Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [29]
“I know.” Hester was still chewing her lip. “You’re right; to try to protect him from it is ridiculous. It’s a sort of denial of his experience, as if we didn’t believe him. That’s the last thing he needs. I don’t know how much he’s a child and how much a man.” She smiled, and he saw the hurt behind it. “And I don’t think I really know very much about children anyway. I think he’s afraid of being touched, in case he loses the independence he needs to keep in order to survive. Maybe one day …”
“You’ll do it right,” Monk said gently. “You’re good with the difficult ones.”
He looked at her sitting across the table from him in the lamp-lit kitchen, with its gleaming pans and familiar china on the dresser. Her eyelids were heavy, her hair falling out of its pins from her sleep in the chair, her plain blue dress vaguely reminiscent of her nursing days. But she was ready now to fight anyone and everyone to defend Scuff. With a thrill of surprise, Monk suddenly understood what beauty was really about.
“I’ll find whoever killed Mickey Parfitt and put an end to the pornography boats, whoever is behind them. No matter who gets hurt by it,” he promised.
“Even if it’s Oliver?” she asked.
He hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
She smiled, and there was an intense gentleness in her eyes. “The man you used to be could do that, but are you sure you can now? Whoever’s behind this won’t go down easily. He’ll take everyone with him that he can. Think of what he’s already done, and you’ll know that. It could be you, me”—her voice dropped—“Scuff, anyone. Are you prepared for that?”
This time he was silent for several moments before he answered.
“This first surrender would only be the beginning,” he said. “If I back off now, I may spend the rest of my life giving in every time I could lose anything.”
She leaned forward a little and put her hand over his. She nodded, but she did not speak.
THE FOLLOWING DAY MONK and Orme returned to Chiswick to begin following the money invested in Mickey’s business and the financing of his boat. The only part of it that would be clear was the payment to the previous owner, and probably much of the maintenance costs and the occasional repair and improvement. Mickey must have handled a great deal of money at one time or another. At least some of it would have left traces.
Whoever had repaired the boat would also know where it had been.
“Think it’ll help?” Orme said bleakly. They were standing on the bank of the river just above the Hammersmith Creek, the next bend eastward toward the city.
“Got a better idea?” Monk asked. “We know what ’Orrie, Crumble, and Tosh are going to tell us. Asking again won’t make any difference.”
The breeze was cool on their faces and smelled of mud and weeds. Orme stared across the water. “Tosh is a bad ’un,” he replied. “But I can’t see why he’d kill Mickey. He hasn’t the skill to take his place, and he’s not stupid enough to think he has. Crumble just does as he’s told. Can’t work out whether ’Orrie’s as daft as he looks or not.”
“Fear or money …,” Monk said thoughtfully. “Probably money, sooner or later. We have to find whatever records remain, and re-create as much as we can from other people. A lot of money passed through Parfitt’s hands. He will have had to account to the man behind it all.”
Orme winced. “One of his customers?”
“I hope so.” Monk was surprised how intensely he meant that.
THEY SPENT THAT DAY and the following two searching for every trace of money or records that Parfitt might have kept, other than those Tosh had burned. They questioned ferrymen and bargemen, workers in every boatyard on either side of the river from Brentford to Hammersmith, every supplier of rope, paint, canvas, nails, or any other ships’ goods or tools. They followed the course of the boat’s mornings, its few trips up and down the river. The repairs, mooring fees, quantities of food, and alcohol made the nature of the business obvious. The income must have been very large indeed.
The pattern of it also