Anne Perry - Execution Dock

The man squirmed. “Gawd! I don't know! ‘E said she were about fifty, or summink like that, so she weren't no ‘ore. Not any longer, anyway. She could ‘a been any o’ them other things. All ‘e said were ‘er name an’ that she ‘ad goldy-brown eyes an’ curly ‘air, little fine curls.”

“Why did he want her? When did he first ask you?”

“I dunno!” The man shivered and moved an inch or two away from Monk, shrinking into himself. “D'yer think I wouldn't ‘a told ‘im if I'd ‘a known?”

Monk felt the fear eat inside him also, for an utterly different reason. “When?” he insisted. “When did he first ask you about Mary Webber? What else did he ask?”

“Nuffin’! Were about two year ago, mebbe less. Winter. I mind because ‘e stood out in the cold an’ I were near freezin’. Me ‘ands were blue.”

“Did he ever find her?”

“I dunno! Nobody round ‘ere never ‘eard of ‘er. An’ I know all the fences and receivers, all the ‘ock shops an’ moneylenders from Wappin’ ter Blackwall, an’ back.”

Monk swiveled to face him and the man flinched again.

“Stop it!” Monk snapped. “I'm not going to hit you!” He heard the anger in his voice, almost out of control. The names of Durban and Mary Webber were enough to cause fear.

But the man either could not or would not tell him any more.

He tried other contacts along the water that he had made in the six months since he had been in the River Police, and names that had been in Durban 's notes, people Orme or any of the other men had mentioned.

“‘E were lookin’ for fat Tilda's boy,” an old woman told him with a shake of her head that set her battered straw hat swiveling on her head. They were on the corner of an alley a hundred feet from the dockside. It was noisy, dusty, and hot. She had a basket of shoelaces on her arm, and so far did not seem to have sold many. “Gorn missin’, ‘e ‘ad. Told ‘er ‘e'd possibly gone thievin’ an’ been caught, but she were ‘fraid that Phillips'd got ‘im. Could ‘ave. Daft as a brush ‘e is, an’ all.”

“What happened?” Monk asked patiently.

“Stupid little sod fell in the water an’ got fished out by a lighterman who took ‘im all the way down ter Gravesend. Come back three days later, right as rain.” She grinned at the memory as if she found acute satisfaction in it.

“But Mr. Durban looked for the boy?”

“Yeah, I said so. It were ‘im as found ‘im at Gravesend an’ brought ‘im back. Otherwise ‘e could ‘a been took ter sea an’ ended up dinner for some cannibal in the South Seas. That's wot I told my boys: do as I tell yer, or yer'll get run off an’ be boiled an’ ate up.”

Monk cringed inwardly at the thought.

“Reckon ‘e thought Phillips could ‘a got ‘im right enough,” the old woman said dourly, her smile vanished. “It's a bad shame Mr. Durban is dead. ‘E were the one as mebbe could ‘a done for Phillips. Didn't take no nonsense from no one, ‘e din't, but ‘e were fair, an’ nothin’ weren't too much trouble if yer was down.”

Scuff stood suddenly upright.

Monk swallowed. “ Durban?”

“‘Course, Durban,” she snapped, glaring at him. “‘Oo d'yer think I was talkin’ about, the Lord Mayor o’ London? ‘Ard man if yer was bad, but soft as muck if yer was sick or poor, or old, like me. ‘E wouldn't ‘ave stood ‘ere in the sun leavin’ me on me feet, an’ me mouth dry as a wooden boot. ‘E'd ‘a gave me a cup o’ tea, an’ bought a couple o’ pairs o’ shoelaces an’ all.”

“Why was he looking for Tilda's son?” Monk had to examine the moment of kindness, so it would not later fade and slip out of his grasp.

“‘Cause ‘e were afraid Phillips might ‘ave got ‘im, yer fool!” she said in disgust.

“Was that likely?”

“‘E knew. Tried ‘is ‘ardest ter get the bastard, then ‘e got killed ‘isself. Now them stupid sods o’ the river police in't good for nothin’ ‘cept smugglers, pickpockets, an’ a few ‘eavy ‘orsemen.” She was referring to the thieves who stole goods from the ships and brought them ashore in specially designed pockets inside their coats. The reproof stung less than Monk would have expected, and he shot a glance at Scuff to prevent him from leaping to his defense.

“Then he was going to catch Phillips?” he asked mildly.

She looked him up and down. “Yer want a pair o’ laces?” she asked.

He fished tuppence out of his pocket and passed it to her.

She gave him the laces. “Yer in't man enough to do it,” she responded. “Yer gotter ask an old woman like me the way?”

Scuff could take it no more. “You mind yer gob, yer ol’ mare!” he said furiously. “Mr. Monk's strung up more murderers than yer've ‘ad ‘ot dinners or like ter ‘ave! Mr. Durban never got Phillips neither, an’ you in't no ‘elp. Where's ‘is boat, eh? ‘Oo goes on an’ off it? ‘Oo puts burns on them boys when they get out o’ line? ‘Oo kills ‘em, an’ why, eh? D'yer even know wot yer talkin’ about, yer ol’ bag o’ bones?”

She darted her hand out and gave him a swift, hard slap around the ear. Monk winced as he heard the crack of skin on skin.

Scuff let out a howl.

“Wot'd I tell you lot fer?” the old woman demanded furiously. “Yer wouldn't do nothin’. Yer wouldn't take no risks ter keep the little bastards safe, not like ‘e did.”

“Risks?” Monk asked, gulping down hope and trying to keep his voice steady. He must not let her know it mattered. She would play every advantage. He even tried to invest his tone with some skepticism.

She was still angry. Her contempt was bitter in the deep lines around her eyes and mouth. “‘E got Melcher, dint ‘e?” She gave a toothless sneer. “Real clever sod ‘e were, when ‘e wanted. And ‘e conned Melcher every time, if ‘e din't keep an eye on other boys, an’ Phillips knew it. Pearly Boy too. Weren't till after Durban were dead that Reilly went. But wot'd yer know? Bloody useless.” She spat on the dusty ground. “Yer don't make me laugh like ‘e did. An’ don't give me nothin’ ter eat.”

He walked away with Scuff, thinking deeply. The insults did not bother him, it was the information whirling in his head that he needed to order. Melcher he knew was a heavy horseman, one of the roughest. According to the old woman, Durban had held something over him. Pearly Boy was an opulent receiver, a fence of the more elegant and expensive goods stolen and resold along the river, a man whose reputation for ruthlessness and greed was well enough known to keep him insulated from the usual dangers and irritations of rivalry in his particular trade. It seemed Durban had somehow manipulated him too. Phillips would not have liked that.

But who was Reilly? Or if the old woman was right, who had he been, and what had happened to him?

Scuff was worried. He glanced at Monk now and again, then away quickly.

“What is it?” Monk asked eventually as they crossed the narrow bridge on the Wapping Basin and moved west.

“She dint ought ter ‘ave talked to yer like that,” Scuff replied. “Yer shouldn't ‘a let ‘er get by wi’ it. Takes ‘erself liberties, she does.”

Scuff was right. Monk had been too relieved to hear someone speak so well of Durban that he had ignored the fact that he had allowed her to disparage him, and done nothing to assert his authority. It was an error that would have to be corrected, or he would pay the price later. He conceded the point to Scuff, who was satisfied, but took no pleasure in his victory. In his own way, he was worrying about Monk, afraid he was not fit to do the job, or to look after himself in the dangerous alleys and docksides of his new beat. There was a very strict hierarchy, and Monk was letting his place in it slip.