Gosse said coldly that punishment was police business, not his, but the old man shook his head firmly. ‘Any man who hits me – that is my business. And now can I go home?’
‘Where’s home?’ Faro was taking notes while Gosse did all the questioning.
‘Liberton Brae. I was on my way home to see my daughter when it happened.’
A nurse approached with a bundle of clothes. ‘You’re free to go home now, Mr Webb.’
‘Anything missing?’ the old man demanded. ‘I had two shillings in my pocket.’
‘There they are.’ And she shook out a handkerchief, two coins and a playing card.
Faro picked it up. The nine of diamonds.
Gosse seized it from him. ‘Where did you get this?’
The man shrugged. ‘Never seen it before in my life.’
‘Are you sure?’ Gosse demanded suspiciously.
‘Course I’m sure,’ was the indignant reply. ‘I’m a temperance man since my wife died years ago. Never play cards, don’t approve of gambling, either. Wife was God-fearing. Always—’ he began.
Gosse interrupted shortly: ‘If you remember anything about the man who attacked you—’
‘I’ll let you know, officer. I want to catch him too, you know.’ Aware that the two policemen were edging away from the bed, and anxious not to lose his audience, he said: ‘Wait till I tell you about the time I was fighting in the ring, when I won cups, belts and things – it was in the newspapers—’
Gosse wasn’t prepared to listen. Motioning to Faro, he shouted over his shoulder: ‘Let us know if you remember anything else about last night, will you?’
Hurrying along the corridor they were overtaken by a young doctor. ‘Excuse me, officer,’ he said. ‘The old man who was attacked, Jock Webb – I’m afraid he’s been in here before.’ He paused to tap his forehead significantly. ‘Found wandering a couple of times, fell and hurt himself. Don’t take too much notice of what he’s been telling you about being attacked. He thinks he’s still in the boxing ring.’
‘You mean he’s imagined the whole thing, made it all up, getting us over here, wasting our time?’ said Gosse angrily.
The doctor frowned. ‘Well, it could be true, sir. We just weren’t sure. When we examined him, he definitely had marks on his throat this time. Might be quite genuine, but I thought I should warn you. He doesn’t always know where he is. Likes the opportunity to remind folk of his days as a prizefighter—’
Gosse snapped an abrupt thanks, and at the exit, he handed Faro the report the nurse had given him, complete with the man’s home address. ‘Look into it. Talk to the daughter.’
Faro glanced at the notes, guessing that there would be little information forthcoming at Liberton Brae about an old man already having problems with his memory.
Only the nine of diamonds in Webb’s pocket had a sinister ring of truth about it. Perhaps Gosse was right and its presence at the Pleasance murder, one card among a whole pack, was sheer coincidence. But Faro was now convinced, with the appearance of this one particular card, that the attack on Jock Webb must be linked to the woman in Fleshers Close.
Faro said: ‘That playing card, sir. Like the others. What do you think?’
At his side, Gosse growled: ‘I’m already thinking, Faro. And do you know what – I think he could be lying. Has it not occurred to you that we have maybe solved the crime of the murdered whore? He might well be our killer,’ he added in tones of excitement.
Faro said: ‘Hardly likely, sir.’
‘You’re not seeing the obvious once again, are you?’ was the contemptuous response. ‘He could have attacked this man, who unexpectedly fought back, and he became the victim himself.’
It did not seem even remotely feasible to Faro that an old man who, according to the young doctor, was showing all the symptoms of dementia, wandering about and already known to the Infirmary, could be the killer. When he said so, Gosse looked angry and said sharply: ‘That’s just it – an elaborate pretence. You don’t see into the minds of murderers as I do, Faro. Wait until you’ve had years of chasing criminals like I have before you lay down hard-and-fast rules of behaviour. They are up to doing anything to conceal their vile purposes – no character is too difficult for them to assume.’
Faro listened, knowing further comment was useless. All this fitted so neatly into Gosse’s anxiety and determination to pin down the woman’s murderer as quickly as possible, stretching a point here and there if necessary, to put it mildly.
At the Central Office, McIvor was waiting for them.
Another death had been reported: a woman’s body was waiting in the mortuary.
Gosse sighed as he and Faro parted company. ‘Just a suicide this time, thank God. Off the North Bridge.’
The bridge above the railway station was a favourite place for desperate, unhappy people, particularly young females, betrayed by lovers and more than often pregnant, eager to leap into oblivion and put an end to their disgrace.
CHAPTER FIVE
Faro set off for Liberton Brae armed with the old man’s address. A long line of smart villas facing each other across the steep street, owned or rented by Edinburgh’s lower middle class: artisans, shopkeepers or office workers. All houses alike, even to the lace curtains, the carefully kept gardens and well-painted doors and windows, an indication of the respectable, decent lives that a passer-by might expect of the 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 Infirmary last 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 w
ere 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?’ 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 first home 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 and over 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 miniature coffins, wee dressed dolls inside each one, a weird discovery that had no doubt thrown a cloud over laughter and childish games. To this day no one had ever discovered the identity of the coffins, or for what strange and sinister ritual they had been buried there. A mystery worthy of any lad deciding to become a policeman.
His road lay direct ahead, but at the Pleasance on impulse he returned to the murder scene at Fleshers Close. Even on a day that threatened sunshine and fresh air, he shuddered away from the filth and decay that marked the area, wondering whether he might see the woman who had taken charge of the little girl.
And then he had a stroke of luck; she was walking towards him, a basket over her arm, a trail of small children at her heel, the wee girl he remembered holding tightly to her hand.
He had to stand aside to let them pass and raised his hat. She nodded, looked him over, seeing him as a toff, a stranger to this area of the city. Without uniform and the forbidding helmet that had concealed the upper part of his face, she obviously did not recognise him again as one of the policemen and he had to think of an excuse to delay her, ask her some questions.
He stammered out that they had met before. She frowned, shook her head, but there was a gleam of hope in her glance. Was there perhaps a coin or two in this meeting? He explained that he had called the other day, that he was concerned about the woman who was killed.
‘Was she a friend of yours?’ he asked.
A cautious glance. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Friends,’ he said non-committally. She nodded and held out a grubby hand. An unmistakable gesture indicating information available but to be paid for.
He handed her a coin. ‘Tell me about her, if you please?’ He smiled down at the little girl and said: ‘Hello!’ In return she gave him a terrified glance, hiding her face in the woman’s skirts. ‘Is that her daughter?’
‘Saw them once or twice together – down here, looking for business. Not from these parts. Had a word, gave her a bite to eat one day, the bairn was weary of walking. Came from over yonder.’ She pointed in the vague direction of Leith. Her voice was getting slower, thoughtful. ‘Came to meet someone who hadn’t turned up.’
Here was hope indeed, but before he could ask any further questions he was aware of her candid glance, looking him over carefully, and she said sharply, ‘Is it the bairn you’re after? It’ll cost you more than a few coins, mister – she’s only six years old.’
Faro stepped back, shocked as the enormity of her proposition dawned upon him. Had she assumed he was one of the dealers in child prostitution? He tried to keep his voice calm as he replied: ‘You are mistaken. I am only interested in what happened to the child’s mother. When they found her, had you heard anything, any disturbance, any commotion during the night?’
The woman frowned. ‘A carriage nearby in the early hours, night. Like drunks – young toffs larking. It was dark. N
ext thing I heard was them polis rattles.’ She stopped and shook her head, remembering. ‘Polis crawling all over the place, up and down the stairs, knocking on doors. asking questions. Came down to see what it was about.’ She paused, sighed. ‘And there she was lying there dead, before they took her away.’
She looked at the little girl still clinging to her. ‘Didna’ want them putting her in the workhouse, fine strong, healthy wee bairn like that. So I took her in.’ A hopeful glance at him. ‘D’ye ken anyone who might want a wee lass? She’s very clean and a good worker.’
Six years old, Faro thought, maybe too young for a year or two for the child dealers to be interested. As for the workhouse, factory owners were known to seek out youngsters for cheap labour. He said: ‘Can you keep her? She’s better off with you.’
The woman thought about that. A moment’s indecision, then she shrugged. ‘Ah well, she’ll be a help with the washings meantime,’ she added, clearly disappointed at the breakdown of what had seemed a promising financial negotiation. ‘Till something else turns up.’
‘Thank you.’ Faro handed her another coin. He realised he could go no further. All he had learnt was the possibility that the dead woman had been strangled first and then thrown out of a carriage at Fleshers Close.
As for the little girl, sadly he could do nothing for her facing years of slavery to the woman with six children, who made a living as a washerwoman. When she was older, with luck, she would find work as a servant.
And that made him think of Lizzie. Had he come in by the direct south-side route he would have walked past the gates of Lumbleigh Green. He wasn’t due to see her tonight and, in a way, he was relieved. There was too much tension between them just now. Questions asked and unanswered hovered in their relationship, and guiltily he was aware of his own reluctance to make the move that would solve all Lizzie’s problems.
Murders Most Foul Page 4
