The old man’s lip curls. “Him.”
“He works with a pickpocket?” I say.
“No, worse. He does his little show, which is terrible, if you ask me. A poor effort. Then, if the person does not pay what he wants, he harangues them. Follows them, shouting at them, insulting them. Women, families with children, everyone. And he uses the foulest language.”
“He sounds most unpleasant,” I say.
“He is. He once shouted at me for taking up this spot. Which has always been my spot. Told me to move along, as if I can just hop up and scamper off.” He peers at me. “You do not want to see his show, do you? I know the lasses think him a comely lad.”
I smile. “No, we need to speak to him in regards to a theft.”
His eyes glint again. “Will he go to prison? I certainly hope so.”
“Right now, we are only investigating. Do you know when he usually comes? And where he works?”
“That is his spot,” he says, pointing. “He should be here around four. He was telling everyone he has a new show tonight. Performing with a dog. Claims it is Greyfriars Bobby, if you can believe that.”
Oh, I can. I absolutely can.
Gray insists on buying the old man a meat pie, and they chat while he eats it. Then we are off. We have just under ninety minutes before Roy’s show, and while it might seem we’d just hang around and wait, there’s something we need to do first. Well, two things.
We want to loop back to Roy’s apartment and try to get a look at the dog before Roy brings him to the performance.
And the second thing we need? Official backup.
Chapter Twelve
“You have a case, and you did not tell me about it,” McCreadie says when we track him down. He wasn’t hard to find. He’s doing every detective’s favorite thing: paperwork.
“It only landed on our laps yesterday,” I say as Gray and I take a seat in the tiny, windowless office.
“But I saw you yesterday. You were both out, and then you came back and . . .” He pauses. “Ah. You did not wish to interrupt my evening with Isla.”
“It’s not exactly a major case,” I say. “A potential dognapping. We were fifty percent sure old Bobby just wandered off to die.”
“But it is not simply any dog who has been stolen. It is Greyfriars Bobby. That will be news.” He leans my way. “And you know how I love to get my name in the news.”
I smile. “No, you love to be publicly recognized for cases because they help you climb the ladder, and you’re an ambitious SOB.”
His brows lift. “Do I want to know what SOB means?”
“Nope.” I pat his shoulder. “We’ve brought you the case now. Fame and glory awaits.”
He rolls his eyes. It’s true that he enjoys the recognition, but only because it impresses the higher-ups. I know exactly what that’s like. I’d gotten my share of ink as a detective—being young, female and attractive enough, friendly, but also quick with a soundbite—and I’d only tolerated it because I was also an ambitious SOB. Law enforcement management always loves good press. Because so much of it is bad.
He taps a sheaf of papers on the desktop, straightening them. “Finally done, and now we can be off.” He looks at me. “Tell me again how someday we will not be trapped in these tiny offices, bent over paperwork. Computers do it, yes? You have told me about the miracle of computers.”
“Yep. Instead of writing those reports in triplicate, you type it in once and instantly send the file to everyone who needs it.”
He sighs. “It sounds wonderful.”
“It is. And because it’s so much more efficient, you’ll have time for more paperwork. More forms to fill out. More records to keep. More letters to write. But you won’t be in a tiny windowless office. You’ll be in a big windowless office, with everyone in tiny cubes, talking and farting and belching while you’re trying to get your paperwork done.”
He jabs a finger at me. “And this is why I do not wish to know about the future.”
“Hey, you started it.” I stand. “Can we go now? Duncan is getting restless.”
