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inhabitants within.
    As a measure against arousing alarm, despondency or guilty consciences and an outbreak of furious neighbourhood gossip, Faro had decided to abandon his uniform in favour of plain clothes. Even for the innocent, the sight of a policeman’s helmet hinted at bad news. There was something formidable, even discreditable, about the sight of a constable walking up the garden path, and Faro had discovered that he gained a great deal more information by posing as an ordinary citizen. His gentle manner and quiet voice made the folk being interviewed feel less vulnerable, more trusting.
    And there was the house he was looking for. Number 124. The door was opened promptly by a young woman. By her expression, smiling then swiftly overtaken by a frown, he was not the visitor she expected and he sighed with relief. Her appearance and age suggested that this was Mr Webb’s daughter or even his granddaughter.
    Raising his tall hat, he asked if Mr Webb was at home. The woman frowned, asked him to repeat the name and shook her head. ‘Never heard of him. You’ve come to the wrong house, I’m afraid.’
    This was a setback. ‘You don’t know anyone of that name?’
    ‘Never in our time and we’ve been here for five years. There was an old woman before that, took in lodgers.’ And asking him to repeat the name, again she shook her head firmly. ‘No, Webb definitely wasn’t her name.’
    Apologising and thanking her, he walked down the path, closed the gate and wondered what on earth to do next. He looked again at the address. The writing was shaky but it was definitely 124. Then he looked up and down both sides of the brae.
    He could hardly go from door to door. No, there must be some mistake. Mistake or no, when Gosse heard of this he would pounce upon it as a deliberate attempt to put the police off the scent.
    Maybe Gosse was right, but Faro still couldn’t believe from what he had seen physically of the old man, and having observed his confusion in that brief infirmary visit, that he was capable of going out on the rampage and killing anyone. And yet … and yet Webb had been a very strong man once and knew all about strangleholds from his boxing days. He had almost certainly left the Infirmarylast night, so Faro looked up and down the steep hill.
    Webb must be in one of these houses. He crossed over and decided to try one or two numbers, on the off chance that there had been an error in writing down 124.
    He was out of luck, soon made to realise that he was facing a hopeless task. Doors when they were opened at all were drawn back just a couple of inches wide, with a suspicious voice, usually female, demanding what was he selling and stating she didn’t want any. The men were less polite.
    After a dozen doors, humiliated, he decided the most likely person to have information about the sporting community, even a non-drinking former boxer, might be the local public house he had noticed earlier. It was also a much needed excuse. The stiff wind that had travelled with him from Arthur’s Seat had turned into heavy mist and fine drizzle. He was cold, wet, thirsty and his feet were sore.
    Presumably he was also the first and only customer at opening time. He felt less than hopeful as he ordered a pint of ale. The fact that the barman was young suggested that he might not have useful information either.
    ‘Jock Webb. Aye, everyone’s heard of him. Local hero. A great fighter.’
    ‘I believe he used to live here on Liberton Brae.’
    The barman shook his head. ‘You’ve got me there, sir.’ It was the reply Faro expected. ‘Came here from Glasgow a couple of years ago. Can’t help you much.’ A pause. ‘Wait a bit though, my granddad may know.’
    An ancient man, stooped and leaning on a stick, was summoned from the back premises. Faro almost immediately got a feeling he was delighted to talk to anyone, especially about the famous Jock Webb.
    ‘Aye, must be over eighty. Younger than me. Died, has he?’