Fish Street had once been prosperous but was fast descending into decrepitude. It ran from the raucous Greenmarket to the more upmarket Union Street, a place of ancient buildings, small businesses, pawnshops, and faded gentility. Armed with the address of Shaitan Shipping, Watters entered a common close, sniffed the ever-present dampness and ascended the stairs. It was dark in the unlit close, so he fumbled for his lamp, scratched a Lucifer, applied the flame to the wick and allowed the light to grow before searching for names on each door.
There were few. In the four-storey high building, each storey had three doors, with only two names visible in the entire close. One read Angus MacLeod, bagpipe maker, and the other only Anderson.
Sighing, Watters began rapping on doors. He started wit
