speak with him when Margaret was not present.
At quarter to three Rathbone came back, entering with a smile on his face and the easy elegant manner he usually had when the taste of victory was still fresh on his tongue.
“Hello, Monk,” he said with surprise. “Got another case for me already?” He came in and closed the door quietly. His pale gray suit was perfectly cut and fitted to his slender figure. The sunlight shone in through the long windows, catching the smoothness of his fair hair and the touches of gray at the temples.
“I hope I don’t,” Monk answered. “But I can’t let this go by default.”
“What are you talking about?” Rathbone sat down and crossed his legs. He appeared reasonably comfortable, even if in fact he was not. “You look as if you have just opened someone’s bedroom door by mistake.”
“I may have,” Monk said wryly. The reference was meant only as an illustration, but it was too close to the truth.
Rathbone regarded him levelly, his face serious now. “It’s not like you to be oblique. How bad is it?”
Monk hated what he had to say. Even now he was wondering if there were some last, desperate way to avoid it. “That night on Phillips’s ship, after we found Scuff, and the rest of the boys, you told me that Margaret’s father was behind it-”
“I told you that Sullivan said so. He told me while you were occupied with Phillips.” Rathbone cut across him quickly. “Sullivan had no proof, and he’s dead by his own hand now. Whatever he knew, or believed, is gone with him.”
“The proof may be dead”-Monk did not move his eyes from Rathbone’s-“but the question isn’t. Someone is behind it. Phillips hadn’t the money or the connections in society to run the boat and find the clients who were vulnerable, let alone blackmail them afterward.”
“Could it have been Sullivan himself?” Rathbone suggested, and then looked away. Monk did not bother to answer-they both knew Sullivan had not had the nerve nor the intelligence it would have required. He’d been a man ruined by his appetite, and eventually killed by it. In the end, he’d been one more victim.
Rathbone looked up again. “All right, not Sullivan. But he could have implicated anyone, as long as it wasn’t himself. There’s nothing to act on, Monk. The man was desperate and pathetic. Now he’s very horribly dead, and he took Phillips with him, which no man more richly deserved. There’s nothing more I can do, or would. The boat has been broken up, the boys are free. Let the other victims nurse their wounds in peace.” His face tightened in revulsion too deep to hide. “Pornography is cruel and obscene, but there’s no way to prevent men looking at whatever they wish to, in their own homes. If you want a crusade, there are more fruitful causes.”
“I want to stop Scuff’s unhappiness,” Monk replied. “And to do that I have to stop it from happening to other boys, the friends he’s left behind.”
“I’ll help you-but within the law.”
Monk rose to his feet. “I want whoever’s behind it.”
“Give me evidence, and I’ll prosecute,” Rathbone promised. “But I’m not indulging in a witch hunt. Don’t you … or you’ll regret it. Witch hunts get out of hand, and innocent people suffer. Leave it, Monk.”
Monk said nothing. He shook Rathbone’s hand and left.
CHAPTER 2
It was early morning, and Corney Reach was deserted. The heavy mist lent the river an eerie quality, as if the smooth, sullen face of it could have stretched to the horizon. It touched the skin and filled the nose with its clinging odor.
Here on this southern bank, the trees overhung the water, sometimes dipping so low they all but touched its surface. Within fifty yards they were shrouded, indistinct; a hundred yards, and they were no more than vague shapes, suggestions of outlines against the haze. The silence consumed everything except for the occasional whisper of the incoming tide over the stones, or through the tangled weeds close under the bank.
The corpse was motionless, facedown. Its coat and hair floated, wide, making it look bigger than it was. But even partly submerged, the blow to the back of the skull was visible. The current bumped the body gently against Monk’s legs. He moved his weight slightly to avoid sinking in the mud.
“Want me to turn ’im over, sir?” Constable Coburn asked helpfully.
Monk shivered. The cold was inside him, not in the damp early autumn air. He hated looking at dead faces, even though this man might have been the victim of an accident. If it was an accident, he would resent having been called all the way up here, beyond the western outskirts of the city. It would have been a waste of his time, and that of Orme, his sergeant, who was standing five or six yards away, also up to his knees in the river.
“Yes, please,” Monk answered.
“Right, sir.” Constable Coburn obediently leaned forward, ignoring the water soaking his uniform sleeves, and hauled the corpse over until it was floating on its back.
“Thank you,” Monk acknowledged.
Orme moved closer, stirring up mud. He looked at Monk, then down at the body.
Monk studied the dead man’s face. He seemed to be in his early thirties. He could not have been in the river long, because his features were barely distorted. There was just a slight bloating in the softer flesh, no damage from fish or other scavengers. His nose was sharp, a little bony, his mouth thin-lipped and wide, and his eyebrows pale. There seemed little color in his hair, but it would be easier to tell when it was dry.
Monk put out his hand and lifted one eyelid. The iris was blue, and the white was speckled with blood. He let it close again. “Any idea who he is?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Coburn’s face was shadowed with distaste. “ ’E’s Mickey Parfitt, sir, small-time piece o’ dirt around ’ere. Inter fencin’, pimpin’, generally makin’ a profit out of other folks’ misery.”
“You’re certain?”
“No mistake, sir. See ’is right arm?”
Monk noticed nothing, but the jacket covered the man’s right arm to the base of his fingers. Then he glanced at the left arm, and realized the right was at least three inches shorter. Monk gripped the arm and felt the wasted muscle. The left one was thin, but hard. In life it would have been strong, perhaps making up for the withered one.
“Who found him?” he asked.
“ ’Orrie Jones, but ’e’s only ’alf there,” Coburn replied, tipping his head. “It were Tosh as called us. ’E worked fer Parfitt ’ere an’ there. As much as ’e worked at all, that is. Nasty piece o’ work, Tosh.”
“Not a tosher?” Monk asked curiously, referring to the men who worked stretches of the sewers, fishing for valuables that had been washed down. They found all sorts of things, jewelry in particular. Given the right area, there were rich pickings to be had.
“Was, once, so ’e says,” Coburn replied. “Got tired of it. Or maybe ’e lost ’is patch.”
“What was ’Orrie Jones doing down by the riverbank so early?”
“That’s a good question.” Coburn pulled his mouth tight in an expression of disgust. “ ’E says as ’e were takin’ a breath of air before startin’ ’is day’s work.”
“Do you think he killed Parfitt?” Monk said doubtfully.
“No. ’E’s daft, but ’e’s ’armless. But I reckon as ’e could a bin lookin’ fer ’im.”
“Any idea why? And why would he expect to find Parfitt down by the riverbank at five or six in the morning?”
Coburn bit his lip. “Good question, sir. ’Orrie did odd jobs fer Mickey, rowed ’im about, like, fetched an’ carried fer ’im, ran errands. ’E must ’ave ’ad a good idea ’e was ’ere.”
“A good idea that he was dead?” Monk suggested.
“Mebbe.”
“And who killed him?”
Coburn shook his head. “Mebbe that too, but ’e wouldn’t tell us.”
“Then, we’d better find Mickey’s friends, and enemies,” Monk responded. “I suppose there’s no hope it could be an accident?”
“ ’Ope all you like, sir, but we don’t often get so lucky that a piece o’ vermin like Mickey ’as accidents.”
