William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

was discovered in the river. I need you to tell me again, with rather more detail.”
    She froze. “I can’t!”
    “Yes, you can,” he insisted. “Unless, of course, you were lying.” How could he persuade her to tell him, and be sure it was the truth? Perhaps she had been merely a witness at the time she had spoken to Hester and Crow, but now she realized what danger she would be in if she told the police that Cardew was innocent. She might only now be grasping the fact that they would begin to investigate the case all over again, going back to people she knew, and who knew her.
    “Hattie.” He leaned forward a little across the table, forcing himself to speak gently. “I don’t want to charge you with stealing the cravat, whether it was to keep for yourself, to sell, or to give it to someone else. I certainly don’t think it likely that you strangled Mickey Parfitt with it, although it isn’t impossible.” He let the suggestion hang in the air.
    “Yer mad, you are!” she said in horror. “ ’Ow in Gawd’s name d’yer think I could strangle a man like Mickey? ’E may a bin skinny as a broomstick, but ’e were strong! ’E’d a bashed me ’ead in.”
    “He was violent?” he asked.
    “O’ course ’e were violent, yer stupid sod!” she shouted at him. “Beat the shit out o’ anyone wot crossed ’im.”
    “Like who?”
    “Yer thinkin’ they killed ’im? I tell you, an’ yer don’t think they’re gonna come arter me?”
    “You could have killed Mickey,” he went on thoughtfully. “Someone hit him hard on the back of the head, probably with a piece of fallen branch from a tree. Then, when he was unconscious, they strangled him. It doesn’t take a lot of strength to do that.”
    “Well, I didn’t! I ’ad customers all night, till past two in the mornin’. Then I were knackered,” she said defiantly.
    “Names would help me to believe you.”
    “Oh, yeah! I’m gonna be in great shape fer me business if I give yer a list o’ toffs wot come ’ere fer a bit o’ fun, aren’t I? Do wonders fer me reputation, that would!”
    “I expect I can find them from somebody else.” He said it lightly, as if it were an easy thing to do. “I can ask one of the pubs along the mall who was there that evening.”
    Her face went even paler, her skin as white as milk. “Please, mister, yer’ll ruin me! If I lose all me customers, I in’t got nothin’ else I can do! An’ I owe money. They’ll come arter me!” She leaned toward him, and he could feel the warmth of her, a faint smell of perfume and sweat. “If I tell yer I took the cravat that afternoon, then yer’ll know it wasn’t Mr. Cardew as killed Mickey, an’ then yer’ll start all over again wi’ Tosh, an’ ’e’ll skin me alive for bringin’ trouble on ’im. ’E’ll beat the ’ell out o’ me, an’ then I won’t be able ter work.”
    “You’re right,” Monk said gently. “That would be unfair.”
    She took a deep, shaky breath and made an attempt at a smile.
    “Better to let Rupert Cardew hang,” he said quietly. “Who do you suppose did kill Mickey?”
    Her hands were gripped so tight, there were white ridges on her knuckles.
    “I dunno,” she whispered.
    “He’ll need to come back and make sure you don’t tell anyone,” he pointed out. “Rupert will remember that you took his cravat. He’ll say so, in court, even if no one believes him. I dare say the prosecution will call you to give evidence, just to deny it. Close off all escape for him, as it were.”
    “Jesus! Ye’re a bastard!” she said huskily. “Worse than Tosh, yer are.”
    “No, I’m not, Hattie.” He shook his head, although he felt a sharp stab of truth in what she said. “I want you to tell me the truth, then I’ll keep you safe.”
    “Yeah?” she said contemptuously. “An’ ’ow are yer gonna do that, then? Buy a nice little room somewhere where they’ll never find me, will yer? An’ food an’ summink ter do, then?”
    The answer was instant in his mind. “Yes, actually, that’s exactlywhat I’ll do. But to do it, I need the truth, preferably with some way you can prove it.”
    She blinked, hope flickering in her eyes. “Like ’ow?”
    “Describe the cravat to me.”
    “Eh? It were just a dark blue tie, that sort o’ shape.” She made a picture in the air. “Silk,” she added.
    “How long?”
    Again she gestured, holding her hands just under three feet apart.
    “Go on,” he prompted. “What