The Silent Cry (29 page)

"It doesn't matter what time it is," she assured him. "I'll come.”

He stared at her. He was still furious, still imprisoned in silence.

His eyes brimmed over with tears, and he turned away from her.

Monk walked briskly along Brick Lane, head down under the wind which was clearing the last of the fog. He must see Vida Hopgood again before he pursued the case any further. She had the right to know of Runcorn's refusal to involve the police in the case, in spite of the mounting proof that there had been a series of crimes of increasing violence. Memory of their encounter still angered him, the more so because part of his mind knew Runcorn was right, and in his place he might well have made the same decision. He would not have done it out of indifference, but a matter of priorities. He had too few men as it was. They only touched the surface of crime in areas like Seven Dials.

It was an easy excuse to ignore people like Vida Hopgood, but it was also unfair to all the countless other victims to put men where they could make no effective difference.

Thinking of it made him angrier still, but it was better than thinking of Hester, which was so natural to him, and at the same time so full of all kinds of discomfort. It was the same kind of temptation as pulling a bandage off a wound to see if it had healed yet, touching the place that hurt, in the hope that this time it would not. It always did…

and he did not learn by experience.

He turned the corner into Butcher's Yard and was suddenly sheltered. He almost slipped where there was ice on the cobbles. He passed a man shouldering a heavy load covered in sacking, probably a carcass. It was quarter past four and the light was fading. In late January the days were short.

He reached Vida Hopgood's door and knocked. He expected her to be in.

He had found this a good time to call. He looked forward to the warmth of her fire and, if he were fortunate, a hot cup of tea.

"You again," she said when she saw him. "Still got a face like a pot lion, so I s'pose yer in't found nothin' useful. Come on in, then.

Don't stand there lettin' in the cold!" She retreated along the passageway, leaving him to close the door and follow her.

He took his coat off and sat down uninvited before the fire in the parlour, rubbing his hands together and leaning towards the grate to catch the warmth.

She sat opposite him, her handsome face sharp-eyed, watchful.

"Did yer come 'ere ter warm yerself cos yer got no fire at 'ome, or was there sum mink in particular?”

He was used to her manner. "I put all we have before Runcorn yesterday. He agrees there is plenty of proof of crime, but says he won't put police onto it because no court would prosecute, let alone convict." He watched her face for the contempt and the hurt he expected to see.

She looked at him equally carefully, judging his temper. There was a gleam in her eyes, a mixture of anger, humour and cunning.

"I wondered well yer was gonna say that. D'yer wanna give it up then, that wot yer mean? Cometer it straight?”

"No, if that was what I meant, I'd have said it. I thought you knew me better!”

She smiled with a moment of real amusement.

"Yer a bastard, Monk, but there are times well if yer wasn't a rozzer, or I could ferget it… which I can't… as I could almost fancy yer.”

He laughed. "I wouldn't dare!" he said lightly. "You might suddenly remember, and then where would I be?”

"In bed wi' a shiv in yer back," she said laconically, but there was still a warmth in her eyes, as if the whole idea had an element which pleased her. Then the ease died away. "So wot yer gonna do about these poor cows wot bin raped, then? If yer in't givin' up, wot's left, eh? You gonna find them bastards fer us?”

"I'm going to find them," he said carefully, giving due weight to every word. "What I tell you depends upon what you are going to do about it.”

Her face darkened. "Listen, Monk…”

"No, you listen!" he cut across her. "I have no intention of ending up giving evidence at your trial for murder, or of being in the dock beside you as accessory before the fact. No jury in London is going to believe I didn't know what you would do with the knowledge, once I found it for you.”

There was confusion in her face for a moment, then contempt. "I'll see yer in't caught up in it," she said witheringly. "Yer don't need ter run scared o' that. Jus' tell us 'oo they are, we'll take care o' the rest. Won't even tell anyone 'ow we found 'em.”

"They already know." He ignored the sarcasm, the reasoning, and the excuses.

"I'll tell 'em yer failed," she said with a grin. "We found 'em ourselves. Won't do yer reputation no good, but it'll keep yer from the rope… seein' as that's wot yer after, in' it?”

"Stop playing, Vida. When I know who they are, we'll come to some agreement as to what we do about it, and we'll do it my way, or I'll not tell you.”

"Got money, 'ave yer?" she said with raised eyebrows. "Can afford ter work fer no pay, all of a sudden? In't wot I 'card.”

"It's not your concern, Vida." He saw from her face she did not believe him. "Maybe I have a rich woman who'll see I don't go hungry or homeless…" It was true. Callandra Daviot would help him, as she had from the beginning, although it was far from in the sense Vida would take from his words.

Her eyes opened wide in amazement, then she began to laugh, a rich, full-throated surge of merriment.

"You!" she chortled. "Yer got yerself a rich woman ter keep yer!

That's priceless, that is! I never 'card any think so funny in all me life." But she was watching him all the same, and there was belief in her eyes.

"So those are my conditions, Vida," he said with a smile. "I intend to find out who they are, then we bargain as to what we do about it, and what I tell you rests on our agreement.”

She pursed her lips and looked at him steadily in silence, weighing up his strength of resolve, his will, his intelligence.

He looked back at her without wavering. He did not know what she knew of him from the past, but he had felt his reputation in Seven Dials keenly enough to be sure she would not judge him lightly.

"O'right," she said at last. "I reckon as yer in't gonna let the bastards orff, or yer wouldn't care enough ter catch them whether I paid yer or not. Yer wants 'em fer sum mink near as much as I do." She stood up and went over to a drawer in a small table and took out two guineas. "Ere yare. That's all until yer come up wi' sum mink as we can use, Monk. Get on wif it. Jus' cos some woman wi' more money'n sense fancies yer, don' mean I want yer clutterin' up me best room 'alf the evenin'." But she smiled as she said it.

Monk thanked her and left. He walked slowly, hands pushed hard into his pockets. The deeper he looked into the case, the more did it seem as if Rhys Duff could be guilty. One thing he had noticed which he had not told Vida Hopgood was that from everything he had been able to establish, there had been no attacks since the incident in which Rhys had been injured. They had begun slowly, building up from small unpleasantnesses, gradually escalating until they were assaults so violent as to threaten life. Then suddenly they had stopped altogether. Ten days before that had been the last of them.

He crossed an open square and went into the alley on the far side, passing a man selling bootlaces and an old woman with a carpet bag.

Why the ten days? That was a larger space than between the other attacks. What had kept them away for such a length of time? Was there a victim he had missed? To fit in with the pattern there should have been at least two.

Further afield? Rhys had been found in St. Giles. Had he and his friends moved territories, perhaps fearing Seven Dials had become too dangerous for them? That was an answer that fitted with what he knew so far. But he must put it to the test.

He turned and began to walk west again until he came to a thoroughfare and caught a cab. It was not very far. He could have gone all the way on foot in half an hour, but suddenly he was impatient.

He alighted just past the Church of St. Giles itself, and strode towards the first lighted hostelry he saw. He went inside and sat down at one of the tables, and after several minutes was served with a mug of stout. Noise surged all around him, the press of bodies, shouts, laughter, people swaying and shoving to get past, calling out to one another greetings, friendly abuse, snippets of gossip and news, little bits of business. There were fencers of stolen goods here, pickpockets, forgers picking up a few likely customers, card sharps and gamblers, pimps.

He watched them all with a growing feeling of familiarity, as if he had been here before, or a score of places like it. He remembered the way the lamp hung a trifle crookedly, shedding an uneven light on the brass railing above the bar. The line of hooks where customers hung their mugs dipped a little at the far end.

A small man with a withered arm looked at him, and shook his head towards his companion, and they both pulled up their collars and went outside into the cold.

A woman laughed over-loudly and a man hiccuped.

A fair-haired man with a Scots accent slid into the seat opposite Monk.

"We've no' got anything here for ye, Mr. Monk. Tell me what it is ye're after, an' I'll pass the word, but ye know I'd 'a great deal sooner ye did not sit in my house drinkin' yer ale. Aye, we've the odd thief in here, but small folk, no worth the bother o' a man like yourself.”

"Murder is worth my trouble, Jamie," Monk replied very quietly. "And so is rape and beating women.”

"If ye're talking about those two men that were found in Water Lane, none of us around here know who did that. Young policeman's been all over asking and wasting his time, poor devil. And Constable Shotts, who was born and bred around here, should know better. But why are you here?" His broad, fair face was wary, his crooked nose, broken years ago, and wide, blue eyes gave him a comfortable look which belied his intelligence. "And what's it to do wi' rape?”

"I don't know," Monk replied, taking another drink of his stout. "Have any women been raped around here in the last month or two? I mean ordinary women, women who work in the factories and sweatshops, and maybe go on the streets now and then when things get a little tight?”

"Why? What do you care if they have? Po-liss don't give a toss.

Though I heard as you're not with the po-liss any more." A flicker of amusement crossed his face, his lips curled as if he would laugh, but he made no sound.

"You heard truly," Monk replied. He was certain he knew this man. He had spoken his name without thinking. Jamie… the rest of it escaped him, but they know each other well, too well to pretend. It was an uneasy truce, a natural enmity held at bay by a certain common interest, and a thread, very fragile, of respect, not unmixed with fear. Jamie MacPherson was a brawler, hot-tempered, he carried a grudge and he despised cowardice or self-pity. But he was loyal to his own, and far too intelligent to strike out without a reason, or to act against his own interests.

He was smiling now, his eyes bright. "Throw you out, eh? Runcorn. Yer should o' seen that coming, man. Waited a long time to get his own back, that one.”

Monk felt a shiver of cold run through him. The man not only knew him, he knew Runcorn also, and he knew more than Monk did of what lay between them. The chatter and laughter washed around him like a breaking sea, leaving him is landed in his own silence, not a part of them but separate, alone. They knew, and he did not.

"Yes," Monk agreed, not knowing what else to say. He had lost control of the conversation, and it was not what he had intended, or was used to. "For the time being," he added. He must not let this man think he was no longer a force to fear or respect.

MacPherson's smile widened. "Aye, this is his patch. He'll no' be happy if you take his case from him.”

"He isn't interested in it," Monk said quickly. "I'm after the rapists, not the murderer.”

"Are they no' the same?”

"No… I don't think so… at least, one is, I think!

"You're talking daft, man," MacPherson said tartly. "Ye know better than to take me for a fool. Be straight wi' me, an' I'll maybe help ye.”

Monk made up his mind on the spur.

"A woman in Seven Dials hired me to find who was raping and beating factory women over there. I've followed it for three weeks now, and the more I learn, the more I think it may be connected with your murder here.”

"Yejust said it was no' the same people!" MacPherson's blue eyes narrowed, but he was still listening intently. He may dislike Monk, but he did not despise his intelligence.

"I think the young man who was beaten but lived may have been one of the rapists," Monk explained. "The man who died is his father…”

"Aye, we all ken that much…”

"Who followed him, having learned, or guessed, what he was doing, and got caught in the fight, and he was the one who got the worst of it.”

MacPherson pursed his lips. "What does the young man say?”

"Nothing whatever. He can't speak.”

"Oh aye? Why's that then?" MacPherson said sceptic ally "Shock. But it's true. I know the nurse who is caring for him." In spite of all he could do to prevent it, the picture of Hester was so vivid in his mind it was as though she were sitting beside him. He knew she would hate what he was doing, she would fight desperately to protect her patient. But she would also understand why he could not leave the truth concealed if there were any way he could uncover it. If it were not Rhys, she would want it known just as passionately.

MacPherson was regarding him closely. "So what is it ye're wanting from me?”

"There have been no attacks or rapes in Seven Dials since the murder,”

Monk explained. "Or for some short time before. I need to know if they moved to St. Giles.”

"Not that I heard," MacPherson said, his brow puckered. "But then that's a thing folk don't talk about easy. Ye'll have to work a little harder for that than just come in here and ask for it.”

"I know that. But a little co-operation would cut down the time.

There's not much point in going to the brothels; they weren't professional prostitutes, just women in need of a little extra now and then.”

MacPherson pushed out his lip, his eyes hot and angry. "No protection," he said aloud. "Easy pickings. If we knew who it was, and they come back to St. Giles, it'll be their last trip. They'll not go home again, an' that's a promise.”