Anne Perry - Execution Dock

Rathbone moved to the chair and sat down slowly. “I'll do what I can.” His voice was hoarse.

“I'll do what I can to help you rescue Scuff,” he said, his voice strained. He stood up and swayed very slightly. “Sullivan is the weak link. He will know where Phillips's boat is, and I can force him to take us. He'll know the times and places because he goes there. I don't think we have time to waste.” He moved to the door.

Monk followed him. He wanted to ask about Ballinger's involvement, but the wound was too raw, and too deep to probe yet. He could barely imagine how it must hurt Rathbone, not for Ballinger, but for Margaret. He thought of Hester, whose father had taken his own life after a financial scandal that had ruined him. He had believed it to be the only decent way out, and he had had no fault but faith in a man who was beneath honor of any kind.

They took a cab and rode in silence to Sullivan's chambers. The hot air was sharp with the smells of horse dung, the leather inside the cab, and stale sweat.

Monk's imagination was crowded with fear for Scuff. How had he managed to get caught? How terrified he must have been when he recognized Phillips, knowing what lay ahead of him. Was he already burned, bleeding? Where would Phillips begin, slowly, delicately, or straight into the maximum pain? The sweat broke out and ran cold on his own skin as he tried to force the images out of his mind.

They reached Sullivan's chambers still without speaking again. It was understood that Rathbone would address the subject for both of them.

As expected, they were told to wait, and possibly Lord Justice Sullivan would see them. Rathbone replied that it was a police emergency, concerning a matter of the utmost personal importance to Sullivan, and that the man would rue the day he did so if he attempted to block their way.

Within half an hour they stood in Sullivan's rooms, facing a man who was both angry and frightened. His big body was clenched and shivering, sweat shining on his skin in the heat as the sun shone in through the long windows.

“What is it you want?” He ignored Monk and looked only at Rathbone, as if expecting the details from him.

He was not disappointed. Rathbone came immediately to the point.

“We wish you to take us to Jericho Phillips's boat tonight, secretly. If you do not, innocent people will die, so there is no bargain to be made, no equivocation or denial possible.”

“I have no idea where his boat is!” Sullivan protested, even before Rathbone had finished speaking. “If the police wish to board it, that is up to them. I am sure they have informants whom they can ask.”

“There are all sorts of people we could speak to,” Rathbone replied icily. “With all sorts of information to give or to trade. I am sure you already understand that, in all its shades of meaning. We must do it tonight, and without Phillips receiving any warning so he could move the child he has kidnapped.”

“I can't!” Sullivan protested, his hands white-knuckled, the sweat running down his face.

“For a man who thrives on the thrill of danger, you seem to singularly lack courage,” Rathbone said with disgust. “You told me you loved the danger of risking being caught. Well, you are about to have the greatest excitement of your life.”

Monk stepped forward, not out of pity for Sullivan-who appeared to be about to choke-but because he was afraid they would lose his usefulness if he had a stroke. “You can leave once we are there,” he said raspingly “If we find the boy alive. If not, believe me, I will expose you to the whole of London -more important, to the judiciary who presently admire you so much. You may well have friends there, but they will not be able to help you, and unless they are suicidal, they will not try to. Ballinger will not get Sir Oliver to help you, and I will not make the mistakes I made with Phillips.”

“Monk!” Rathbone said urgently, his voice sharp, like a lash.

Monk swung around and stared at him, ready to accuse him of cowardice, or even complicity.

“He is no use to us a gibbering wreck,” Rathbone said gently. “Don't frighten him witless.” He looked at Sullivan. “Nevertheless, what Monk says is true. Are you with us? You wanted danger-this should be full of it. Weigh the risks. Phillips might get you, and he might not. We certainly will, no shadow of a doubt. I personally will ruin you, I swear it.”

Sullivan was almost beyond speech. He nodded and mumbled something, but the words were unintelligible.

Monk wondered if the excitement for which he had risked so much had only ever been an idea to him, and being caught, exposed, and torn apart never a reality. There must be a streak of sadism in him as well. There had never been chance, or excitement, or a hope of escape for the boys. Disgust welling up inside him, cold and sour, he turned away. “Rathbone will tell you what to do,” he said. “Perhaps he'd better bring you.”

“Of course I'll bring him,” Rathbone retorted with a sting in his voice. “Do you think I'm not coming?”

Monk was startled. He swung back, eyes wide, warmth inside him again.

Rathbone saw it. He smiled very slightly, but his eyes were bright and clear. “You'll need all the help you can get,” he pointed out. “And possibly a witness whose word may stand up in court.” His mouth twisted with irony. “I hope. Apart from that, do you think I could miss it?”

“Good,” Monk responded. “Then we will meet at the Wapping Stairs at dusk. Hester will join us.”

Rathbone was stunned for a moment, then denial swept in. “You can't possibly let her come!” he protested. “Apart from the danger, it'll be something no woman should see! Haven't you listened to your own evidence, man? We're not going to find just poverty, or even fear or pain. It'll be…” he stumbled to a halt.

“I gave her my word,” Monk told him. “It's Scuff.” He found it hard to say. “And apart from that, she is the only one with any real medical ability, if someone is hurt.”

“But it will be men at their most…” Rathbone started again.

“Raw?” Monk suggested. “Naked?”

“No woman should…” Rathbone tried again.

“Do you think you'll manage?” Monk said with an edge of pain in his voice that surprised him.

Rathbone's eyes widened.

“Have you ever seen a battlefield?” Monk asked him. “I have, once. I've never known such horror in my life, but Hester knew what to do. Forget your preconceptions, Rathbone; this will be reality.”

Rathbone closed his eyes and nodded, speechless.

Monk waited on the dockside just beyond Wapping Stairs at dusk, Hester beside him. She was dressed in trousers that Orme had borrowed from the locker of a young River policeman. It would be dangerously impractical for her to go on an expedition like this either hampered by a skirt or recognizably vulnerable as a woman.

Darkness was shrouding the water, and the farther side was visible only by the lights along the bank. Warehouses and cranes stood up hard and black against the southern sky and after the warmth of the day, a few threads of mist dragged faint veils across the water, catching the last of the light.

There was a bump of wood against stone as Orme drew up with one of the police boats. The second boat loomed out of the shadows with Sutton already in it, Snoot crouched beside him on the rear seat.

Footsteps sounded along the quay. Rathbone crossed the shaft of light from the police station lamp, Sullivan reluctantly behind him, his shoulders high and tight, his eyes sunken like holes in his skull.

No one spoke more than a word, a gesture of recognition. Sutton nodded at Rathbone, possibly remembering many of their narrow escapes.

Rathbone nodded back, a bleak smile brief in his face before turning to the business of climbing down the wet, slimy steps into the two boats. They had four River Police to row, and, as soon as they were seated, they slid out into the still water, which was slack at the turn of the tide. They moved out noiselessly except for the bump of metal against wood as the oars rattled in their locks.