Acceptable Loss wm-17

by Anne Perry

  Monk had known him all too briefly. They had been friends. It was Durban, knowing he was dying, who had suggested that Monk take his place. Now Monk had to justify that honor placed on him. He had to learn the art of leading men, starting with Orme, who had been Durban’s closest ally.

  “And we’ll catch him if we can,” he added, as if it were an unnecessary afterthought.

  Orme smiled as if he understood beyond the words, and said nothing. He sat back a little in the seat and his shoulders relaxed.

  At the small local police station in Chiswick they were greeted cautiously, and taken into a warm, poky office that smelled of strong tea and tobacco smoke. The walls were lined with shelves; the table was piled with papers.

  Monk and Orme requested as much local knowledge as possible, and Monk asked the sergeant in charge a number of questions. Orme listened and took notes, writing rapidly and with surprising neatness.

  “ ’E were a nasty piece o’ work,” the sergeant said, describing Mickey Parfitt. “Can’t let murder go, but if we could, ’ooever done ’im in’d be my first pick not ter find, as it were.” He sighed. “ ’Owever, seems we can’t do that, or Gawd knows where it’d finish. We’ll do all we can to ’elp yer find the poor sod ’oo did it.” A look of amusement flashed across his broad face. “Mind, yer’ve got a lot ter choose from, an’ that’s the truth.”

  “What was he doing out there on the boat by himself?” Monk asked, perching on the edge of one of the rickety chairs. “Any ideas? If you could prove anything, you’d have had him locked up already, but whom do you suspect? And don’t tell me there’s too many to choose from.”

  The sergeant smiled widely, a warm, spontaneous gesture that lit his bony face. “Wouldn’t think of it, sir. We’re too far up the river for smuggling. There in’t nobody up ’ere worth thievin’ from, although I used ter wonder if ’e were fencin’ stuff, so I made the chance to go out an’ look, but I didn’t see a thing.”

  “Lot of people coming and going?” Monk asked.

  “Yeah. That’s part o’ why I thought ’e were fencin’ stuff.”

  “What sort of people?” Monk found himself tense, waiting. He did not look at Orme, but he could feel Orme stiffen also.

  “No women,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head. “So if that’s what ye’re thinking, ye’re wrong. If it was that simple, I’d ’ave stopped ’im meself. Always men, an’ if yer looked close enough, well-to-do men at that. Gamblin’s my thoughts. ’Igh stakes, life or death sort o’ stuff. ’Ad one top ’isself almost a year ago. No doubt of it-did it ’isself. Shot through the ’ead.” His amiable face twisted in an expression of pity. “Alone in a small boat, pretty little gun there with ’im. Pearl ’andled. S’pose ’e lost more ’n ’e could pay. Dunno wot gets into folk.” A tiredness touched him, as if he had seen too much and it exhausted his pity.

  Monk thought of the man alone in the boat, holding the gun in his hands, probably cold, almost certainly shaking. It had to do with honor, as the sergeant supposed, but not money-the dishonor of being exposed as a man who looked at obscene photographs, and used the degradation and abuse of little boys to satisfy his dark hunger. But Monk did not need to tell the sergeant that now.

  “Who works for him?” he asked. “I know about ’Orrie Jones, and Tosh Wilkin and Crumble. What can you tell me about them?”

  “ ’Orrie’s a bit simple,” the sergeant replied. “But not as daft as ’e makes out. ’E can be sharp enough if it suits ’im. Crumble’s a follower. Does as ’e’s told. Tosh yer need to watch.” He shook his head. “ ’E’s another bad ’un. Never bin able ter catch ’im in enough ter put ’im away.” His face brightened. “Think ’e could’ve bin the one ter do Mickey?”

  “I doubt it,” Monk said with regret. “I think it was very much in Tosh’s interest to keep Mickey alive and profitable, earning money for both of them.”

  “Was ’e an opulent receiver, then?” That was the term for someone who bought and sold high-quality stolen articles, such as jewelry, works of art, ivory, or gold.

  “No,” Monk replied with near certainty. “He was a pornographer, and probably a pimp of little boys, for a few select customers.”

  The sergeant blasphemed quietly, half under his breath. He did not apologize, so perhaps he was taking the Lord’s name very much in earnest.

  “Still willing to help us find whoever killed him?” Monk asked, a harsh smile twisting his mouth.

  The sergeant looked straight at him, blue eyes steady. “O’ course, sir, but I’m sorry to say, I don’t think as I know anything as’d be of use to yer.”

  Monk laughed, a harsh, oblique pleasure in it. “What a shame. I’m sure you would have a list of ferrymen, boatbuilders, cabdrivers, shopkeepers near the water, the kind of person who might have seen something.”

  “Course, sir.”

  “Did Mickey often go out to his boat alone?”

  “No idea, sir. ’Ard to say on a misty night ’oo goes where. That’s the trouble with the river, but being River Police an’ all, I expect you know that better than I do.”

  “Did Mickey own the boat?”

  The sergeant looked startled. “Dunno. But I s’pose yer could find out.”

  “I intend to.” Monk thanked him and went outside into the brightening morning air. The sharp light off the water shifted and glittered with the incoming tide. Barge sails showed rusty-red, canvases barely filled. A few leaves were beginning to turn color. Some even drifted down.

  Already the street was busy. Carts rattled over the rough stones, and men shouted to one another as they loaded and unloaded sacks, barrels, lengths of timber.

  “What d’you reckon he was out there for at that hour of night?” Orme asked quietly as they walked over the road to the water’s edge. “Someone set him up?”

  “Possibly,” Monk conceded. “Hitting him over the head could be a crime of opportunity. The assailant could have used any piece of wood lying around, a broken oar, half a branch, anything. But who carries around a rope with knots in it?”

  “Piece of rigging from a boat?” Orme questioned. “Always rope on boats, or in a boatyard.”

  “True,” Monk agreed. “But did he carry it with him? Or did he kill Mickey somewhere else, then toss him into the water and let him drift? There aren’t any boatyards upstream of where he was found-at least not near his own boat, which is where we think he went in. I suppose we could be wrong. But if the next boatyard is miles upriver, why carry him back again? Just to confuse us?”

  Orme pursed his lips. “Premeditated,” he said with certainty. “Somebody came meaning to kill him. Not surprising, considering his occupation. What’s surprising is that it didn’t happen sooner.”

  “Maybe ’Orrie, Crumble, and Tosh looked after him?” Monk was thinking aloud. “In which case either they were outwitted or they turned on him and at least one of them sold him to his murderer.”

  Orme looked at him sideways, a rare amusement in his eyes, perhaps at the justice of the idea. Then, before Monk could be absolutely certain of it, he looked away again. “I suppose we’d better look for who that could be,” he said expressionlessly.

  They spent the morning speaking to the various men whose livelihood kept them on the river, or close to its banks: boatbuilders, shipwrights, chandlers, breakers, suppliers of oars, sculls, and other fittings for boats. They learned nothing that added to what they already knew.

  They had a lunch of bread, cold ham, and chicken, and a glass of ale each. Then Orme left to question the ferrymen. Monk went to find ’Orrie Jones again, in the cellars of the public house, moving kegs of ale.

  “I told yer,” ’Orrie said, his wandering eye veering wildly, the other fixed on Monk. “I took ’im out ter the boat. Summink arter eleven, it were. ’E tol’ me ter come back fer ’im, but I were ’eld up, an’ I were late. When I got there, bit before one, ’e were gorn. I din’t see nobody else, an’ I dunno ’oo killed ’im.”

  “What did he go out to
the boat for?” Monk asked patiently. He did not know why he was asking all this. It probably made no difference. He was doing it to convince himself that he was trying to find the truth and to prove who had killed Parfitt.

  ‘Orrie was staring at him incredulously, leaning a little against a pile of kegs. “ ’Ow do I know? Yer think I asked ’im?”

  “Who else did you tell?” Monk persisted.

  ’Orrie looked indignant. “Nob’dy! Yer sayin’ as I set ’im up?”

  “Did you?” It was a possibility, a fight over the spoils?

  “Course I didn’t. Why’d I do a thing like that?” ’Orrie protested.

  “For money,” Monk replied. “Or because you were more scared of whoever paid you than you were of Mickey Parfitt.”

  ’Orrie drew in his breath to argue, then let it out again, clearly having thought better of it. He looked sideways at Monk, for once both his eyes more or less in the same direction. “I din’t tell no one, but Mickey went out there often, like. There were things that needed seein’ ter, an’ ’e din’t trust no one else ter do it right.”

  “He didn’t trust you?” Monk pressed, pretending surprise.

  ’Orrie’s face tightened, sensible to the insult. It was clear from his furrowed expression that he was now taking a great deal more care before he answered. “Mebbe someb’dy were watchin’?” he suggested. “ ’E were clever, were Mickey, but ’e got enemies. King o’ that bit o’ the river, ’e were.”

  “Who else did you see when you went back for him?” Monk asked.

  This time ’Orrie weighed his answer for several moments. Monk waited with interest, studying ’Orrie’s extraordinary face. Sometimes the lie a man chose could tell you more about him than the truth.

  “There’s always people on the water,” ’Orrie started cautiously.

  Monk smiled. “Of course. If there weren’t, there’d be no business.”

  “Right.” ’Orrie nodded slowly, still apparently watching Monk. “People wi’ money,” he added.

  “So, what did Mickey Parfitt sell to them?” Monk asked him.

  ’Orrie looked totally blank, as if he had not understood.

  “ ’Orrible, what did Mickey Parfitt sell to these men with money?” Monk repeated carefully. “He made a very good living, or he couldn’t have afforded a boat at all, never mind one with fittings like those in his boat.”

  “I dunno,” ’Orrie said helplessly. “Yer suppose ’e told the likes o’ me?”

  “No, ’Orrie, I suppose you had enough sense to see for yourself!”

  ’Orrie shook his head. “Not me. I never bin on the boat. I took folk out an’ I brung ’em back. I dunno wot they done. Gamblin’, mebbe?” He looked hopeful.

  Monk stared at him. With his swiveling eye it was impossible to tell if he was frightened, half-witted, or simply physically disadvantaged. Monk considered asking him what the boys were for, but perhaps it would be better to keep that question for later. Let ’Orrie wonder for a while where they had gone to. Or perhaps he really didn’t know. It might have been Crumble, or even Tosh, who’d looked after them.

  ’Orrie smiled. “Ask Tosh. ’E’ll know,” he offered.

  Monk thanked him and went in search of Tosh. It took him nearly an hour, and a great deal of questioning, but at last he found him in a cramped but surprisingly tidy office. There was a woodstove burning in one corner, in spite of the comparative warmth of the day. Instantly Monk knew what had happened, and cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have left someone following Tosh, and probably Crumble as well. Then they would have found the papers in time to save them. Tosh and Crumble might deny it, but Mickey was bound to have had certain things noted down: debts and IOUs, if nothing else.

  Tosh looked up at Monk, his face calm, even affecting interest. “Found anything yet as ter ’oo killed poor Mickey?” he inquired politely. Today he had a yellow vest on, and he flicked a piece of ash off it carefully.

  Monk stood still in the middle of the floor, three feet from Tosh and the stove, controlling his anger with difficulty. “Business rival or a dissatisfied customer,” he replied. “Or one who couldn’t take being blackmailed anymore. Like the poor sod who shot himself on the river last year.”

  Tosh’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. “Dunno why ’e did that,” he said smoothly. “Could a bin anything. Mebbe ’is wife ran orff. It ’appens.”

  “Rubbish!” Monk snapped at him. “Upper-class women with rich husbands don’t run off with other men and create a scandal. They stay at home and take lovers on the side. They do it very discreetly, and everybody else pretends not to know. Leaves the husbands the latitude to do the same, should they wish to.”

  “Looks like you know ’em better ’n I do,” Tosh replied with a slight sneer. “But, then, I s’pose you would, bein’ police an’ all. So you’d be best placed to guess why ’at poor bastard shot ’isself. Don’t see as ’ow it ’as anything ter do wiv ’oo croaked Mickey. In fact, ’e’s fer sure one ’o them ’oo didn’t, seein’ as e’s dead ’isself.”

  Monk ignored the jibe. “Revenge?” he suggested. “One of the dead man’s family coming after Mickey, maybe?”

  “Only makes sense if Mickey’d killed ’im.” Tosh was watching him very carefully now. “Which ’e didn’t.”

  Monk smiled. “I thought you’d know about it.”

  A flicker of anger crossed Tosh’s face. “I dunno nothing about it!”

  “What did Mickey sell to his customers, Tosh? And don’t tell me again that you don’t know. You’ve just destroyed all the papers, except those that prove his ownership of the boat, so that you can keep it for yourself.”

  There was an ugly stain of color in Tosh’s face now, but he didn’t attempt to deny it. “Jus’ burned a few private things. A man’s a right ter that. In’t you got no respect for the dead? Mickey were the victim of a murder! In’t it your job ter be on ’is side?” He looked up, his eyes gleaming with bright, malicious innocence.

  Monk looked back, equally blankly, wondering where the blackmailing photographs were. He glanced around the small room. There were cupboards and drawers on every wall, as if for an office of detailed business dealings. Here there would be just a record of debts and payments, dates, names, amounts. The pictures would have been far more carefully hidden, as Jericho Phillips’s had been. Perhaps even Tosh didn’t know that.

  The thought of Phillips’s pictures still made Monk’s stomach lurch with rage and disgust so violent that he was nauseous with it, but he forced a smile. “Looking for the pictures, were you?”

  Tosh was staring at him, studying his face. He must have considered lying, and decided against it. “Just wanted to find out ’oo owed ’im still. An’ o’ course ’oo ’e owed. Got ter pay the bills.” He gave a tight, ugly smile.

  “Of course,” Monk agreed. “I imagine his partners will be after their share of the takings-present and future. Will you be keeping the business on, Tosh?”

  This time Tosh was caught. “ ’Ow do I know?” he answered irritably. “I jus’ worked for ’im. In’t none of it mine.”

  “No, of course not,” Monk agreed, and saw the anger harden in Tosh’s face. He would have liked it to have been his. He would be waiting now for the silent partner, whoever it was who had put in the money in the first place, to turn up and take the lion’s share. Someone had backed Mickey Parfitt, just as someone had backed Jericho Phillips.

  Sullivan had said that it was Ballinger who’ been behind Phillips. Was that true, or the lie of a desperate man seeking a last revenge? But to what end if Ballinger was not actually involved? Because Ballinger had seen his weakness, and in some way used it?

  And could Ballinger be behind both of them? Or was Monk only entertaining the idea because he was so desperate to believe he could end this hideous trade, at least here on the river he had taken for his own? And it was even more urgent to him to give Scuff the illusion of safety that would stop the nightmares and make him believe there really
was someone who could protect him from the worst fears and atrocities of life.

  And did Monk need, for himself, to be the one who saved Scuff? If so, that was his own weakness, and to pursue Ballinger for it was worse than unjust; it was vicious and irrational, the kind of obsession he most despised in others.

  “Tell me about the night Mickey was killed,” he said abruptly.

  Tosh was startled, but after the initial surprise, his confidence returned, as if now Monk had moved away from the area of danger.

  “I told yer already …” He repeated the detailed account of his movements exactly as he had said before, almost reciting it. Of course Monk would check, but-looking at Tosh’s face-he was certain he would find it all well proved, perhaps as well as if Tosh had known he would need it to withstand investigation. A faint satisfaction gleamed behind his anger now.

  “What do you think?” Monk said to Orme as they sat in the hansom on the way back toward Wapping. It was dusk, and they had done all they could for the day. Monk was tired; not his feet-he was used to walking-but in his mind. He felt as if Jericho Phillips were back and he, Monk, were retracing the pain of the old failure.

  Did he secretly want Parfitt’s murderer to escape, because he would like to kill all men like that himself? Especially if Parfitt had, like Phillips, been prepared to murder the boys who became troublesome as they grew too mature to satisfy the tastes of their abusers? Could it even be one of them, escaped, returned, and now strong enough, who had killed Parfitt in revenge?

  If it was, then Monk had no desire to catch him. Perhaps he would deliberately fail to, even at the cost of his own so fiercely nurtured reputation.

  He looked across at Orme beside him, trying to read his face in the flashes of lamplight from passing hansoms going the other way. It told him nothing, except that Orme was troubled also, which Monk already knew.