about it?” he asked. “Are you happy to mark the case as ‘unsolved’ and move on? Does anyone really want to know who killed Parfitt?”
“Lord Cardew might,” Monk observed. “A shadow hangs over his son as long as we don’t know. But whether he does or not, I do. Not because I give a damn about Parfitt, but I need to find out who was behind him, Oliver.” He did not look away. He knew exactly what Rathbone was thinking, remembering, and what the weight of it would be if Monk were right.
For several seconds they stared at each other, then Monk rose to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said very quietly, little more than a whisper. “I can’t let it go.”
Rathbone did not reply.
Monk let himself out, passing the clerk in the entrance lobby, and thanking him.
In spite of the sun, the air outside felt cold.
Monk spent the next two days questioning everybody who had anything to do with Mickey Parfitt, or who might have seen anyone on the river or the dockside at either Chiswick or Mortlake the night of Parfitt’s death. ’Orrie, Crumble, and Tosh repeated their stories almost word for word, and he could not shake them. Nothing was changed. It was still possible that Ballinger could physically have killed Parfitt, but without a motive, without proof that they knew each other, it was nothing more than an idea.
Monk was pacing the path by the side of the river along Corney Reach when he ran into the fisherman.
“Don’t walk up be’ind a man like that!” the fisherman spat. “I could a taken yer eye out wi’ me rod, yer great fool! Where d’yer grow up, then? In the middle of a desert?” He was a skinny little man with a long nose and a lantern jaw. The cap pulled forward over his eyes hid whatever hair he had left.
Monk apologized, which was received with ill grace. He was about to move on when, out of sheer habit, he asked the question. “Do you spend a lot of time here?”
The man squinted at him. “Course I do, yer daft sod. I live up there.” He jerked his head back toward the lane leading out of the town into the fields.
“Do you have a boat?”
“Yeah, but it in’t fer ’ire. I don’t want some great lummox crashing about in it who don’t know one end from the other.”
“I grew up in boats,” Monk said testily. The fact that he had only the briefest flashes of memory about that time was none of the man’s affair. “I’m looking for witnesses, not to go rowing myself.”
“Witnesses ter wot? I in’t seen nothing. In’t even seen a bleedin’ fish terday.”
“Not today. The day before Mickey Parfitt’s body was pulled out of the river.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Seen, like wot?”
“People coming and going, other than the ferrymen. Anyone you know behaving differently from usual. Anyone in a hurry, frightened, quarreling, running away.”
The man shook his head.
“Jeez! Yer don’t want much, do yer? All I saw were Tosh racin’ up ter Mickey on the dockside, yellin’ at ’im ter wait. Then ’e pulls a piece o’ paper out of ’is pocket an’ gives it to ’im. Mickey reads it, swears summink ’orrible, grabs a pencil from Tosh, an’ writes summink on it, then ’e gives it back to ’im. Arter that ’e calls the ferryman and tells ’im ’e’s changed ’is mind. ’E rushes away lookin’ all excited, an’ far as I know, nobody gone after ’im, nobody ’it ’im nor strangled ’im nor threw ’im in the river.”
Monk felt a sharp flicker of excitement stir inside him. “But Mickey changed his mind about where he was going?” he urged.
“I jus’ said that, yer damn fool! In’t yer listenin’?” the man snapped.
“What time was this, roughly?”
“About ’alf past ten.”
“Thank you. I’m most obliged. What is your name, if I need to speak to you again?” He nearly added, in case he needed him to testify, then thought better of it. He would send Orme for him, and allow no choice.
“ ’Orace Butterworth,” the man replied grimly. “Now get out of it. Yer frightenin’ the fish.”
Monk considered carefully how to make the best use of this delicate piece of information. Was this the message that had taken Mickey out to the boat, and then upriver toward Mortlake to meet his death? Who was it from? What had he believed he was going for? It must have been urgent, to take him back out again at that hour.
Tosh would be very unlikely to tell Monk. Nor would he tell him who the messenger was or where he’d come from. It would too easily implicate him in being party to the murder that had followed. He would simply deny it all, say that Butterworth was wrong, probably made it all up. A good lawyer would demolish the story in minutes.
He must build a chain of evidence. Who was the weakest link? ’Orrie Jones. That was where to begin.
He found ’Orrie in a boatyard patiently sanding a piece of wood. There were other men around, all sawing, planing, chiseling, carefully fitting planks, easing tongues into grooves. The ground was covered with sawdust, and it was in the air with the smell of wood and sap, and there was the constant, irregular sound of friction, banging, and someone whistling half under his breath.
Lower down, closer to the water’s edge, one old man with tattooed arms was caulking the sides of a boat, his feet now and then shifting as the water seeped up through the shingle and soaked his boots.
They were sheltered from the breeze. The tide slurped on the stone of the slipway. There was a smell of river mud and wet wood.
’Orrie looked up and saw Monk approaching, and his face took on a look of infinite weariness.
“You again,” he sighed. “In’t it enough yer ’ang the poor bastard, yer gotta ’it every nail inter ’is coffin as well?”
“Have to be sure it fits, ’Orrie, just like those pieces you’re putting together.”
“So wot is it now, then?” ’Orrie’s good eye swiveled around.
“When did Mickey ask you to row him out to the boat?”
“I dunno!”
“Yes, you do. Think!”
’Orrie met his eyes and gave him that rare focused look of total clarity. “Why? What does it matter now? Don’t make no difference to ’oo killed ’im.”
“You tell the defense lawyer that, ’Orrie. If you can’t answer, he’ll pick your life apart detail by detail, and-”
“I dunno when ’e decided ter go out ter the boat!” ’Orrie protested angrily. “But ’e din’t ask me until a bit before eleven. I know ’cos I jus’ started a pint, an’ I ’ad ter put it down.”
“At the pub?”
“O’ course at the pub! D’yer think I were pullin’ it out o’ the river?”
“I don’t care where you got it. Why did Mickey decide so late? Were you at his beck and call anytime?”
’Orrie stiffened. “No, I weren’t! I weren’t ’is bleedin’ servant. Summink came up.”
Monk nodded, trying to curb his impatience and look encouraging. “An appointment, unexpectedly?”
“Right!”
“And he thought it was important enough to go? Not so convenient for him either. Was he angry? Or afraid?”
“No, ’e weren’t. ’E were ’appy.”
“Why?”
’Orrie drew in his breath, looked at Monk, weighed up his best advantage, and decided to answer. “Well, it don’t matter now. The poor sod’s dead, eh? ’E thought as it were a good chance o’ new business. But don’t waste yer breath askin’ me wot, ’cos I dunno.”
“Of course you don’t. Did he come for you personally, or did he send you a note?” He made his tone deliberately insulting. “Maybe someone read it for you?”
“I read it meself!” ’Orrie snapped. “Jus’ ’cos I got a walleye don’t mean I’m stupid.”
“Really? What did you do with the note?”
“I kept it ’o course. Never know when yer gonna need paper for summink.”
’Orrie fished in his trouser pocket and slammed a grimy piece of paper onto the wood he was working with. He glared at Monk.
