William Monk 16 - Execution Dock

Mr. Durban said, or if he asked you anything that you didn't mention before.”
    The lighterman screwed up his face in thought, moving his eyes as if looking at the hard, glittering reflections off the water. “‘E were upset,” he replied slowly. “All bent over ‘isself like someone'd ‘it ‘im in the belly. Tell yer the truth, I liked ‘im better fer it.”
    So did Monk, but it was not the answer he needed. He had already asked Orme these questions, but Orme was so defensive of Durban that his answers were no longer useful; they had become simply a repetition that Durban had done the right thing. Monk was hoping the lighterman would remember some other information that Durban had let slip, some word, or even omission, that might lead in a new direction. He was fumbling, and he knew it. The lighterman's face showed his disappointment. He had expected more, and he had not received it. He had endangered himself to testify, and Monk had let him down.
    “Are you afraid of Phillips?” Monk asked suddenly.
    The lighterman was caught off guard. “No!” he said indignantly. “Why should I be? I never said he done nothin’. In't got no cause ter come after me.”
    “And if he had cause, would he?” Monk asked, trying to keep all expression out of his voice.
    The lighterman stared at him. “Wot's the matter with yer? Yer simple, or summink? ‘E'd bloody carve out me guts an’ ‘ang ‘em on Execution Dock ter dry in the wind!”
    Monk continued to look skeptical.
    Scuff looked from Monk to the lighterman and back again, waiting, his eyes wide.
    “An’ yer won't catch ‘im fer it neither,” the lighterman added. “Not that you bleedin’ lot could catch a cold soppin’ wet in winter. Mr. Durban knew wot ‘e were about. Reckon if ‘e'd ‘a lived, ‘e'd a swung the bastard by ‘is neck, all right.”
    Monk felt the words land like a blow, the harder because it was the one case Durban had not solved, and he did not want to admit it. But there was a thread in what the lighterman had said that was worth following. “So he was still working on it?” he asked.
    The lighterman looked at him witheringly.
    “‘Course ‘e were. I reckon ‘e'd never ‘ave given up.” He squinted a little in the hard light, and leaned very slightly on his long oar to steer a few degrees to port.
    “What is there to follow?” Monk found the words hard to say, placing himself so vulnerably, as if he were asking a bargee how to do his own job.
    The lighterman shrugged. “
Ow
the ‘ell do I know? ‘E said sum-mink about money, an’ making them fat bastards pay for their pleasures twice over. But I dunno wot ‘e meant.”
    “Extortion,” Monk replied.
    “Yeah? Well, you in't gonna get any o’ them exactly ter complain, now are yer?” the lighterman sneered.
    Monk kept his voice level and his face as expressionless as he could. “Unlikely,” he agreed. “At least not to me.”
    The lighterman turned slowly from his position holding the oar. He was a lean, angular man, but the movement was unconsciously graceful. For a moment surprise caught him off guard. “Yer not so daft, are yer! Gawd ‘elp yer if ‘e catches yer is all I can say.”
    Monk could wrest no more out of him, and twenty minutes later he and Scuff were back on the dockside.
    “Yer gonna set ‘is customers agin’ ‘im?” Scuff said in awe. “
Ow
yer gonna do that?” He looked worried.
    “I'm not sure what I'm going to do,” Monk answered, starting to walk along the dockside. They were on the north bank, back near the Wapping Police Station. “For now I'll settle for learning a great deal more about him.”
    “If yer can prove for sure that ‘e killed Fig, will they ‘ang ‘im?” Scuff asked hopefully.
    “No.” Monk kept his pace even, though he was not yet certain where he was going. He did not want Scuff to realize that, although he was beginning to appreciate that Scuff was a far sharper judge of character than he had previously given him credit for. It was disconcerting to be read so well by an eleven-year-old. “No,” he said again. “He's been found not guilty. We can't try him again, no matter what we find. In fact, even if he confessed, there'd still be nothing we could do.”
    Scuff was silent. He turned towards Monk, looking him up and down, his lips tight.
    Monk was unpleasantly aware that Scuff was being tactful. He was touched by it, and at the same time he was hurt. Scuff was sorry for him, because he had made