William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

choice.
    “ ’Orace Butterworth,” the man replied grimly. “Now get out of it. Yer frightenin’ the fish.”
    Monk considered carefully how to make the best use of this delicate piece of information. Was this the message that had takenMickey out to the boat, and then upriver toward Mortlake to meet his death? Who was it from? What had he believed he was going for? It must have been urgent, to take him back out again at that hour.
    Tosh would be very unlikely to tell Monk. Nor would he tell him who the messenger was or where he’d come from. It would too easily implicate him in being party to the murder that had followed. He would simply deny it all, say that Butterworth was wrong, probably made it all up. A good lawyer would demolish the story in minutes.
    He must build a chain of evidence. Who was the weakest link? ’Orrie Jones. That was where to begin.
    He found ’Orrie in a boatyard patiently sanding a piece of wood. There were other men around, all sawing, planing, chiseling, carefully fitting planks, easing tongues into grooves. The ground was covered with sawdust, and it was in the air with the smell of wood and sap, and there was the constant, irregular sound of friction, banging, and someone whistling half under his breath.
    Lower down, closer to the water’s edge, one old man with tattooed arms was caulking the sides of a boat, his feet now and then shifting as the water seeped up through the shingle and soaked his boots.
    They were sheltered from the breeze. The tide slurped on the stone of the slipway. There was a smell of river mud and wet wood.
    ’Orrie looked up and saw Monk approaching, and his face took on a look of infinite weariness.
    “You again,” he sighed. “In’t it enough yer ’ang the poor bastard, yer gotta ’it every nail inter ’is coffin as well?”
    “Have to be sure it fits, ’Orrie, just like those pieces you’re putting together.”
    “So wot is it now, then?” ’Orrie’s good eye swiveled around.
    “When did Mickey ask you to row him out to the boat?”
    “I dunno!”
    “Yes, you do. Think!”
    ’Orrie met his eyes and gave him that rare focused look of total clarity. “Why? What does it matter now? Don’t make no difference to ’oo killed ’im.”
    “You tell the defense lawyer that, ’Orrie. If you can’t answer, he’ll pick your life apart detail by detail, and—”
    “I dunno when ’e decided ter go out ter the boat!” ’Orrie protested angrily. “But ’e din’t ask me until a bit before eleven. I know ’cos I jus’ started a pint, an’ I ’ad ter put it down.”
    “At the pub?”
    “O’ course at the pub! D’yer think I were pullin’ it out o’ the river?”
    “I don’t care where you got it. Why did Mickey decide so late? Were you at his beck and call anytime?”
    ’Orrie stiffened. “No, I weren’t! I weren’t ’is bleedin’ servant. Summink came up.”
    Monk nodded, trying to curb his impatience and look encouraging. “An appointment, unexpectedly?”
    “Right!”
    “And he thought it was important enough to go? Not so convenient for him either. Was he angry? Or afraid?”
    “No, ’e weren’t. ’E were ’appy.”
    “Why?”
    ’Orrie drew in his breath, looked at Monk, weighed up his best advantage, and decided to answer. “Well, it don’t matter now. The poor sod’s dead, eh? ’E thought as it were a good chance o’ new business. But don’t waste yer breath askin’ me wot, ’cos I dunno.”
    “Of course you don’t. Did he come for you personally, or did he send you a note?” He made his tone deliberately insulting. “Maybe someone read it for you?”
    “I read it meself!” ’Orrie snapped. “Jus’ ’cos I got a walleye don’t mean I’m stupid.”
    “Really? What did you do with the note?”
    “I kept it ’o course. Never know when yer gonna need paper for summink.”
    ’Orrie fished in his trouser pocket and slammed a grimy piece of paper onto the wood he was working with. He glared at Monk.
    Monk picked up the paper and saw written in an untidy but obviously educated script:
    Excellent new opportunity for business. Meet you on the boat, midnight. Be there, or I’ll give it to Jackie.
    And underneath was a further note scrawled in a completely different hand:
    Meet me at the dock, 11 o’clock. Don’t be late. Mickey.
    Monk looked at the paper a few moments longer, feeling the texture of it between his fingers. It was good paper, pale blue and smooth, torn from a larger