The Silent Cry (33 page)

Evan leaned forward, all the energy of his spirit in his words, fragments half remembered returning to his tongue. "Do you want a just world, where sin is punished immediately, and virtue rewarded?”

"Why not?" Monk challenged. "Is there something wrong with that? Food and clothing for everyone, health, intelligence, a chance to succeed?”

"And forgiveness, and pity, and courage?" Evan pressed. "Compassion for others, humility, and faith?”

Monk frowned, the beginning of a doubt in his mind. "You say that as if the answer were not a certainty! Why not? I thought they were the qualities you valued most. Aren't they?”

"Do you value them?”

"Yes! I may not always behave as if I do, but yes, certainly.”

"But if the world were always just, and immediately so, then people would choose to be good, not out of compassion or pity, but because it would be idiotic to be anything else," Evan reasoned. "Only a fool would counsel any act he knew he would be punished for immediately and certainly.”

Monk said nothing.

"Courage against what?" Evan went on. "Do the right thing, and there can be nothing to fear. Virtue will always be rewarded, straight away.

There will be no need for humility or forgiveness either. Justice will take care of everything. For that matter neither will there be need for pity or generosity, because no one will need it. The remedy for every ill will lie with the sufferer. We would be full of judgement for each other…”

"All right!" Monk cut across him. "You have made your point. Perhaps I would rather accept the world as it is, than change it for the one you paint. Although there are times when I find this one almost beyond bearing, not for me, but for some of those I see." He rose to his feet. "Your father would be proud of you. Perhaps you are wasted on a police beat instead of a pulpit." He was frowning. "Do you want me to take you to these witnesses?”

Evan rose also. "Yes, please.”

Monk fetched his overcoat and Evan put his back on again, and together they went out into the dark, cold evening, walking side by side towards Tottenham Court Road and a hansom.

Inside, rattling towards St. Giles, Monk spoke again, his voice uncertain, as if he were struggling for words, seizing the opportunity of the temporary blindness of the night to voice some troubling thought.

"Does Runcorn ever speak to you about the past… about me?”

Evan could hear the emotion in his voice and knew he was searching for something of which he was afraid.

"Now and then, but very little," he answered as they passed the Whitefields Tabernacle and continued down towards Oxford Street.

"We used to work St. Giles together," Monk went on, staring straight ahead of him. Evan could not see his face, but could judge from the sound of his voice. "Back before they rebuilt any of it. When it was known as the "Holy Land".”

"It must have been very dangerous." Evan spoke to fill the silence.

"Yes. We always went in with at least two at a time, usually more.”

"He hasn't spoken of it.”

"No. He wouldn't." Monk's voice dropped at the end of the sentence, betraying a sense of loss, not for Runcorn's friendship, but for whatever it was which had destroyed it. Evan understood what it was that disturbed him, but it was too delicate to speak of between them.

Monk wanted to know what it had been, but only step by step, so he could withdraw again if it became too ugly. It was his own soul he was exploring, the one territory from which there was no escape, the one enemy which must always be faced, sooner or later, more certain than anything else in life or death.

"He never mentions family," Evan said aloud. "He didn't marry.”

"Didn't he…" Monk's tone was remote, as if the remark were meaningless, but the tension in his body belied that.

"I think he regrets it," Evan added, remembering casual references made, and the momentary grief in Runcorn's face, instantly hidden.

There had been a sergeant's wedding anniversary, everyone had wished him well, spoken of their own families. For an instant Evan had seen the pain in Runcorn's eyes, the knowledge of loneliness, of exclusion.

He was not a man gifted by his nature or temperament to fill his own emptiness. He would have been happier with someone there, someone to encourage him when he failed, admire him, be grateful for his support, someone with whom he could share his successes.

Had Monk, with his greater inner strength, his natural courage, intentionally or not, robbed Runcorn of that? Monk feared he had blocked Runcorn's professional success, stood in his path, taken credit for some victory that rightly belonged to him. The inner loss was the one Evan feared, the confidence, the hope, the courage to put fate to the test, and abide the consequences, that was what nestled cold in Evan's mind. Could one man really rob another of that? Or merely fail to help?

Monk could not bear the silence.

"Did he… want to? I mean, was there someone, do you know?”

Evan recalled a fragment of conversation, a name.

"Yes, I think so. But it was several years ago, fifteen or sixteen or more. Her name was Ellen, I think.”

"What happened?”

"I don't know.”

The cab swung round into Oxford Circus, jolting and lurching as the dense traffic caused it to change course. In a few moments they would be there. After that it would be on foot, all alleys and yards, steps up and down, icy rooms while Monk retraced his questions and Evan made notes for evidence. There was no more time for conversation.

Monk drew in his breath and let out a sigh.

The next afternoon Evan had all he needed. As Monk had told him, it was inescapable. He sent up a message that he wished to see Runcorn, and at five minutes to three he knocked on the office door.

"Come in," Runcorn called from inside.

Evan opened the door, went into the warmth that filled the room from the fire, but the chill that he carried with him did not ease.

"Yes?" Runcorn looked up from the papers he had been reading. "This news had better be definite. I don't want any more feelings. Sometimes you are too soft for your own good, Evan. If you want to be a preacher you should have stayed at home.”

"If I had wanted to be a minister, sir, I would have!" Evan replied, meeting Runcorn's eyes boldly. He recognised in himself the same shortness of temper he saw in Monk, the same desire to win, the temptation to fight for the sake of it. Runcorn brought out the least admirable traits in him as they did in Monk.

"Come to the point," Runcorn pursed his lips. "What do you have? I assume we are talking about the murder of Leighton Duff? You are not off on some crusade for Monk?" His eyes were hard, as if part of him actually wanted to catch Evan in the trespass. He wanted to like Evan.

Instinctively he did. And yet his closeness to Monk so often soured it.

"Yes, sir." Evan stood to attention, or as nearly as possible for a man of his natural ease. "I have witnesses to Rhys Duff and his two friends using prostitutes in St. Giles. His picture had been recognised by one of the women. I have her statement. She also names him. Rhys is not a common Christian name, sir.”

Runcorn leaned forward, the other papers pushed aside.

"Go on…”

"I also have testimony from the last victim of rape, sir, on the night of the murder. She describes three men who answer the physical characteristics of Rhys Duff and his two friends, Arthur and Marmaduke Kynaston.”

Runcorn let out his breath slowly and sat back, linking his fingers across his stomach.

"Any proof that the Kynaston brothers were involved in the murder? I mean proof, not reasonable supposition. We have to be absolute.”

"I know that, sir. And no, no proof. If we can convict Rhys Duff, then the others may follow." It infuriated him to have to allow their freedom until then. Whoever had actually killed Leighton Duff, the other two were guilty of the string of crimes which had precipitated it. If they had run away at the final moment, it was an act of cowardice, not compassion or honour. Decency of any kind at all would have intervened and prevented the ultimate tragedy.

"Can you place them there?" Runcorn questioned sharply.

"I can place them whoring in St. Giles with Rhys, but not that night, not by name. He was with two other men who answer their descriptions.

That is all… so far. The worst thing is that they neither of them seem to be hurt, which would indicate they were not involved in the last fight with Leighton Duff.”

"Well, we're not charging them with rape!" Runcorn said decisively.

"That is not a possibility, so dismiss it. What we have is evidence that three young men, of whom Rhys Duff was one, have been beating and raping women in St. Giles, specifically on the night on which Leighton Duff was murdered." Outside in the passage someone's footsteps stopped, and then went on. Runcorn did not seem to hear them. "Did Rhys and his father go separately or together, do you know?" he asked.

"Separately, sir. We have cab drivers' testimony to that.”

"Good. So apparently on this occasion Leighton Duff followed his son.

Presumably he had cause to suspect what he was doing. It would be excellent if you could know what that was. The wife may know, but I imagine it will take some skill to elicit it from her." His face did not betray the imagination to conceive of her suffering. Evan hardly dared think of what such knowledge would do to her. He hoped profoundly that she did have some relationship of tenderness with Dr.

Wade. She would surely need all his support now!

"But you had better try," Runcorn went on. "Be very careful how you question her, Evan. She will be a vital witness when it conics to trial. You will search the house, of course. You may find clothes with bloodstains from his earlier attacks. You must establish that he was out on every occasion you intend to specify. Don't get caught on details! I imagine if he does not confess to it, and there is a major case, then his mother will employ the best Queen's Counsel she can find in his defence." He compressed his lips. "Although why anyone would wish to take on such a battle, I don't know. If you do your job properly, he cannot win.”

Evan said nothing. As far as he was concerned, nobody won.

"What finally led you to it?" Runcorn asked curiously. "Was it just persistence? The right question, eventually?”

"No, sir." Evan did not really know why he took such pleasure in being perverse. It was something to do with the air of satisfaction in Runcorn. "Monk found it, actually. He was following his rape cases, and they led him to Rhys Duff.”

Runcorn's head jerked up and his face darkened. He seemed on the edge of interrupting, then changed his mind.

"He called me yesterday late afternoon, and simply gave me the information," Evan continued. "I checked it myself and spoke to the people, and took their testimony." He looked at Runcorn innocently, as if he had no idea it would annoy him. "As well for us he was so stubborn about it," he added for good measure. "Otherwise I might still have been pressing Mrs. Duff, and looking for a lover.”

Runcorn glared at him, a dull pink rising up his cheeks.

"Monk follows his cases for money, Evan," he said between his teeth.

"Don't you forget that! You follow yours because you are the servant of justice, without fear or favour, with loyalties to no one but Her Majesty, whose law you represent." He leaned forward over the desk, his elbows on its polished surface. "You think Monk is a hell of a clever fellow, and to a certain level, so he is. But you don't know everything. You don't know everything about him, by a long way! Watch him and learn, by all means, but I warn you, don't make a friend of him! You'll regret it!" He said that last with a frown, not viciously, but as a warning, as though he were afraid of something for Evan, not for himself. A shadow of old sadness crossed his face.

Evan was taken by surprise. Runcorn was speaking against Monk, and he should have been angry with him. Instead, he was aware of something lost, a loneliness, and he felt only sorrow, and perhaps a touch of guilt.

"Don't trust him…" Runcorn added, then stopped abruptly. "I don't suppose you'll believe me!" There was anger in his voice, with himself for having spoken so openly, revealed more of his feelings than he intended to, and a thread of self-pity because he did not expect to be believed.

Against his will, Evan did believe him, not because Runcorn said so, but because Monk himself feared it. But it was what he had been, not necessarily what he was now. And what he was in the future lay within his own grasp.

"I don't disbelieve you, sir," he said aloud. "You haven't told me anything, only to be careful. I imagine you are speaking from some experience of your own, or you would not feel as you do, but I have no idea what it is. Monk has never spoken of it.”

Runcorn let out a burst of laughter, hard and almost choking in his throat. It was filled with helplessness and rage and unhappiness which time had never healed.

"He wouldn't! He likes you. He needs you! He may not know how to be ashamed, but he's sense enough to understand what you would think of him!”

Evan did not want to know, he would much rather have kept his ignorance, but he knew Monk himself needed to know.

"For what, sir?”

Runcorn stood up suddenly, pushing his chair back so sharply it teetered on two legs and all but overbalanced. He turned away to the chest of drawers full of files, his back to Evan.

"Go and arrest Rhys Duff for the murder of his father," he ordered.

"You did well in the case. I didn't expect you to be able to solve it. You were wise to take advantage of Monk. Use him, when you can.

Just don't ever let him use you. Don't turn your back on him. Above all, don't trust him. Don't count on him to be behind you when you need him." He swung around, his eyes hard and clear. "I mean that, Evan. I don't want to see you hurt. You're soft, but you're a good man. Think well of him if you want, but never trust him!”

Evan hesitated. It was ugly, very ugly, but it was indefinite, all implications and insubstantial pain. There was nothing he could get hold of to prove… or disprove, nothing to take to Monk for him to retrace his own steps, and understand himself.