And as they trudged along the near-deserted Tooting Broadway, Hermione sent a message to her researcher, Carla Costard: 'what can you find out about Marlon MacFarlane aka Spring-heeled Jack, busker?' confident that Carla was the one person who would come up with the information she needed, while MacFarlane himself, whom she was keeping a steady three metres behind, continued a colloquy which needed little input from herself: ". . . . .it's not that I don't listen to the radio, I mean actively don't, I don't go out of my way to avoid hearing it, so it's more of a passive don't, I'm not totes against it, if you see what I mean, if I accidentally found myself hearing it—as opposed to properly listening—that wouldn't bother me in the least, but it's the hectoring tone you sometimes get, is that fair? hectoring, vel sim? didn't people used to call it Nanny BBC, as in 'Nanny knows best,' which is a pretty paternalistic thing, or I suppose it would have to be maternalistic, then, wouldn't it, cos if your lot is Nanny, then the rest of us, all of us, your audience, whether we're listening or not, are like the little kids in a nursery, believing everything you tell us, cos you know best, is that fair?" which was when she interjected: "of course it's not bloody fair, you moron," but he hadn't heard her, the wind from the Common snatching her words as they spilled out and scattering them like autumn leaves, and he kept his pace steady but his own words were lost in the roar of a passing ambulance, heading to St George's, which was when Hermione's phone vibrated and she glanced at the screen, a reply from Carla—which was bloody fast—she must have been desperate for something to do, the Lockdown playing fast and loose with everyone's nerves, it read: 'Marlon MacFarlane, 29, from Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, a street busker, inherited the Chieftainship of Clan MacFarlane, from his uncle, Sir Parsnip MacFarlane, on the latter's death last Wednesday—no-one knows Marlon's whereabouts, do you?'