Murders Most Foul by Alanna Knight Read Free Book Online

There was a certain relish of one old man outliving a contemporary.
    ‘He was very much alive when I saw him last night – asked me to call on him when I was in the area,’ Faro lied. ‘But the address – number 124 – was wrong. I didn’t remember it correctly.’
    The old man was watching him intently, looking him up and down, assessing him. ‘You from the newspapers, young sir?’
    Faro laughed. ‘No, just an acquaintance. Interested in his boxing career.’
    What followed needed time and patience as the old man, proud to state that he had been Jock Webb’s close friend, embarked on a full biographical story. Finally, he paused to draw breath and have another half-pint of ale, donated by Faro, who much regretted this impulse now because it seemed that as a captive audience he was unlikely to make his escape before closing time.
    While maintaining an attitude of polite listening he was frantically inventing excuses to interrupt the flow when Tom, for that was his name, announced: ‘Aye, this was his first home. Liberton Brae. I was best man at their wedding. Jock hadn’t made his name in the ring at that time and couldna’ afford a fine house like the one he has now. Boarded with a Miss Ginny, old lady who had a boarding house.’
    A pause for thought, and Faro asked: ‘Do you happen to know the number?’
    ‘Aye, I do that. Top of the hill, 124.’
    So that was the explanation. Jock had simply given the wrong address, because he had complete recall of his firsthome as a married man and doubtless imagined he still lived there.
    Faro had one more question. ‘Where is he now – this fine house you mentioned?’
    ‘Och, I dinna’ ken that.’ Tom shook his head. ‘We kind of lost touch when he got famous. Sort of thing that happens – he didna’ have the time for old friends,’ he added bitterly.
    ‘Any family in Edinburgh? He mentioned a daughter.’
    ‘Is that so?’ Tom shook his head. ‘While we were still friends they had two bairns. I well remember …’
    Unwilling for the onslaught of another wave of philosophical reminiscences, Faro stemmed the flow by saying: ‘I presume Jock is still in Edinburgh, though.’
    ‘Last I heard, he had one of those grand new houses in Newington.’
    When Faro announced that he must leave, Tom seemed reluctant to let him go, saying how much he had enjoyed their conversation and what a treat it was to meet a real gentleman with a taste for boxing.
    Faro’s eyes widened a little at this, since the conversation had been entirely one-sided, apart from a couple of questions he’d edged in, and to be truthful his leisure hours had never included any visits to the boxing ring.
     
    The possible whereabouts of ‘a grand house in Newington’ suggested another futile investigation but Faro left with a feeling of relief that Jock Webb was unlikely to fit Gosse’s role of prime suspect. There seemed little point in searching any further when Tom had revealed of his own accord that Jock’s family connections had been in Aberdeen, Fife andover the Borders. It only confirmed that mention of visiting his daughter in Liberton Brae had been a figment of the old man’s confusion.
    As he walked back towards the city, the glowering shadow of Arthur’s Seat emerged from the mist that so often turned it into a sleeping giant. There were patches of sunlight on its many crags. Such a secret place to have on the edge of a city. A million or more years ago and the very place where they all lived and worked, Macfie had told him, had once been inside the volcano from which the whole city, with its fine castle, owed its being.
    Faro found such information difficult to imagine – an erupting volcano where, on grassy, heathery slopes, sheep grazed and the occasional deer might be glimpsed, and where Edinburgh folk exercised horses and walked dogs and children played. He thought of what lay beneath the surface in those dark and secret caves.
    A group of boys had once found ten