Watters reconciled himself to more dull routine, a seemingly endless grind of small tasks, asking the same question to scores, sometimes hundreds of people and collating the replies to find a pattern or a single anomaly. He swung his cane, wondered when he would next manage a game of golf, sighed, approached the first door, and knocked.
By the time Watters had walked the length of Thomson Street, in which Forsyth had lived, he knew a little more about the murder victim. Forsyth had nearly been a recluse, he had practised his golf in his back garden, and every Thursday evening he had left his elegant villa and journeyed into town. That much Watters had known or surmised already.
“Which way did Mr Forsyth walk?” Watters asked, again and again. Those few people who noticed gave the same ans
