The man turns around, patting his pockets as if he’s forgotten something. Or as if he’s spotted me and turned his back.
I’m being paranoid. I’m unsettled tonight. First Simon and now some innocent homeowner making me jump as if I’m in the Grassmarket already.
I step out and glance at the man again. He’s still looking the other way, but viewed from the back, he looks familiar. From the front, my gaze had naturally gone to his face, which I couldn’t see in the dusk. From the rear, his jacket and his figure and even his stance shout an ID, as if I’m at trivia night and the answer just hit me.
Detective McCreadie.
I frown and squint. The man is the right body shape. Dressed the way I’d expect. The right color of hair. A hint of sideburns from this angle.
It’s him. I’m sure it is. So why am I standing here, telling myself I must be mistaken? There’s no reason itcouldn’tbe McCreadie. He’s working with Gray. It’s not yet too late to call, especially when there’s a light on in the funeral parlor.
As if hearing my thoughts, McCreadie steps up to the door. He’s come to talk to Gray. Nothing odd about that. Nothing alarming… except for the fact that Gray is about to answer the door, look out, and spot me. I hurry the other way, my soft boots tap-tapping along. Soon I’m at thecorner, where I take a moment to orient myself and mentally map out the mile-long walk to the Grassmarket. Then I’m off.
In the daytime, this area of the Grassmarket is the sort that makes people quicken their steps and guard their purses, while guiltily realizing they’re making terrible assumptions about a poor neighborhood. By night those assumptions are valid, as are any attempts to hide your valuables and watch your step. There are probably better parts of the neighborhood, but this particular corner of it screams trouble.
I’m not as concerned as I might be. I’ve worked the modern equivalent of these neighborhoods, and I know that their bark is much worse than their bite. Follow basic rules of caution. Don’t wander the street in a drunken stupor. Don’t flash your valuables. Don’t cause trouble. Act as if you belong. Catriona belongs, and so I walk with my chin up, and while I attract more than my share of catcalls and propositions, they seem more perfunctory than serious.
I head straight for the dive bar Gray pointed out the other day. I walk up to the door and knock. Inside people laugh and talk, but no one answers. I try the knob. Locked. A private club, then. Please don’t tell me there’s a secret knock.
I rap again, louder. A shadow passes behind one of the grimy windows. Then the wooden door creaks open an inch before a boot stops it and a man’s voice says, “No.”
“I’m—”
“I know who you are, and the answer is no. You aren’t welcome here. Get on with you.”
“I need to speak to Davina.”
“And I need to speak to Queen Vic. Neither is happening tonight.”
“She said I could talk to her if I paid. I’m ready to pay.”
A grunt. Then, “I’ll pass along the message.”
“May I come—”
“You’ll wait at least ten steps from my door. Now go.”