William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

his courage and the single-mindedness of his crusade to improve medical treatment for the poor. He was gentler than Monk would have been, a man with patience and a broadness of spirit that seemed to be almost without personal ambition or hunger for praise. Monk could not have said as much for himself, and he knew it.
    At the police station, he paid the driver and braced his shoulders, then walked up the steps and inside. The duty sergeant regarded him with interest. With a wave of relief for the present, Monk recalled how different walking into a station house had been the first time after the accident. Then it had been fear in the man’s face, an instant respect born of the experience of Monk’s lacerating tongue and his expectation that everyone should match his own standards, in precisely his way.
    “Mornin’, Mr. Monk. What can we do for yer terday?” the sergeant said cheerfully. Perhaps with the passage of time he had grown in confidence. A good leader would have seen to that. But it was pointless regretting past inadequacies now.
    “Good morning, Sergeant,” Monk replied. He had been thinking how to phrase his request so as to achieve what he wanted without having to beg. “I may possibly have some information about a crime which occurred late yesterday in Acton Street. May I speak with whoever is in charge of the investigation?” If he were fortunate it would be John Evan, one man of whose friendship he was certain.
    “You mean the murders, o’ course.” The sergeant nodded sagely. “That’d be Mr. Runcorn ’isself, sir. Very serious, this is. Yer lucky as ’e’s in. I’ll tell ’im yer ’ere.”
    Monk was surprised that Runcorn, the man in command of the station and who had not worked cases personally in several years, should concern himself with what seemed to be an ordinary domestic tragedy. Was he ambitious to solve something simple, and so be seen to succeed and take the credit? Or could the case be important in some way Monk could not foresee, and Runcorn dare not appear to be indifferent?
    He sat down on the wooden bench, prepared for a long wait. Runcorn would do that simply to make very sure that Monk never forgot that he no longer had any status there.
    However, it was less than five minutes before a constable came and took him up to Runcorn’s room, and that was disconcerting because it was not what he expected.
    The room was exactly as it had always been, tidy, unimaginative, designed to impress with the importance of its occupant and yet failing, simply because it tried too hard. A man at ease with himself would have cared so much less.
    Runcorn himself also was the same, tall with a long, narrow face, a little less florid than before, his hair grizzled and not quite so thick, but still handsome. He regarded Monk cautiously. It was as if they were catapulted back in time. All the old rivalries were just as sharp, the knowledge precisely where and how to hurt, the embarrassments, the doubts, the failures each wished forgotten and always saw reflected in the other’s eyes.
    Runcorn looked up and regarded Monk steadily, his face very nearly devoid of expression. “Baker says you know something about the murders in Acton Street,” he said. “Is that right?”
    Now was the time to avoid telling the slightest lie, even by implication. It would come back in enmity later on and do irreparable damage. And yet the whole truth was no use in gaining any cooperation from Runcorn. He was already tense, preparing to defend himself against the slightest insult or erosion of his authority. The years when Monk had mocked him with quicker thought and more agile tongue, an easier manner, lay an uncrossable gulf between.
    Monk had racked his mind all the way there for something clever and true to say, and had arrived still without it. Now he was standing in the familiar surroundings of Runcorn’s office, and the silence was already too long. In truth, he knew no information about the murders in Acton Street, and anything he knew about Kristian Beck, and the relationship between himself and his wife, was likely to do more harm than good.
    “I’m a friend of the family in Mrs. Beck’s case,” he said, and even as the words were on his tongue he realized how ridiculous and inadequate they were.
    Runcorn stared at him, and for a moment his eyes were almost blank. He was weighing up what Monk had said, considering something. Monk expected a withering reply and braced himself for it.
    “That