Scuff. With a thrill of surprise, Monk suddenly understood what beauty was really about.
“I’ll find whoever killed Mickey Parfitt and put an end to the pornography boats, whoever is behind them. No matter who gets hurt by it,” he promised.
“Even if it’s Oliver?” she asked.
He hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
She smiled, and there was an intense gentleness in her eyes. “The man you used to be could do that, but are you sure you can now? Whoever’s behind this won’t go down easily. He’ll take everyone with him that he can. Think of what he’s already done, and you’ll know that. It could be you, me”-her voice dropped-“Scuff, anyone. Are you prepared for that?”
This time he was silent for several moments before he answered.
“This first surrender would only be the beginning,” he said. “If I back off now, I may spend the rest of my life giving in every time I could lose anything.”
She leaned forward a little and put her hand over his. She nodded, but she did not speak.
The following day Monk and Orme returned to Chiswick to begin following the money invested in Mickey’s business and the financing of his boat. The only part of it that would be clear was the payment to the previous owner, and probably much of the maintenance costs and the occasional repair and improvement. Mickey must have handled a great deal of money at one time or another. At least some of it would have left traces.
Whoever had repaired the boat would also know where it had been.
“Think it’ll help?” Orme said bleakly. They were standing on the bank of the river just above the Hammersmith Creek, the next bend eastward toward the city.
“Got a better idea?” Monk asked. “We know what ’Orrie, Crumble, and Tosh are going to tell us. Asking again won’t make any difference.”
The breeze was cool on their faces and smelled of mud and weeds. Orme stared across the water. “Tosh is a bad ’un,” he replied. “But I can’t see why he’d kill Mickey. He hasn’t the skill to take his place, and he’s not stupid enough to think he has. Crumble just does as he’s told. Can’t work out whether ’Orrie’s as daft as he looks or not.”
“Fear or money …,” Monk said thoughtfully. “Probably money, sooner or later. We have to find whatever records remain, and re-create as much as we can from other people. A lot of money passed through Parfitt’s hands. He will have had to account to the man behind it all.”
Orme winced. “One of his customers?”
“I hope so.” Monk was surprised how intensely he meant that.
They spent that day and the following two searching for every trace of money or records that Parfitt might have kept, other than those Tosh had burned. They questioned ferrymen and bargemen, workers in every boatyard on either side of the river from Brentford to Hammersmith, every supplier of rope, paint, canvas, nails, or any other ships’ goods or tools. They followed the course of the boat’s mornings, its few trips up and down the river. The repairs, mooring fees, quantities of food, and alcohol made the nature of the business obvious. The income must have been very large indeed.
The pattern of it also showed where the boat had been most of the time, including where clients had been picked up, in Chiswick along the mall, and in such places of pleasure as the infamous Cremorne Gardens.
By daylight, Cremorne Gardens were a magnificent replacement of what Vauxhall Gardens had once been. There were long, smooth lawns shaded by elegant trees. There were flower beds, walks, colored lamps, grottoes, illuminated temples, conservatories, a platform with a thousand mirrors where an orchestra played. There were ballets performed, a marionette theater, even a circus. On the greater open spaces there were fireworks displays, and the place was famous for its balloon ascents.
By night it was also notorious for its lewd dancing, its drinking and assignations of all kinds, some consummated on the spot, as the bushes, narrower walks, and grottoes allowed. Other assignations, further outside the law, would happen elsewhere, less publicly.
“Who took ’em all out and back for their evening’s entertainment from up here?” Orme asked, more of himself than of Monk.
“Probably ’Orrie or Crumble,” Monk replied as they watched the light fade over the stretch of the river, flies dipping lazily on the water, fish making little rings of ripples as they broke the surface. “But if they say it was gambling, it would be difficult to prove otherwise.”
“What were the children doing?” Orme said sarcastically. “Serving their brandy? D’you suppose they could tell us anything?” His voice cracked a little. “Some of them are only five or six years old. They don’t even know what happened to them. They think they’re being punished for something they did.”
Monk looked at Orme’s face in the evening light, blunt, almost bruised by this new realization about himself. Orme had served the law all his life, and now he doubted what they were doing.
A few days ago Monk had wondered if Orme had thought Monk was squeamish, too soft to do his job. Now he saw in Orme’s averted face exactly the same pain he felt himself. But victims need justice, not pity. He thought of Scuff, and wondered if either was really any good. What they needed was for it not to have happened in the first place.
It was first thing the following morning when the police surgeon reported to Monk regarding the death of Mickey Parfitt. The surgeon was a dark man, thin-faced with a gallows humor. He found Monk in the Chiswick Police Station studying the records they had re-created regarding the finances of Parfitt’s business.
“Morning,” the surgeon said cheerfully, closing the door behind him firmly.
They had met several times before. “Good morning, Dr. Gordimer,” Monk replied. “I assume you have something on Parfitt’s death?”
“Came for the hospitality,” Gordimer replied bleakly, staring around the small, chaotic office with its piles of books and papers balanced precariously on every available surface. Any misplaced addition would send at least one pile crashing. “This is better than the morgue-marginally. Well, warmer at least.”
“I prefer the Dog and Duck,” Monk said drily.
Gordimer grunted. “Do you normally make this much mess? Have you lost something? You’ll probably lose it all at this rate.”
“Have you got anything new about Parfitt? I already know he was hit over the head and then strangled.”
“Ah, but what with?” Gordimer said with satisfaction.
“Rope? Twine? Something better?” Monk put down the paper he was reading and stared hopefully at the surgeon’s sardonic face.
“Much better,” Gordimer said with a smile. He fished into his pocket and brought out a length of cloth. It was filthy and blood-spotted, but very recognizably knotted at regular lengths.
Monk reached for it.
Gordimer moved it just beyond his grasp.
“What is it?” Monk said curiously. “Looks like a rag.”
Gordimer nodded. “A very expensive silk rag, to be precise. From close and expert examination, I believe that when it is unknotted and carefully washed, even ironed, it will prove to be a gentleman’s cravat. From the little I have learned, it is made of heavy silk, embroidered with gold leopards-three of them, one above the other, very like those on the queen’s arms in the flag.”
Monk’s stomach lurched. “You’re not-”
“No,” Gordimer agreed drily. “I’m not. I said ‘like.’ There is nothing royal about this. Any gentleman of means-and, I would add, good taste-might acquire such a cravat.”
“Expensive?”
“Very.”
“It was what killed him?”
“I dug it out of his neck, man! What more do you want?”
“Can you take a photograph of it and have it attested to?” Monk asked. “Then we can undo it and wash it and see it more clearly. If we can find out who owned it, we shall be a great deal further forward.”
“Probably,” Gordimer agreed. “Very probably.”
