Get along—go play that damn pennywhistle or whatever it is you do when you need to think.”
He rose from his chair without arguing. “I’m sorry I’m not very good company.”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Ach, gae on wi’ye,” she said in her thickest Glaswegian accent.
“Tomorrow, then? Bring your camera.”
“Seven o’clock sharp.”
He smiled. “I do adore you, Auntie.”
“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.