William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

recounted that as well, hating the words, even more the pictures they conjured in his mind.
    Now all the light was gone from Winchester’s face, and he looked almost bruised. His anger was palpable. “I’ll call whoever I believe may help the case,” he said grimly. “I cannot promise to spare anyone. I hope you haven’t made any guarantees, because I will not keep them.”
    “I haven’t.”
    “Not to your wife? Or Margaret Rathbone?”
    “Not to anyone.”
    “Cardew? Are you prepared to crucify Cardew, if it’s unavoidable?”
    Wordlessly Monk passed him a copy of the list of names Rupert had given him, including Tadley, with a note of his suicide.
    Winchester read it, his mouth pulled tight and crooked with revulsion. “Thank you. That cannot have been easy.”
    “I don’t intend to spare anyone either,” Monk told him.
    “For the love of heaven, take good care of Hattie Benson!” Winchester said grimly. “She is the one thing preventing them from blaming it all on Cardew. The only question I have to ask you is, are you certain in your own mind that it was Ballinger? Could it not have been a business rivalry—pure greed on the part of Tosh Wilkin, for example? He’s a particularly nasty piece of work. All Rathbone has to do is raise a reasonable doubt.”
    Monk realized that Winchester was watching him extremely closely. Memory rose up in him, hot and powerful, of having lost the trial against Jericho Phillips, and how ashamed he had been, how naked he had felt as the entire courtroom had stared at him and his failure, his mistakes.
    “No, I’m not certain,” he said. “I believe it was Ballinger, because Sullivan said so before he died. It had to be someone of Ballinger’s social standing to see the weakness of men like Sullivan, pander to it, and feed it until it was out of control, and then blackmail them for it. Tosh Wilkin hasn’t the imagination or the connections to do that. And if he were the one taking the blackmail money, I don’t believe he would have the self-control not to spend it. And that he hasn’t done.”
    “But could he have killed Parfitt, on Ballinger’s instructions?” Winchester insisted.
    “He could have. I don’t believe Ballinger, a master at blackmail, would give such power over himself into the hands of a man like Tosh, who would certainly use it.”
    Winchester’s long fingers touched the list that Monk had given him. “What about someone on this list? They would have much to gain if Parfitt were dead. The end of paying blackmail has been motive for more than one murder. The jury wouldn’t have much difficulty believing that. Reasonable doubt—more than reasonable.”
    “You don’t bite the hand that feeds your addiction,” Monk replied. “Then you have to find a new supplier, and where would you do that? And why?”
    Winchester nodded slowly. “You’d better be right, Monk. And don’t imagine Ballinger won’t fight you in every way he can think of. He won’t go down easily. Rathbone will fight for him, and you don’t need me to tell you he’s a very clever man, and far more ruthless than his charming manner would lead you to believe.”
    “I know.”
    “Yes, of course you do. But don’t allow yourself to forget it simply because you believe Ballinger is guilty and therefore you are fighting a just cause.”
    Monk looked steadily at Winchester’s curious long-nosed face, with its subtle wit, and wondered if Ballinger had already started to fight, and whether Winchester knew it.
    “It will be personal,” Winchester warned. “Your reputation—perhaps your wife’s?”
    Monk felt his muscles clench. “I know.”
    “Are you prepared for it? He may call her to the stand, with reference to Rupert Cardew.”
    “Yes. She will be prepared this time.”
    Winchester offered his hand. “Then, we’ll get him, Mr. Monk. Deo volente.”
    Monk rose to his feet. “Yes—God willing,” he echoed, and took Winchester’s outstretched hand.
    W INCHESTER’S MENTION OF H ATTIE Benson sent Monk straight to the clinic at Portpool Lane, just to assure himself that she was still safe and well, and that her courage had not failed her.
    He was met in the outer hallway by a grim-looking Squeaky Robinson.
    “She isn’t here,” Squeaky said flatly.
    Monk’s stomach lurched, and he found it hard to catch his breath. “What happened? Where is she?”
    “No need to look like I hit you,” Squeaky said reproachfully. “She’s gone to help buy some