William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

perhaps murdered this time. There was a pattern in the crimes. They had become steadily more violent. Perhaps they would not end until one of the women was dead, or more than one.
    Evan saw him immediately, sitting in his small office, little more than a large cupboard, big enough for a stack of drawers and two hard-backed chairs and a tiny table for writing. Evan himself looked tired. There were shadows under his hazel eyesand his hair was longer than usual, flopping forward in a heavy, fair brown wave.
    Monk came straight to the point. He knew better than to waste a policeman’s time.
    “I’ve got a case in Seven Dials,” he began. “The edge of that’s your area. You might know something about it, and I might be able to help.”
    “Seven Dials?” Evan’s eyebrows rose. “What is it? Who in Seven Dials calls in a private agent? For that matter, who has anything to steal?” There was no unkindness in his face, just a weary knowledge of how things were.
    “Not theft,” Monk replied. “Rape, and then unnecessary violence, beatings.”
    Evan winced. “Domestic? Don’t suppose we can touch that. How could anybody prove it? It’s hard enough to prove rape in a decent suburban area. You know as well as I do, society tends to think that if a woman gets raped, then she must somehow have deserved it. People don’t want to think it happens to the innocent … that way it won’t happen to them.”
    “Yes, of course I know that.” Monk’s temper was short and his head still throbbed. “But whether a woman deserves to be raped or not, she doesn’t deserve to be beaten, to have her teeth knocked out or her ribs broken. She doesn’t deserve to be knocked to the ground by two men at once, then punched and kicked.”
    Evan flinched as if he had seen it as Monk described. “No, of course she doesn’t,” he agreed, looking at Monk steadily. “But violence, theft, hunger and cold are part of life in a score of areas across London, along with filth and disease. You know that as well as I do. St. Giles, Aldgate, Seven Dials, Bermondsey, Friar’s Mount, Bluegate Fields, the Devil’s Acre, and a dozen others. You didn’t answer my question … was it domestic?”
    “No. It was men from outside the area, well-bred, well-off men, coming into Seven Dials for a little sport.” He heard the anger in his voice as he said it, and saw it mirrored in Evan’s face.
    “What evidence have you?” Evan asked, watching himcarefully. “Any chance at all of ever finding them, let alone proving it was them and that it was a crime, not simply the indulgence of a particularly disgusting appetite?”
    Monk drew breath to say that of course he had, and then let it out in a sigh. All he had was word of mouth from women no court would believe, even if they could be persuaded to testify, and that in itself was dubious.
    “I’m sorry,” Evan said quietly, his face tight and bleak with regret. “It isn’t worth pressing. Even if we found them, there’d be nothing we could do. It’s sickening, but you know it as well as I do.”
    Monk wanted to shout, to swear over and over until he ran out of words, but it would achieve nothing and only make his own weakness the more apparent.
    Evan looked at him with understanding.
    “I’ve got a miserable case myself.”
    Monk was not interested, but friendship compelled him to pretend he was. Evan deserved at least that much of him, probably more.
    “Have you? What is it?”
    “Murder and assault in St. Giles. Poor devil might have been better if he’d been murdered too, instead of left beaten to within an inch of his life, and now so badly shocked or terrified he can’t speak … at all.”
    “St. Giles?” Monk was surprised. It was another area no better than Seven Dials, and only a few thousand yards away, if that. “Why are you bothering with it?” he asked wryly. “What chance have you of solving that either?”
    Evan shrugged. “I don’t know … probably not much. But I have to try, because the dead man was from Ebury Street, considerable money and social standing.”
    Monk raised his eyebrows. “What the devil was he doing in St. Giles?”
    “They,” Evan corrected. “So far I have very little idea. The widow doesn’t know … and probably doesn’t want to, poor woman. I have nothing to follow, except the obvious. He went to satisfy some appetite, either for women or other excitement, which he couldn’t at home.”
    “And the one still alive?”