William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

. . . could be helpful,” Runcorn said slowly. The words seemed forced from him.
    “Of course . . . it may be a simple case,” Monk went on. “I believe there was another woman killed as well . . .” He was undecided whether to make that a question or a statement and it hung in the air unfinished.
    “Yes,” Runcorn agreed, then rushed on. “Sarah Mackeson, an artists’ model.” He said the words with distaste. “Looks as if they were killed pretty well at the same time.”
    Monk shifted his weight a little from one foot to the other. “You’re handling the case yourself . . .”
    “Short of men,” Runcorn said dryly. “Lot of illness, and unfortunately Evan is away.”
    “I see. I . . .” Monk changed his mind. It was too abrupt to offer help.
    “What?” Runcorn looked up at him. His face was almost expressionless, his eyes only faintly belligerent.
    Monk was annoyed for having got himself into such a position. Now he did not know what to say, but he was not prepared to retreat.
    Runcorn stared down at the desk with its clean surface, uncluttered by papers, reports, or books of reference. “Actually, Mrs. Beck’s father is a prominent lawyer,” he said quietly. “Likely to run for Parliament soon, so I hear.”
    Monk was startled. He masked it quickly, before Runcorn looked up again. So the case had a different kind of importance. If Kristian’s wife had social connections, her murder would be reported in all the newspapers. An arrest would be expected soon. Whoever was in charge of the investigation would not escape the public eye, and the praise or blame that fear whipped up. No wonder Runcorn was unhappy.
    Monk put his hands in his pockets and relaxed. However, he did not yet take the liberty of sitting down uninvited, which irked him. He would once have sat as a matter of course. “That’s unfortunate,” he observed mildly.
    Runcorn looked at him with suspicion. “What do you mean?”
    “Be easier to conduct an investigation without newspaper writers trampling all over the place or the commissioner expecting results before you begin,” Monk replied.
    Runcorn paled. “I know that, Monk! I don’t need you to tell me! Either say something helpful or go back to finding lost dogs, or whatever it is you do these days.” Then instantly his eyes were hot with regret, but he could not take back the words, and Monk was the last man to whom he would admit error, let alone ask for help.
    At another time Monk might have relished Runcorn’s discomfort, but now he needed his cooperation. However much they both disliked it, neither could see how to achieve what he wished without the other.
    Runcorn was the first to yield. He picked up a pen, although he had no paper in front of him. His fingers gripped it hard. “Well, do you know anything useful, or not?” he demanded.
    Monk was caught out by the directness of the question. He saw the recognition of it in Runcorn’s eyes. He had to allow him to taste the small victory. It was the only way he could take the next step. “Not yet,” he admitted. “Tell me what you have so far, and if I can help, then I will.” Now he sat down, crossing his legs comfortably and waiting.
    Runcorn swallowed his temper and began. “Number twelve, Acton Street. Cleaning woman found two bodies this morning when she went in around half past eight. Both roughly in their late thirties, the sergeant guessed, and both killed by having their necks broken. Looks like there was a struggle. Carpet rumpled up, chair on its side.”
    “Do you know which woman was killed first?” Monk cut in.
    “No way to tell.” There was resentment in Runcorn’s voice but none in his face. He wanted Monk’s help, whatever the emotions between them; he knew he needed it, and at the moment that overrode all past history. “The other woman was apparently Allardyce’s model, and she sort of half lived there.” He let the sentence hang with all its ugly judgments.
    Monk did not skirt around it. “So it’s going to look like jealousy of some sort.”
    Runcorn pulled the corners of his mouth down. “The model was half undressed,” he conceded. “And Allardyce was nowhere to be found this morning. He turned up about ten and said he’d been out all night. Haven’t had time yet to check if that’s true.” He put the pen down again.
    “Doesn’t make sense,” Monk observed. “If he wasn’t there, why did Mrs. Beck go for a sitting? If she arrived and found him gone, is she the