William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

filling his nose and throat, it was the smell of fear and death.
    Mickey Parfitt was another Jericho Phillips, one that catered to an upriver clientele, away from the teeming closeness of the docks. Instead it was the quiet reaches of the river where deserted banks were marshy, mist-laden at morning and evening, and stretches of silver water were tree-lined. But in the night the same twisted brutality was enacted upon children. Probably the same blackmail of men addicted to their appetites, to the danger of illegal indulgence, the adrenaline pumping through their blood at the fear of being caught. It was the same obliviousness to what they were doing to others, perhaps because the others were children of the streets and docksides, already abandoned by circumstance.
    Did Monk want to know who had killed Mickey Parfitt? Not really. It was a case in which he would be happier to fail. But could he simply not try? That was a different thing. Then he would be actingas both judge and jury. About Parfitt he was sure, but what about the murderer’s next victim, and the one after that? Could Monk really set himself up to decide whose murder was acceptable and whose deserved trial and probably punishment? He had made too many mistakes in the past for such certainty. Or was that the coward’s fear of responsibility? Leave it to someone else; then it can’t be your fault.
    “Where do we begin?” Orme said quietly as the light broadened in the sky.
    A string of barges was coming slowly up the river, their wash barely disturbing the surface.
    Monk glanced sideways once, seeing the anger and the grief in Orme’s blunt face. They faced a long, slow journey barely begun, and Orme’s trust mattered to Monk intensely.
    “Find out more about him,” he replied slowly, searching for the words. “Perhaps his death was justified, perhaps not. It could have been a rival. Who was behind him? Who put in the money—or took it out? Was he blackmailing people too?”
    Orme nodded slowly. He looked quickly at Monk, then back again at the river.
    “Have some breakfast first, and a little sleep. Get warm,” Monk added with a slight smile.

CHAPTER
3
    O LIVER R ATHBONE WAITED IN the withdrawing room for Margaret to come downstairs. They were going to dine with her parents, and as usual, it was a somewhat formal affair. Her two sisters and their husbands would also be present.
    He walked to the windows and stared out at the darkening garden. The September sun was warm on the last of the flowers in the herbaceous border: purples and golds, autumn colors. It was the richest season; soon even the leaves would flame. Berries would ripen. Blue wood smoke and early morning frosts were not far away. For him the glory of autumn always held an echo of sadness, a knowledge that beauty is a living thing, delicate, capable of injury, even of death.
    This would be the first time he would dine with Arthur Ballinger since the drownings at Execution Dock. Rathbone was dreading it, yet of course it was inevitable. Ballinger was his father-in-law, and Margaret was unusually close to her family.
    Sullivan had made it hideously clear that he blamed the manbehind the child-abuse racket for his downfall, from beginning to end, but he had offered no proof that it was Ballinger, so legally and morally there was nothing Rathbone could do about it. Sullivan’s words had been no more than those of a desperate man, disgraced beyond recall.
    Outside, a flock of starlings swirled up into the evening sky, and clouds drifted in from the south.
    For Margaret’s sake, Rathbone knew he must pretend. It would be difficult. He did not find family gatherings easy anyway. He was very close to his own father, but their dinners together had the quiet comfort of old friends, conversation about art and philosophy, law and literature, gentle amusement at the oddities of life and human nature. There were companionable silences while they ate bread and cheese, good pâté, drank a little red wine. Sometimes they had apple pie and cream by the fireside in the evening, and shared a joke or two.
    The door opened and Margaret came in. She saw Rathbone standing and immediately apologized, assuming she had kept him waiting. She looked lovely in a gown of rich, soft green, the huge crinoline skirt bordered with a pattern of Greek keys in gold.
    “I was early,” he replied, finding it easier to smile than he had expected. “But I would have been happy to wait. You look wonderful. Is the