Execution Dock (15 page)

“Yer gonna set ‘is customers agin’ ‘im?” Scuff said in awe. “
Ow
yer gonna do that?” He looked worried.

“I'm not sure what I'm going to do,” Monk answered, starting to walk along the dockside. They were on the north bank, back near the Wapping Police Station. “For now I'll settle for learning a great deal more about him.”

“If yer can prove for sure that ‘e killed Fig, will they ‘ang ‘im?” Scuff asked hopefully.

“No.” Monk kept his pace even, though he was not yet certain where he was going. He did not want Scuff to realize that, although he was beginning to appreciate that Scuff was a far sharper judge of character than he had previously given him credit for. It was disconcerting to be read so well by an eleven-year-old. “No,” he said again. “He's been found not guilty. We can't try him again, no matter what we find. In fact, even if he confessed, there'd still be nothing we could do.”

Scuff was silent. He turned towards Monk, looking him up and down, his lips tight.

Monk was unpleasantly aware that Scuff was being tactful. He was touched by it, and at the same time he was hurt. Scuff was sorry for him, because he had made a mistake he did not know how to mend. This was a far cry from the brilliant, angry man he had been in the main Metropolitan Police onshore, where criminals and slipshod police alike were frightened of him.

“So we gotta get ‘im for summink else, then,” Scuff deduced. “Wot like? Thievin’? Forgin’? ‘E don't do that, far as I know. Sellin’ stuff wot was nicked? ‘E don't do that neither. An’ ‘e don't smuggle nothin’ so ‘e don't pay the revenue men be'ind ‘is back, like.” He screwed up his face in an unspoken question.

“I don't know,” Monk said frankly. “That's what I need to find out. He does lots of things. Maybe Fig isn't the only boy he's killed, but I need something I can prove.”

Scuff grunted in sympathy and walked beside Monk, trying very hard to keep in step with him. Monk wondered whether to shorten his stride. He decided not to; he did not want Scuff to know that he had noticed.

The police surgeon was busy and short-tempered. He met them in one of the stone-floored and utilitarian outer rooms of the mortuary. He had just finished an autopsy and his rolled-up sleeves were still splashed with blood.

“Made a mess of it, didn't you,” he said bitterly. It was an accusation, not a question. He glanced at Scuff once, then disregarded him. “If you expect me to rescue you, or excuse you, for that matter, then you're wasting your time.”

Scuff let out a wail of fury, and stifled it immediately, terrified Monk would make him go away, and then he would be no use at all. He stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his odd boots, and glaring at the surgeon.

Monk controlled his own temper with difficulty, only because his need to find some new charge against Phillips was greater than his impulse for self-defense. “You deal with most of the bodies taken out of this stretch of the river,” he replied, his voice tight. “Figgis can't have been the only boy of that age and general type. I'd like to hear about the others.”

“You wouldn't,” the surgeon contradicted him. “Especially not in front of this one.” He indicated Scuff briefly. “Won't give you anything useful, anyway. If we could've tied any of them to Jericho Phillips, don't you think we would have?” His dark face was creased with an inner pain that perhaps he did not realize showed so clearly.

Monk's anger vanished. Suddenly they had everything that mattered in common. The retort that apparently the surgeon had been no cleverer than anyone else died on his tongue.

“I want to get him for anything I can,” he said quietly. “Loitering with intent or being a public nuisance, if it would put him away long enough to start on the rest.”

“I want to see him hang for what he does to these boys,” the surgeon replied. His voice shook very slightly.

“So do I, but I'll settle for what I can get,” Monk replied.

The surgeon looked up at him, his eyes hard, then very slowly the disgust seeped out of him and he relaxed.

Scuff stopped fidgeting.

“I've had a few boys I think were his,” the surgeon said. “And if I could have proved it I would have. One he acknowledged. Police asked him, and he came in here, brass-faced as the Lord Mayor, and said he knew the boy. Said he'd taken him in, but he'd run away. He knew I couldn't prove anything different. I'd have happily dissected him alive, and he knew it. He enjoyed looking at me and seeing me know that I couldn't.” He winced. “But I'd have taken
you
apart when that verdict came in. You so bloody nearly had him! I've no right. I didn't get him myself.”

“How sure are you that he's done it before?” Monk asked. “I mean sure, not just instinct.”

“Absolutely, but I can't prove a damn thing. If you can get him, I'll be in your debt for life, and I'll pay it. I don't care whether he's on the end of a rope or knifed to death by one of his rivals. Just take him off our river.” For a moment it was a plea, the urgency in him undisguised. Then he hid it again, rolling up his sleeves even higher and turning away. “All I can tell you is that he's fond of torturing them with burning cigars, but you probably know that. And when he finishes them it's with a knife.” His body was rigid and he kept his back to them. “Now get out of here and do something bloody useful!” He stalked away, leaving them alone in the damp room with its smells of carbolic and death.

Outside, Monk breathed in the air deeply. Scuff said nothing, looking away from him. Perhaps he was frightened at last, not just aware of dangers that he must live with every day, but of something so large and so dark it stripped away all bravado and pretense. His fear was out of his control, and he did not want Monk to see it.

They walked side by side near the edge of the water, both lost in their own thoughts on the reality of death, and its pedestrian, physical immediacy. They were barely aware of the slap of the tide on the wall of the steps, and the shouts of the lightermen and stevedores a hundred yards away unloading a schooner from the Indies.

“This is worse than I thought,” Monk said after a while. He stopped walking and looked out over the water. He must be careful how he phrased it or Scuff would know he was being protected, and would resent it. “I don't like to involve you, because it's dangerous,” he went on. “But I don't think Orme and I can do it without your help. There are boys who will trust you who won't even speak to us, unless you're there to persuade them.”

Scuffs narrow shoulders were tight, as if he were waiting to be struck; it was his only outward sign of fear. Now he stopped, hands in his pockets, and turned slowly to face Monk. His eyes were dark, hollow, and embarrassed by what he saw as his own weakness. “Yeah?” He wanted desperately to meet expectations.

“I think we'll need you all the time, to help with the questioning, until we get him,” Monk said casually, starting to walk again. “It would be a sacrifice, I know. But we'd find you a proper place to sleep, where you could shut the door and be alone. And there'd be food, of course.”

Scuff was too startled to move. He stood rooted to the spot. “Food?” he repeated.

Monk stopped and turned back. “Well, I can't come looking for you every day. I haven't time.”

Suddenly Scuff understood. Joy filled his face, then very quickly he sobered up to a proper dignity. “I reckon I could,” he said generously. “Just until yer get ‘im, like.”

“Thank you,” Monk replied, almost certain that Hester would see the necessity of keeping Scuff safe as long as Jericho Phillips was free, however long that might be. “Well, come on then! The first boy we need to find is the one who identified Fig from Durban 's drawings. He might know something else, if we ask him the right questions.”

“Yeah,” Scuff said, as if he thoroughly agreed. “‘E might, an’ all.”

However, it took them the rest of the day to find the boy, and he was clearly very unhappy about speaking with Monk about anything. They stood where the narrow entrance of an alley opened into the Shadwell Dock. The tide was ebbing and slapping over the stairs a few yards away, leaving the higher steps slimy as it retreated. There was a large ship in the New Basin behind them, its spars and yards black against the fading sky.

“I dunno nothin’ more,” the boy said urgently. “I told yer ‘oo ‘e were, same like I told Mr. Durban. I dunno ‘oo done ‘im, an I can't ‘elp yer.”

“‘E won't leave yer alone ‘til yer tell ‘im.” Scuff gestured towards Monk. “So yer might as well get on wif it. It don't do ter be seen talkin ter the cops, if yer can ‘elp it.” He gave a philosophical shrug. “It's a bit late for me, but you could save yerself.”

The boy gave him a filthy look.

Scuff was impervious. “Wot else did Mr. Durban ask yer?” He looked at Monk, then back at the boy. “Yer don't want ‘im as an enemy, believe me. If yer like, ‘e'll pretend ‘e never ‘eard of yer.”

The boy knew when to give up. “‘E were askin’ fer a woman called Mary Webster, Walker… Webber! Summink like that,” he said. “Like a dog wif a bone, ‘e were. Where was she? ‘Ad I seen ‘er? ‘Ad anybody said anything, even ‘er name? I told ‘im I'd never ‘eard of ‘er, but ‘e wouldn't leave it. I told ‘im I'd ask me sister, just ter shut ‘im up, like. ‘E said as ‘e'd be back. This Mary whatever were ‘bout ‘is age, ‘e said, but ‘e dint know much more about ‘er ‘n that.”

Scuff looked across at Monk.

There was a pleasure boat passing down the river, hurdy-gurdy music playing. The sound drifted on the air, loud and then soft, loud and then soft, as the wind carried it.

“So did you ask your sister?” Monk said, curious to know what Durban was looking for. There had been no mention of a middle-aged woman before.

“Not the first time,” the boy answered, sucking in his breath. “But Mr. Durban come back an’ ‘e wouldn't let it go. I seen pit bull terriers as couldn't ‘ang on to a thing and worry it like ‘e did. So I told ‘im ter ask Biddie ‘isself, an’ told ‘im where ter find ‘er.”

“Where can we find Biddie?”

The boy rolled his eyes, but he told him.

Monk had no desire to take Scuff with him to a brothel, but the alternative was to leave him alone. He could have told him to go to Paradise Place, but it would be bitterly unfair to oblige him to explain to Hester that he had come to stay. And anyway, she might not even be there if they had had some crisis at Portpool Lane. There was nothing to do but allow him to come.

It was completely dark, even on this clear summer night, by the time they found Biddie. She had apparently been plying her trade earlier in the evening, but was now cheerfully available to take a glass of ale and merely talk, for a couple of shillings. She was a plain girl, but buxomly built and relatively clean in a blue dress disturbingly low cut, which did not bother Scuff as much as Monk thought it should have.

“Yeah, Mary Webber,” Biddie said, nodding, keeping both hands around her glass as if she feared having it taken from her. “Lookin’ fer ‘er summink fierce, ‘e were. I kep’ tellin’ ‘im I dint know no Mary Webber, which I din't! I never ‘eard of ‘er.” She managed to look aggrieved, even while wiping the foam off her upper lip. “‘E got a temper on ‘im, that one. Right paddy ‘e were in. Clocked Mr. ‘Opkins summink awful. ‘It ‘im on the side o’ the ‘ead an’ near sent ‘im inter the middle o’ next week. An ‘e's a nasty sod, too, but ‘e never ‘eard o’ Mary Webber no more'n I ‘ad.”

Monk felt an acute sense of dismay. It sounded nothing like the man he had known. “What did he look like?” he asked. Perhaps this was a case of mistaken identity.

Biddie had a good eye for faces. Perhaps it was part of her trade. It might be the way to remember certain people it would be advisable to avoid. “‘Bout your ‘eight, bit less, but more solid. Nice-lookin’, specially fer a cop. Nice eyes, dark they were. Grayish ‘air, wi’ sort o’ little waves in it. Walked easy, but a bit like mebbe ‘e'd once been a sailor.”

That was Durban. Monk swallowed. “Did he say why he wanted to find Mary Webber?”

A couple wove their way past them, talking loudly and bumping into people.

“No, an’ I din't ask,” Biddie said vehemently. “I ‘eard ‘e went ter old Jetsam, the pawnbroker, an’ gave ‘im an ‘ell of a time. Duffed ‘im up summink rotten. Still got the scars, ‘e ‘as. Not that ‘e were ever much ter look at, but ‘is own ma wouldn't take ter ‘im now.” She finished her ale with relish. “Wouldn't mind if yer got me another,” she remarked.

Monk dispatched Scuff with the empty glass and threepence. He took a breath. There was no escaping now, whatever the truth was.

“Do you mean that Durban beat the pawnbroker?” She must be lying. Why would he believe her, rather than everything he knew of Durban? And yet he could not leave it alone. In his own past people had been frightened of him. Was he violent too? It was so easy. “Who told you that?” he asked.

“I saw ‘im,” she said simply. “Told yer. ‘Orrible ‘e looked.”

“But how do you know it was Durban who struck him, or that it was deliberate? Perhaps Jetsam hit him first?”

She gave him a look of incredulity. “Ol’ Jetsam? Get on wi’ yer. Jetsam's as big a coward as ever were born. ‘E wouldn't go ‘ittin’ a cop even if ‘e were soused as an ‘erring. Lie ‘is way out of a paper bag, cheat ‘is own mother out o’ sixpence, but ‘e wouldn't never ‘it nobody face-ter-face.”

Monk's stomach clenched and he felt a coldness through him. “Why would Durban hit him?”

“Probably lost ‘is temper ‘cause Jetsam lied ter ‘im,” she answered reasonably.

“If Jetsam is that kind of a liar, how do you know it wasn't some customer he cheated who hit him?”

Scuff came back with the ale and gave it to Biddie, and the change to Monk, who thanked him.

“Look,” Biddie said patiently. “Yer been fair ter me. I in't gonna lie to yer. The local cop on the beat ‘ad ter pull ‘em apart, an’ ‘e were gonna charge Durban, ‘cause ol’ Jetsam got more'n the worst of it. ‘E were near ‘avin’ ‘is ‘ead stove in. I reckon Durban 'd ‘ave been charged if ‘e ‘adn't bin a cop ‘isself, an’ put the twist on.”

“That shouldn't make any difference,” Monk said, then immediately knew it was a mistake. He saw the contempt in her eyes. He knew what she was going to say before she started, and yet the words still hurt like a fresh cut.