William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

Evan good-bye and went out of the police station quickly. He would prefer it if Runcorn did not know he had been there. The last thing he wanted was to run into him by chance … or mischance.
    It would be a long and cold day, and evening was when he would have the best chance to find the people who would have been around at the time to see either Rhys or Leighton Duff, or, for that matter, either of the Kynastons. Feeling angry at the helplessness, his feet wet and almost numb with cold, he went back towards St. Giles, stopping at a public house for a hot meat pie, potatoes and onions, and a steamed pudding with a plain sauce.
    He spent several hours in the area searching and questioning, walking slowly along the alleys and through the passages, up and down stairways, deeper into the older part, unchanged in generations. Water dripped off rotting eaves, the stones were slimy, wood creaked, doors hung crooked but fast closed. People moved ahead of him and behind like shadows. One moment it would be strange, frightening and bitterly infectious, the next he thought he recognized something. He would turn a corner and see exactly what he expected, a skyline or a crooked wall exactly as he had known it would be, a door with huge iron studs whose pattern he could have traced with his eyes closed.
    He learned nothing, except that he had been there before, and that he already knew. The police station he had worked from made that much obvious to anyone.
    He began with the larger and more prosperous brothels. If Leighton Duff had used prostitutes in St. Giles, they were the most likely places to find them.
    He worked until after midnight, asking, threatening, cajoling, coercing, and learning nothing whatever. If Leighton Duff had been to any of these places, either the madams did not remember him or they were lying to protect their reputation for discretion. Monk believed it was the former. Duff was dead, and they had little to fear from answering Monk. He had not lost so much of his old character that he could not wring information from people who made their living on the edge of crime. He knew the balance too well not to use it.
    He was walking along a short alley up towards Regent Street when he saw a cabby standing on the pavement talkingto a sandwich seller, shivering as the wind whipped around the corner and caught him in its icy blast.
    Monk offered a penny and bought a huge sandwich. He bit into it with pleasure. Actually, it was very good, fresh bread with a sharp crust to it, and a thick slice of ham, liberally laced with a rhubarb chutney.
    “Good,” he said with his mouth full.
    “Find yer rapists yet?” the cabby asked, raising his eyebrows. He had very sad, rather protuberant eyes of pale blue.
    “Yes, thank you,” Monk replied, smiling. “You been on this patch long?”
    “Baht eight years. Why?”
    “Just wondered.” He turned to the sandwich seller. “And you?”
    “Twenty-five,” he answered. “More or less.”
    “Do you know me?”
    The man blinked. “ ’Course I knows yer. Wot kinda question is that?”
    Monk steeled himself. “Do you remember a raid in a brothel, a long time ago, where a magistrate was caught? He fell downstairs and hurt himself quite badly.” He had not finished before he saw from the man’s face that he did. It creased with laughter and a rich chortle of pure joy escaped his lips.
    “Yeah!” he said happily. “Yeah, ’course I ’members it. Rotten bastard, ’e were, ol’ Gutteridge. Put Polly Thorp away for three years jus’ ’cos some feller wot she were doin’ a service fer said as she’d took ’is money—w’en ’is trousers was orff!” He laughed again, his cheeks puffing out and shining in the lamplight from across the street. “Got caught proper, ’e did … trousers down an’ all. Leff the bench arter that. No more ’andin’ down four years ’ere an’ five years there, an’ the boat all over the place. Yer could ’ear ’em laughin’ all over the ’Oly Land, yer could. I heard Runcorn got the credit for that one, but I always wondered if that was really down ter you, Mr. Monk. There was a lot o’ us as reckoned it were. Yer just wasn’t there at the time, so ter speak.”
    “Did you?” Monk said slowly. “Well, it’s a long time ago now.” He wanted to change the subject. He was floundering.He could not afford to show his vulnerability to these people. His skill depended on their fear and respect for him. He pulled the