William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

“ ’Owever, seems we can’t do that, or Gawd knows where it’d finish. We’ll do all we can to ’elp yer find the poor sod ’oo did it.” A look of amusement flashed across his broad face. “Mind, yer’ve got a lot ter choose from, an’ that’s the truth.”
    “What was he doing out there on the boat by himself?” Monk asked, perching on the edge of one of the rickety chairs. “Any ideas? If you could prove anything, you’d have had him locked up already, but whom do you suspect? And don’t tell me there’s too many to choose from.”
    The sergeant smiled widely, a warm, spontaneous gesture that lit his bony face. “Wouldn’t think of it, sir. We’re too far up the river for smuggling. There in’t nobody up ’ere worth thievin’ from, although I used ter wonder if ’e were fencin’ stuff, so I made the chance to go out an’ look, but I didn’t see a thing.”
    “Lot of people coming and going?” Monk asked.
    “Yeah. That’s part o’ why I thought ’e were fencin’ stuff.”
    “What sort of people?” Monk found himself tense, waiting. He did not look at Orme, but he could feel Orme stiffen also.
    “No women,” the sergeant replied, shaking his head. “So if that’s what ye’re thinking, ye’re wrong. If it was that simple, I’d ’ave stopped’im meself. Always men, an’ if yer looked close enough, well-to-do men at that. Gamblin’s my thoughts. ’Igh stakes, life or death sort o’ stuff. ’Ad one top ’isself almost a year ago. No doubt of it—did it ’isself. Shot through the ’ead.” His amiable face twisted in an expression of pity. “Alone in a small boat, pretty little gun there with ’im. Pearl ’andled. S’pose ’e lost more ’n ’e could pay. Dunno wot gets into folk.” A tiredness touched him, as if he had seen too much and it exhausted his pity.
    Monk thought of the man alone in the boat, holding the gun in his hands, probably cold, almost certainly shaking. It had to do with honor, as the sergeant supposed, but not money—the dishonor of being exposed as a man who looked at obscene photographs, and used the degradation and abuse of little boys to satisfy his dark hunger. But Monk did not need to tell the sergeant that now.
    “Who works for him?” he asked. “I know about ’Orrie Jones, and Tosh Wilkin and Crumble. What can you tell me about them?”
    “ ’Orrie’s a bit simple,” the sergeant replied. “But not as daft as ’e makes out. ’E can be sharp enough if it suits ’im. Crumble’s a follower. Does as ’e’s told. Tosh yer need to watch.” He shook his head. “ ’E’s another bad ’un. Never bin able ter catch ’im in enough ter put ’im away.” His face brightened. “Think ’e could’ve bin the one ter do Mickey?”
    “I doubt it,” Monk said with regret. “I think it was very much in Tosh’s interest to keep Mickey alive and profitable, earning money for both of them.”
    “Was ’e an opulent receiver, then?” That was the term for someone who bought and sold high-quality stolen articles, such as jewelry, works of art, ivory, or gold.
    “No,” Monk replied with near certainty. “He was a pornographer, and probably a pimp of little boys, for a few select customers.”
    The sergeant blasphemed quietly, half under his breath. He did not apologize, so perhaps he was taking the Lord’s name very much in earnest.
    “Still willing to help us find whoever killed him?” Monk asked, a harsh smile twisting his mouth.
    The sergeant looked straight at him, blue eyes steady. “O’ course, sir, but I’m sorry to say, I don’t think as I know anything as’d be of use to yer.”
    Monk laughed, a harsh, oblique pleasure in it. “What a shame. I’m sure you would have a list of ferrymen, boatbuilders, cabdrivers, shopkeepers near the water, the kind of person who might have seen something.”
    “Course, sir.”
    “Did Mickey often go out to his boat alone?”
    “No idea, sir. ’Ard to say on a misty night ’oo goes where. That’s the trouble with the river, but being River Police an’ all, I expect you know that better than I do.”
    “Did Mickey own the boat?”
    The sergeant looked startled. “Dunno. But I s’pose yer could find out.”
    “I intend to.” Monk thanked him and went outside into the brightening morning air. The sharp light off the water shifted and glittered with the incoming tide. Barge sails showed rusty-red, canvases barely filled. A few leaves were beginning to turn color.