Anne Perry: Acceptable Loss

“The knotted rope around his neck,” Monk elaborated. He watched Tosh’s eyes, his face, the long, scrupulously clean hands at his sides. Nothing gave him away.

“Can’t say as I did,” Tosh replied. “But, then, I didn’t look more ’n to make sure ’Orrie wasn’t ’avin’ visions, like. Police business, either way. Don’t do for ordinary folk to meddle. ‘Don’t touch’ is my watchword. Just called Constable Coburn ’ere.”

He hesitated, as if undecided about exactly how to go on. He looked only at Monk, avoiding the eyes of the other two. “Actually, Mr. Monk, to tell the truth, ’Orrie came to me early, about ’alf past six in the morning. I could ’ave brained ’im for waking me up. But ’e said ’e took Mickey out to ’is boat, about eleven o’clock or so, last night. Mickey told ’im to go back for ’im in about an hour. Well, when ’Orrie went, there were nobody there. No Mickey, no anyone. ’E said ’e ’ung around for a while, calling out, looking, but then ’e reckoned ’e must ’ave got it wrong, an’ ’e went ’ome. But when Mickey wasn’t there this morning, ’Orrie was scared something ’ad ’appened.”

“At half past six?” Monk said with disbelief.

“That’s it,” Tosh agreed. “You see, I didn’t believe ’im. I told ’im to get out an’ leave me alone. Go back to bed like civilized folk, and don’t be so stupid. An’ off ’e went.”

Monk waited impatiently.

“Then I got to worrying meself,” Tosh continued, looking at Monk gravely. “So instead o’ going back to sleep, I lay there for a while, then I got up and dressed, an’ I was on me way down the path, just to check up, so to speak, when I saw ’Orrie come up at a run, all red-faced an’ out o’ breath.”

Monk looked from Tosh to Constable Coburn, and back again. “Where is this boat that ’Orrie took Mickey to last night?” he asked.

“Moves around,” Coburn answered.

“Moored up between ’ere an’ Barnes,” Tosh said, and gestured upriver. “Which don’t mean to say poor Mickey went into the river there. Tides can play funny games wi’ things-floaters in particular.”

“So ’Orrie took Parfitt to his boat shortly after eleven o’clock last night, and went to collect him an hour or so later, and he wasn’t there?”

Tosh nodded his fuzzy head. “Yer got it. Given, o’ course, that ’Orrie isn’t always that exact with time.”

“Is ’Orrie short for Horace?”

Tosh half hid a smile. “ ’Orrible. When you’ve met ’im, you’ll see why. ’E’s not …” He tapped his forehead, and left the rest to Monk’s imagination.

Monk remembered the corpse’s withered arm. “I assume Mr. Parfitt was not able to row himself? Was this usually Mr. Jones’s job?”

“Yes. ’E obeys well enough, but not much use for anything else.”

“I see. And do you know for yourself that what he says is true, or do you just believe him?”

Tosh’s eyes opened very wide with exaggerated surprise, sending a row of wrinkles up his forehead. “I believe ’im ’cos it makes sense, and ’e ’asn’t the wit to lie. One of the benefits of employing idiots-they’re not imaginative enough to tell a decent lie. And ’aven’t the brains to remember it if they did.”

Monk forbore from responding to that. “So after he had appealed to you, at about six-thirty in the morning,” he continued, “you told him to go back to bed, but in fact ’Orrie actually continued to search for Mr. Parfitt along the riverbank?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Tosh confirmed.

“Remarkable that in so short a time he actually found him, don’t you think?” Monk asked. “It’s a big river, lots of weeds and obstructions, tides in and out, and traffic.”

Tosh blinked. “ ’Adn’t thought of it like that, but o’ course you’re right. Remarkable it is, sir.”

“I think this would be a good time to meet this Mr. ’Orrible Jones,” Monk observed.

“Oh, yes, sir.” Tosh blinked and smiled, showing very white and curiously pointed teeth.

They found ’Orrie Jones sweeping the sawdust on the floor of a pub just off one of the alleys leading down to the riverfront. Coburn pointed him out, although there was no need. He was stout and of less than average height. He was an unusually ugly man. His brown hair grew at all angles from his head, rather like the spines of a hedgehog. His nose was broad, but it was his eyes that were his most unnerving feature.

“Mornin’ ’Orrie,” Coburn said cheerfully, stopping in front of him.

’Orrie grasped the broom handle, his knuckles white. One large, dark eye was fixed balefully on the constable; the other wandered toward the far corner. Monk had no idea whether ’Orrie could see him or not.

“Yer found ’oo done that ter Mickey?” ’Orrie demanded.

“Done what?” Monk inquired, wanting to know if ’Orrie was aware of the strangulation, before Coburn mentioned it.

“Pushed ’im in the water.” ’Orrie shifted his gaze, or at least half of it.

“Could he swim?” Monk asked.

“Not with ’is ’ead stove in,” ’Orrie replied. His face was so vacant, Monk was not sure if he felt anger, pity, or even disinterest. It set Monk at an unexpected disadvantage.

“It doesn’t surprise you that he is dead?” Monk asked.

’Orrie’s gaze wandered round the room. “Don’t surprise me when nobody’s dead,” he replied.

Monk found himself irritated. It was a perfectly reasonable answer, and yet it sidestepped the real question. Was that intentional?

“How long did you look for him last night when you went back to the boat and discovered he had gone?” he persisted.

“Till I couldn’t find ’im,” ’Orrie said patiently. “Dunno ’ow long it were. In’t no use looking after that.”

Monk thought he saw ’Orrie smile, but decided to pretend he hadn’t. “Were you late going back for him?” he said sharply.

This time it was ’Orrie who looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight awkwardly. “Yeah. I got ’eld up. Some fool wouldn’t pay, an’ we ’ad ter ask ’im a bit ’arder. Crumble’ll tell yer.”

Monk looked at Coburn.

“Crumble is one of Parfitt’s pimps,” Coburn replied.

’Orrie looked at him with disapproval. “Yer shouldn’t say things like that, Mr. Coburn. Crumble just looks after things.”

Coburn shrugged.

Monk did not pursue it. ’Orrie was probably telling the truth, and it was quite possible that none of them had a very clear idea of time. Monk would have to look further into the various sources of money to see whether ’Orrible Jones had any apparent motive either to kill Parfitt himself or to shield anyone else who had.

They questioned ’Orrie further, but he had nothing to add to the simple fact that he had rowed Mickey Parfitt out to his boat, which was moored upstream from the local island, Chiswick Eyot, shortly after eleven o’clock. He had waited until midnight to go back for him, and then had been delayed by trouble in one of the taverns, where a customer had refused to pay for several drinks. Monk had no doubt it was actually a brothel, but for the purpose of accounting for ’Orrie’s time, it came to the same thing. When ’Orrie had rowed back just before one, Mickey Parfitt was nowhere to be seen. He said he had looked for him until he believed it was pointless, and then he had gone back home and gone to bed.

In the morning, when ’Orrie had called on Mickey and found he was still not around, he had been sufficiently concerned to go and waken Tosh. Tosh had told him to go back to bed, but instead ’Orrie had begun to search for Mickey. In little more than an hour, he had found the body.

Monk excused ’Orrie, for the time being, and went to find Crumble, who appeared to have no other name. He was in the cellar of the pub, moving kegs around with more ease than Monk would have expected from a man so small. He was less than five feet, with round eyes, and features so indistinct that they seemed about to blur into one another. His eyebrows were ragged, his nose shapeless-perhaps the bone had been broken too many times. He spoke with a soft, curiously high-pitched voice.