Anne Perry - The Silent Cry

The cabby shivered, and it was only partly the snow. He looked at Monk's face.

"Like a bleedin' wolf, you are. I'm ruddy glad you in't after me Now if you wanna go 'ome, get in me cab and get on with it. If yer plan on standin' 'ere all night, yer'll do it wivout me, or me 'orse, poor critter!”

Monk climbed in and sat down, too cold to relax, and was jolted steadily towards Fitzroy Street, and a warm bed.

The following morning he woke aching, his head throbbing. He was in a foul mood, and he had no right to be. He had a home, food, clothing and a kind of safety. He hurt only because he had slept with his body still knotted with the anger he felt over what he had heard.

He shaved and dressed, ate breakfast, and went to the police station where he used to work, before he had finally and irrevocably quarrelled with Runcorn, and been obliged to leave. It had not been so long ago, roughly two years. He was still remembered with clarity, and very mixed emotions. There were those who were afraid of him, still half expecting some criticism or jibe at the quality of their work, their dedication or their intelligence. Sometimes it had been just, too often it had not.

He wanted to catch John Evan before he went out on whatever case concerned him now. Evan was the one friend Monk could count on. He had come to the station after the accident. They had worked together on the Grey case, unravelling it step by step, and at the same time exposing Monk's own fears, and his terrible vulnerability, and in the end the truth which could now be thought of only with a shudder, and a dark shadow of guilt. Evan knew him as well as anyone, except Hester.

That thought surprised him by its sharpness. He had not intended to allow Hester into his mind. That relationship was entirely different.

Most of it had been brought about by circumstances rather than inclination. She was supremely irritating at times. As well as her skill, her intelligence and undoubtedly her courage, there was so much that he found intensely annoying. Anyway, she was not involved in this case. He had no need to think about her now. He should find Evan.

This was important and most urgent. It could happen again. Another woman could be beaten and raped, perhaps murdered this time. There was a pattern in the crimes. They had become steadily more violent.

Perhaps they would not end until one of the women was dead, or more than one.

Evan saw him immediately, sitting in his small office, little more than a large cupboard, big enough for a stack of drawers and two hard-backed chairs and a tiny table for writing on. Evan himself looked tired.

There were shadows under his hazel eyes and his hair was longer than usual, flopping forward in a heavy, fair brown wave.

Monk came straight to the point. He knew better than to waste a policeman's time.

"I've got a case in Seven Dials," he began. "The edge of that's your area. You might know something about it, and I might be able to help.”

"Seven Dials?" Evan's eyebrows rose. "What is it? Who in Seven Dials calls in a private agent? For that matter who has anything to steal?”

There was no unkindness in his face, just a weary knowledge of how things were.

"Not theft," Monk replied. "Rape, and then unnecessary violence, beatings.”

Evan winced. "Domestic? Don't suppose we can touch that. How could anybody prove it? It's hard enough to prove rape in a decent suburban area. You know as well as I do, society tends to think that if a woman gets raped, then she must somehow have deserved it. People don't want to think it happens to the innocent… that way it won't happen to them.”

"Yes, of course I know that!" Monk's temper was short and his head still throbbed. "But whether a woman deserves to be raped or not, she doesn't deserve to be beaten, to have her teeth knocked out or her ribs broken. She doesn't deserve to be knocked to the ground by two men at once, then punched and kicked.”

Evan flinched as if he had seen it as Monk described. "No, of course she doesn't," he agreed, looking at Monk steadily. "But violence, theft, hunger and cold are part of life in a score of areas across London, along with filth and disease. You know that as well as I do.

St. Giles, Aldgate, Seven Dials, Bermondsey, Friar's Mount, Bluegate Fields, the Devil's Acre, and a dozen others. You didn't answer my question… was it domestic?”

"No. It was men from outside the area, well-bred, well-off men, coming into Seven Dials for a little sport." He heard the anger in his voice as he said it, and saw it mirrored in Evan's face.

"What evidence have you?" Evan asked, watching him carefully. "Any chance at all of ever finding them, let alone proving it was them, and that it was a crime, not simply the indulgence of a particularly disgusting appetite?”

Monk drew breath to say that of course he had, and then let it out in a sigh. All he had was word of mouth from women no court would believe, even if they could be persuaded to testify, and that in itself was dubious.

"I'm sorry," Evan said quietly, his face tight and bleak with regret.

"It isn't worth pressing. Even if we found them, there'd be nothing we could do. It's sickening, but you know it as well as I do.”

Monk wanted to shout, to swear over and over until he ran out of words, but it would achieve nothing, and only make his own weakness the more apparent.

Evan looked at him with understanding.

"I've got a miserable case myself.”

Monk was not interested, but friendship compelled him to pretend he was. Evan deserved at least that much of him, probably more.

"Have you? What is it?”

"Murder and assault in St. Giles. Poor devil might have been better if he'd been murdered too, instead of left beaten to within an inch of his life, and now so badly shocked or terrified he can't speak… at all.”

"St. Giles?" Monk was surprised. It was another area no better than Seven Dials, and only a few thousand yards away, if that. "Why are you bothering with it?" he asked wryly. "What chance have you of solving that either?”

Evan shrugged. "I don't know… probably not much. But I have to try, because the dead man was from Ebury Street, considerable money and social standing.”

Monk raised his eyebrows. "What the devil was he doing in St.

Giles?”

"They," Evan corrected. "So far I have very little idea. The widow doesn't know… and probably doesn't want to, poor woman. I have nothing to follow, except the obvious. He went to satisfy some appetite, either for women, or other excitement, which he couldn't at home.”

"And the one still alive?" Monk asked.

"His son. It appeared they had something of a quarrel, or at least a heated disagreement, before the son left, and then the father went after him.”

"Ugly," Monk said succinctly. He stood up. "If I get any ideas, I'll tell you. But I doubt I will.”

Evan smiled resignedly, and picked up the pen again to resume what he had been writing when Monk came in.

Monk left without looking to right or left. He did not want to bump into Runcorn. He was feeling angry and frustrated enough. The last thing he desired was a past superior with a grudge, and now all the advantages. He must return to Seven Dials, and Vida Hopgood and her women. There was going to be no help from outside. Whatever was done, it rested with him alone.

The evening after Corriden Wade had left, Hester went upstairs to see Rhys for the last time before settling him for the night. She found him lying half curled over on the bed, his face turned into the pillow, his eyes wide. With anyone else she would have talked to him, tried to learn if not directly, at least indirectly, what troubled him. But Rhys still had no way of communicating except by agreement or disagreement with whatever she asked him. She had to guess, to fumble with all the myriad possibilities, and try to frame them so he could answer, yes or no. It was such a crude instrument to try to find so subtle and terrible a pain. It was like trying to operate on living flesh using an axe.