Free Nor Will He Sleep by David Ashton Page B

did that boy get into the force?’
    ‘His mother’s a nurse,’ said McLevy.
    ‘So, all knew and someone spilled over,’ the lieutenant mused, face still averted.
    ‘We’ll find the guilty party.’
    Mulholland’s intended emollient remark unleashed a torrent, because Roach had not enjoyed Carnegie’s jibes and knew that his Chief Constable Sandy Robb was an avid reader of the
Leith Herald
.
    ‘We have anarchy on the streets, dead women littering the gutter, the press on our backs and you two wandering about like lost souls!’
    Roach swung round, his jaw jerking from side to side like an irritated alligator.
    ‘You have accomplished nothing!’
    ‘The murder only happened last night,’ McLevy pointed out reasonably enough.
    ‘That is not good enough. Call yourself a Thieftaker!’
    Roach cut an immaculate figure, uniform pressed to a knife edge, shirt white, shoes gleaming – those he insisted on polishing himself, being of the opinion that you can always judge a man
by his shoes.
    His subordinates made a sorry contrast. McLevy looked as if his clothes had been thrown at him by a sloven, and Mulholland seemed always, despite his best efforts, to be growing out of whatever
official attire he possessed.
    From a high moral and apparelled ground, Roach spoke with principled vehemence.
    ‘By God, I am tempted to come out on the street, roast these students and show you how to pursue an investigation!’
    To the lieutenant’s eyes, his inspector looked embarrassed or even alarmed at this possibility.
    Of course being shown up is never a pleasant prospect.
    McLevy scratched behind his ear for a moment.
    ‘Funny ye should mention this, sir. Mulholland and I were not long ago discussing that very notion.’
    The constable managed to keep his face straight at this assertion; they had discussed nothing of the sort.
    ‘We have interviewed the leaders of the White Devils, and it is our belief that they conceal something.’
    Mulholland nodded. This at least was true; both he and McLevy had sensed something awry in the depiction of last night’s events from Drummond and Grant. Of course it might be relatively
harmless, but both policemen felt it could have a darker tinge.
    The problem was how to shake it out of them.
    That much was agreed upon, but what else was fermenting in McLevy’s mind?
    ‘We need tae catch them in the act,’ the inspector continued smoothly. ‘Breaking the law. Stick them in the cells, hammer at the pair. Find the truth of what transpired last
night.’
    Roach nodded wisely. This made sense and it still rankled, the woman shrieking in Constitution Street that he was a lecherous pincher of her posterior.
    His thumb and forefinger twitched.
    ‘A night in the cells will do them no harm,’ he concurred. ‘And if it aids the investigation – ’
    ‘Exactly!’ said McLevy, eyes gleaming.
    There was a long silence before Roach asked what seemed an obvious question.
    ‘How do we go about it?’
    Mulholland sensed his inspector moving in for the kill as sincere assurance throbbed in the air.
    ‘With your valuable assistance, sir. This very evening. All things are possible.’

Chapter 11
    Time, the avenger! Unto thee I lift
    My hands and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift.
    Byron,
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
    His hands were cleansed, perfumed with rose water, and in the darkness of the small windowless room like a monk’s cell, the single candle lit was suffice
illumination.
    The Golden Book lay on the bare table; he had wrought the cover himself with such skill as he could bring to bear.
    It bore three initials and he traced them with a loving touch.
    This was his Tanakh, Talmud, Kabala, Koran, his holy scripture of inner thoughts and dreams.
    His charted destiny.
    Those who insulted, those who laid on impure hands, would suffer retribution.
    He had given the dull stupid one the slip and the idiot would wait with bovine patience until summoned once more.
    He pulled back a curtain