William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

will Monk say?” she persisted. “He’ll shade everything because he hates Papa. He’s never forgiven him for choosing you to defend Jericho Phillips. Men like Monk can’t bear to be beaten. What are you going to do to show the jury that it’s personal, that he wanted Papa to be guilty for his own reasons?”
    Rathbone saw the anger in her face, and the fear. It was as if some part of her were facing an ordeal from which she might never recover. He ached to be able to reach out to her and simply hold her, to feel that intensity of closeness where pain can be shared. But she was too tightly knotted within herself to allow it, as if he were also the enemy.
    “Margaret, Monk wants to end the abominable trade in child pornography, not persecute any one person. If he wanted revenge over Phillips, for heaven’s sake, don’t you think he got it at Execution Dock?”
    She stared at him. “You don’t believe me, do you? You’re siding with Monk!”
    He swallowed back the exasperation that filled him. “I am trying to defend your father. Personal attacks on the police are not going to accomplish that, unless Monk makes a mistake. If he does, I will take him apart for it, friend or not.”
    “Will you?” she said doubtfully.
    That was unfair, and at any other time he would have told her so. “You know I will,” he said gently. “Didn’t I do that, to both Monk and Hester, to defend Jericho Phillips? And I despised the man. How much more so would I do it to defend your father?”
    “You know he’s innocent, don’t you?” Now she was really afraid, shivering where she sat on the sofa only a couple of feet away from him. What could he possibly say? He did not know that Ballinger was innocent. Of the murder of Parfitt, he probably was, because why on earth would he do such a senseless and unnecessary thing? But of any involvement with those who used the boats and the wretched children on them, no, he was not certain of Ballinger’s innocence at all.
    “Oliver!” She was trembling now so intensely, he would have thought the room ice cold if he had not felt the heat of the fire scorching his legs.
    “I know he didn’t kill Parfitt,” he answered her. “Of course I do. I’m afraid he might have gone further than he would like to have in defense of some of Parfitt’s victims. I’m not absolutely certain that he doesn’t know who did kill him, and he might be protecting them.”
    “Why? Why on earth would he defend a man who … who murdered—Oh.” Her voice dropped. “You mean they might be his professional client? Yes, of course. He would go to trial and endure all the pain and the blame to protect a victim of Parfitt’s blackmail, all because he had given his word.” She stopped shivering, and the fabric that was stretched tight across her shoulders eased a little.
    It was not what Rathbone had meant at all. He had been thinking of something far less noble, but now he had not the heart, or perhaps the courage, to deny it. He looked at her soft eyes, and her sudden reassurance, and the words died before he spoke them.
    “It’s possible. I need to be prepared for surprises.”
    “Wouldn’t he trust you?” she pressed. “After all, you are his lawyer, and what he tells you is in confidence.”
    “Of course it is,” he agreed with an attempt at a smile. “Even from you, my dear.”
    “Oh!” She searched his eyes, trying to read in them what he might be unable to tell her.
    “What about this Winchester?” she said at length. “What is he like?”
    “Very clever,” he replied. “Rather personable. He is deceptively charming, and at times amusing, but underneath it he has a very sharp mind indeed.”
    “You’re frightening me!” she snapped. “You sound as if you’re saying he could win.”
    “Of course he could win,” he answered her. “And if I forget it for even a moment, then I open the door for him to do just that.” He took a deep breath and tried to calm his voice and make it gentle. “Margaret, they have a case. If they didn’t, we wouldn’t be going to court tomorrow. If I could have had it dismissed, don’t you think I would have?”
    “Yes! Yes, I know. But it’s ridiculous! My father? How can anyone who knows him ever imagine that he would be … paddling about in the river murdering some … pornographer?”
    Rathbone reached across and touched her hand, and she grasped hold of him. She clung so tightly, she pinched his flesh, but he did not pull