William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

crookedly, shedding an uneven light on the brass railing above the bar. The line of hooks where customers hung their mugs dipped a little at the far end.
    A small man with a withered arm looked at him and shook his head towards his companion, and they both pulled up their collars and went outside into the cold.
    A woman laughed overloudly and a man hiccuped.
    A fair-haired man with a Scots accent slid into the seat opposite Monk.
    “We’ve no’ got anything here for ye, Mr. Monk. Tell me what it is ye’re after an’ I’ll pass the word, but ye know I’d ’a great deal sooner ye did not sit in my house drinkin’ yer ale. Aye, we’ve the odd thief in here, but small folk, no’ worth the bother o’ a man like yourself.”
    “Murder is worth my trouble, Jamie,” Monk replied very quietly. “And so is rape and the beating of women.”
    “If ye’re talking about those two men that were found in Water Lane, none of us around here know who did that. Young policeman’s been all over asking and wasting his time, poordevil. And Constable Shotts, who was born and bred around here, should know better. But why are you here?” His broad, fair face was wary, his crooked nose, broken years ago, and wide, blue eyes gave him a comfortable look which belied his intelligence. “And what’s it to do wi’ rape?”
    “I don’t know,” Monk replied, taking another drink of his stout. “Have any women been raped around here in the last month or two? I mean ordinary women, women who work in the factories and sweatshops and maybe go on the streets now and then when things get a little tight?”
    “Why? What do you care if they have? Po-liss don’t give a toss. Though I heard as you’re not with the po-liss anymore.” A flicker of amusement crossed his face; his lips curled as if he would laugh, but he made no sound.
    “You heard truly,” Monk replied. He was certain he knew this man. He had spoken his name without thinking. Jamie … the rest of it escaped him, but they knew each other well, too well to pretend. It was an uneasy truce, a natural enmity held at bay by a certain common interest and a thread, very fragile, of respect, not unmixed with fear. Jamie—his last name was MacPherson, Monk suddenly recalled—was a brawler, hot-tempered; he carried a grudge and he despised cowardice or self-pity. But he was loyal to his own, and far too intelligent to strike out without a reason or to act against his own interests.
    He was smiling now, his eyes bright. “Throw you out, eh? Runcorn. Yer should o’ seen that coming, man. Waited a long time to get his own back, that one.”
    Monk felt a shiver of cold run through him. The man not only knew him, he knew Runcorn also, and he knew more than Monk did of what lay between them. The chatter and laughter washed around him like a breaking sea, leaving him islanded in his own silence, not a part of them but separate, alone. They knew, and he did not.
    “Yes,” Monk agreed, not knowing what else to say. He had lost control of the conversation, and it was not what he had intended or was used to. “For the time being,” he added. He must not let this man think he was no longer a force to fear or respect.
    MacPherson’s smile widened. “Aye, this is his patch. He’ll no’ be happy if you take his case from him.”
    “He isn’t interested in it,” Monk said quickly. “I’m after the rapists, not the murderer.”
    “Are they no’ the same?”
    “No … I don’t think so … at least, one is, I think.”
    “You’re talking daft, man,” MacPherson said tartly. “Ye know better than to take me for a fool. Be straight wi’ me, an’ I’ll maybe help ye.”
    Monk made up his mind on the spur.
    “A woman in Seven Dials hired me to find who was raping and beating factory women over there. I’ve followed the case for three weeks now, and the more I learn, the more I think it may be connected with your murder here.”
    “Ye just said it was no’ the same people.” MacPherson’s blue eyes narrowed, but he was still listening intently. He might dislike Monk, but he did not despise his intelligence.
    “I think the young man who was beaten, but lived, may have been one of the rapists,” Monk explained. “The man who died is his father …”
    “Aye, we all ken that much …”
    “Who followed him, having learned, or guessed, what he was doing and got caught in the fight, and he was the one who got the worst of it.”
    MacPherson pursed his