other boy’s thin, broken body they had pulled out of the water. Monk didn’t care himself if they caught Mickey’s killer or not, and to Orme, of all people, he could not pretend that he did.
“Perhaps we won’t find whoever did it,” he said wryly.
Orme looked at him, weighing how seriously he meant it.
Monk shrugged. “Of course murder deserves to be punished, whoever the victim is. If we get close, we’ll scare the wits out of him.” That was not a joke. In the past many people had been frightened of Monk. It was not something he was entirely proud of. Some of them had been the men he worked with, who were younger, less able, less agile of mind, afraid of his cutting judgment. He’d been admired, but also feared.
But that had been before the accident that had robbed him of his memory, and when he had still been in the Metropolitan Police. Then, after he had been dismissed, he had worked for himself, solving crimes for those who’d employed him privately. It was only after Durban’s death that he had been offered this position to lead the Thames Police on the river.
Durban had not possessed Monk’s ruthless skill in hunting down the truth—few people did. But he had known how to lead men, how to earn their loyalty, draw out the best in them, even inspire a kind of love. Above all they had trusted him.
Monk had known him all too briefly. They had been friends. It was Durban, knowing he was dying, who had suggested that Monk take his place. Now Monk had to justify that honor placed on him.He had to learn the art of leading men, starting with Orme, who had been Durban’s closest ally.
“And we’ll catch him if we can,” he added, as if it were an unnecessary afterthought.
Orme smiled as if he understood beyond the words, and said nothing. He sat back a little in the seat and his shoulders relaxed.
At the small local police station in Chiswick they were greeted cautiously, and taken into a warm, poky office that smelled of strong tea and tobacco smoke. The walls were lined with shelves; the table was piled with papers.
Monk and Orme requested as much local knowledge as possible, and Monk asked the sergeant in charge a number of questions. Orme listened and took notes, writing rapidly and with surprising neatness.
“ ’E were a nasty piece o’ work,” the sergeant said, describing Mickey Parfitt. “Can’t let murder go, but if we could, ’ooever done ’im in’d be my first pick not ter find, as it were.” He sighed. “ ’Owever, seems we can’t do that, or Gawd knows where it’d finish. We’ll do all we can to ’elp yer find the poor sod ’oo did it.” A look of amusement flashed across his broad face. “Mind, yer’ve got a lot ter choose from, an’ that’s the truth.”
“What was he doing out there on the boat by himself?” Monk asked, perching on the edge of one of the rickety chairs. “Any ideas? If you could prove anything, you’d have had him locked up already, but whom do you suspect? And don’t tell me there’s too many to choose from.”
The sergeant smiled widely, a warm, spontaneous gesture that lit his bony face. “Wouldn’t think of it, sir. We’re too far up the river for smuggling. There in’t nobody up ’ere worth thievin’ from, although I used ter wonder if ’e were fencin’ stuff, so I made the chance to go out an’ look, but I didn’t see a thing.”
“Lot of people coming and going?” Monk asked.
“Yeah. That’s part o’ why I thought ’e were fencin’ stuff.”
“What sort of people?” Monk found himself tense, waiting. He did not look at Orme, but he could feel Orme stiffen also.
“No women,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head. “So if that’s what ye’re thinking, ye’re wrong. If it was that simple, I’d ’ave stopped’im meself. Always men, an’ if yer looked close enough, well-to-do men at that. Gamblin’s my thoughts. ’Igh stakes, life or death sort o’ stuff. ’Ad one top ’isself almost a year
“Perhaps we won’t find whoever did it,” he said wryly.
Orme looked at him, weighing how seriously he meant it.
Monk shrugged. “Of course murder deserves to be punished, whoever the victim is. If we get close, we’ll scare the wits out of him.” That was not a joke. In the past many people had been frightened of Monk. It was not something he was entirely proud of. Some of them had been the men he worked with, who were younger, less able, less agile of mind, afraid of his cutting judgment. He’d been admired, but also feared.
But that had been before the accident that had robbed him of his memory, and when he had still been in the Metropolitan Police. Then, after he had been dismissed, he had worked for himself, solving crimes for those who’d employed him privately. It was only after Durban’s death that he had been offered this position to lead the Thames Police on the river.
Durban had not possessed Monk’s ruthless skill in hunting down the truth—few people did. But he had known how to lead men, how to earn their loyalty, draw out the best in them, even inspire a kind of love. Above all they had trusted him.
Monk had known him all too briefly. They had been friends. It was Durban, knowing he was dying, who had suggested that Monk take his place. Now Monk had to justify that honor placed on him.He had to learn the art of leading men, starting with Orme, who had been Durban’s closest ally.
“And we’ll catch him if we can,” he added, as if it were an unnecessary afterthought.
Orme smiled as if he understood beyond the words, and said nothing. He sat back a little in the seat and his shoulders relaxed.
At the small local police station in Chiswick they were greeted cautiously, and taken into a warm, poky office that smelled of strong tea and tobacco smoke. The walls were lined with shelves; the table was piled with papers.
Monk and Orme requested as much local knowledge as possible, and Monk asked the sergeant in charge a number of questions. Orme listened and took notes, writing rapidly and with surprising neatness.
“ ’E were a nasty piece o’ work,” the sergeant said, describing Mickey Parfitt. “Can’t let murder go, but if we could, ’ooever done ’im in’d be my first pick not ter find, as it were.” He sighed. “ ’Owever, seems we can’t do that, or Gawd knows where it’d finish. We’ll do all we can to ’elp yer find the poor sod ’oo did it.” A look of amusement flashed across his broad face. “Mind, yer’ve got a lot ter choose from, an’ that’s the truth.”
“What was he doing out there on the boat by himself?” Monk asked, perching on the edge of one of the rickety chairs. “Any ideas? If you could prove anything, you’d have had him locked up already, but whom do you suspect? And don’t tell me there’s too many to choose from.”
The sergeant smiled widely, a warm, spontaneous gesture that lit his bony face. “Wouldn’t think of it, sir. We’re too far up the river for smuggling. There in’t nobody up ’ere worth thievin’ from, although I used ter wonder if ’e were fencin’ stuff, so I made the chance to go out an’ look, but I didn’t see a thing.”
“Lot of people coming and going?” Monk asked.
“Yeah. That’s part o’ why I thought ’e were fencin’ stuff.”
“What sort of people?” Monk found himself tense, waiting. He did not look at Orme, but he could feel Orme stiffen also.
“No women,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head. “So if that’s what ye’re thinking, ye’re wrong. If it was that simple, I’d ’ave stopped’im meself. Always men, an’ if yer looked close enough, well-to-do men at that. Gamblin’s my thoughts. ’Igh stakes, life or death sort o’ stuff. ’Ad one top ’isself almost a year
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