Anne Perry - Acceptable Loss

Monk thought of the man alone in the boat, holding the gun in his hands, probably cold, almost certainly shaking. It had to do with honor, as the sergeant supposed, but not money-the dishonor of being exposed as a man who looked at obscene photographs, and used the degradation and abuse of little boys to satisfy his dark hunger. But Monk did not need to tell the sergeant that now.

“Who works for him?” he asked. “I know about ’Orrie Jones, and Tosh Wilkin and Crumble. What can you tell me about them?”

“ ’Orrie’s a bit simple,” the sergeant replied. “But not as daft as ’e makes out. ’E can be sharp enough if it suits ’im. Crumble’s a follower. Does as ’e’s told. Tosh yer need to watch.” He shook his head. “ ’E’s another bad ’un. Never bin able ter catch ’im in enough ter put ’im away.” His face brightened. “Think ’e could’ve bin the one ter do Mickey?”

“I doubt it,” Monk said with regret. “I think it was very much in Tosh’s interest to keep Mickey alive and profitable, earning money for both of them.”

“Was ’e an opulent receiver, then?” That was the term for someone who bought and sold high-quality stolen articles, such as jewelry, works of art, ivory, or gold.

“No,” Monk replied with near certainty. “He was a pornographer, and probably a pimp of little boys, for a few select customers.”

The sergeant blasphemed quietly, half under his breath. He did not apologize, so perhaps he was taking the Lord’s name very much in earnest.

“Still willing to help us find whoever killed him?” Monk asked, a harsh smile twisting his mouth.

The sergeant looked straight at him, blue eyes steady. “O’ course, sir, but I’m sorry to say, I don’t think as I know anything as’d be of use to yer.”

Monk laughed, a harsh, oblique pleasure in it. “What a shame. I’m sure you would have a list of ferrymen, boatbuilders, cabdrivers, shopkeepers near the water, the kind of person who might have seen something.”

“Course, sir.”

“Did Mickey often go out to his boat alone?”

“No idea, sir. ’Ard to say on a misty night ’oo goes where. That’s the trouble with the river, but being River Police an’ all, I expect you know that better than I do.”

“Did Mickey own the boat?”

The sergeant looked startled. “Dunno. But I s’pose yer could find out.”

“I intend to.” Monk thanked him and went outside into the brightening morning air. The sharp light off the water shifted and glittered with the incoming tide. Barge sails showed rusty-red, canvases barely filled. A few leaves were beginning to turn color. Some even drifted down.

Already the street was busy. Carts rattled over the rough stones, and men shouted to one another as they loaded and unloaded sacks, barrels, lengths of timber.

“What d’you reckon he was out there for at that hour of night?” Orme asked quietly as they walked over the road to the water’s edge. “Someone set him up?”

“Possibly,” Monk conceded. “Hitting him over the head could be a crime of opportunity. The assailant could have used any piece of wood lying around, a broken oar, half a branch, anything. But who carries around a rope with knots in it?”

“Piece of rigging from a boat?” Orme questioned. “Always rope on boats, or in a boatyard.”

“True,” Monk agreed. “But did he carry it with him? Or did he kill Mickey somewhere else, then toss him into the water and let him drift? There aren’t any boatyards upstream of where he was found-at least not near his own boat, which is where we think he went in. I suppose we could be wrong. But if the next boatyard is miles upriver, why carry him back again? Just to confuse us?”

Orme pursed his lips. “Premeditated,” he said with certainty. “Somebody came meaning to kill him. Not surprising, considering his occupation. What’s surprising is that it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Maybe ’Orrie, Crumble, and Tosh looked after him?” Monk was thinking aloud. “In which case either they were outwitted or they turned on him and at least one of them sold him to his murderer.”

Orme looked at him sideways, a rare amusement in his eyes, perhaps at the justice of the idea. Then, before Monk could be absolutely certain of it, he looked away again. “I suppose we’d better look for who that could be,” he said expressionlessly.

They spent the morning speaking to the various men whose livelihood kept them on the river, or close to its banks: boatbuilders, shipwrights, chandlers, breakers, suppliers of oars, sculls, and other fittings for boats. They learned nothing that added to what they already knew.

They had a lunch of bread, cold ham, and chicken, and a glass of ale each. Then Orme left to question the ferrymen. Monk went to find ’Orrie Jones again, in the cellars of the public house, moving kegs of ale.

“I told yer,” ’Orrie said, his wandering eye veering wildly, the other fixed on Monk. “I took ’im out ter the boat. Summink arter eleven, it were. ’E tol’ me ter come back fer ’im, but I were ’eld up, an’ I were late. When I got there, bit before one, ’e were gorn. I din’t see nobody else, an’ I dunno ’oo killed ’im.”

“What did he go out to the boat for?” Monk asked patiently. He did not know why he was asking all this. It probably made no difference. He was doing it to convince himself that he was trying to find the truth and to prove who had killed Parfitt.

‘Orrie was staring at him incredulously, leaning a little against a pile of kegs. “ ’Ow do I know? Yer think I asked ’im?”

“Who else did you tell?” Monk persisted.

’Orrie looked indignant. “Nob’dy! Yer sayin’ as I set ’im up?”

“Did you?” It was a possibility, a fight over the spoils?

“Course I didn’t. Why’d I do a thing like that?” ’Orrie protested.

“For money,” Monk replied. “Or because you were more scared of whoever paid you than you were of Mickey Parfitt.”

’Orrie drew in his breath to argue, then let it out again, clearly having thought better of it. He looked sideways at Monk, for once both his eyes more or less in the same direction. “I din’t tell no one, but Mickey went out there often, like. There were things that needed seein’ ter, an’ ’e din’t trust no one else ter do it right.”

“He didn’t trust you?” Monk pressed, pretending surprise.

’Orrie’s face tightened, sensible to the insult. It was clear from his furrowed expression that he was now taking a great deal more care before he answered. “Mebbe someb’dy were watchin’?” he suggested. “ ’E were clever, were Mickey, but ’e got enemies. King o’ that bit o’ the river, ’e were.”

“Who else did you see when you went back for him?” Monk asked.

This time ’Orrie weighed his answer for several moments. Monk waited with interest, studying ’Orrie’s extraordinary face. Sometimes the lie a man chose could tell you more about him than the truth.

“There’s always people on the water,” ’Orrie started cautiously.

Monk smiled. “Of course. If there weren’t, there’d be no business.”

“Right.” ’Orrie nodded slowly, still apparently watching Monk. “People wi’ money,” he added.

“So, what did Mickey Parfitt sell to them?” Monk asked him.

’Orrie looked totally blank, as if he had not understood.

“ ’Orrible, what did Mickey Parfitt sell to these men with money?” Monk repeated carefully. “He made a very good living, or he couldn’t have afforded a boat at all, never mind one with fittings like those in his boat.”

“I dunno,” ’Orrie said helplessly. “Yer suppose ’e told the likes o’ me?”

“No, ’Orrie, I suppose you had enough sense to see for yourself!”