Execution Dock - Anne Perry [149]
She glanced at the other police, at Phillips's guards in the room, then caught Rathbone's eye. She saw the desperate revulsion in him and something more: a deep and tearing pain. Beside him Sullivan was shaking, his eyes darting one way, then the other. His hands clenched, then unclenched as if his fingers sought something to grip.
It was Sutton who sensed the danger. “Get on with it!” he hissed at Monk.
“I don't want to join you exactly,” Monk answered Phillips. “I'd like some of your guests to join us, just to clear the way a bit.”
Phillips shook his head slowly, the smile still fixed on his lips, his eyes dead as stone. “I don't think any of ‘em would care to go with yer. An’ as yer can see, they're gentlemen as yer can't push around like they was nob'dy.” He was motionless, not moving his hands, or his gaze from Monk's face, but several of the men seemed to be waiting for some signal from him. Did his men have knives? Easier to use in this enclosed space, less likely to injure your own.
“Yer already made a fool o’ yerself once,” Phillips continued. “Yer can't do that again an’ ‘ope ter keep yer job, Mr. Monk. Not as I minds if yer don't! Ye're too stupid ter be a real bother ter me, but I wouldn't care if yer went. ‘Oo'ever comes after yer won't be no better neither, just like Durban wasn't.” His voice was softer, and still he did not move his hands. “The river'll go on, an’ men wi’ ‘ungers they can't feed wi'out me, or someone like me. We're like the tide, Mr. Monk; only a fool stands in our way. Get yerself drownded.” He relished the word on his tongue. The tension was slipping out of him now. The years of self-discipline were winning. He was in control again; the moment of fear had passed.
Monk had to balance Phillips's likely impulses either to panic and bolt for freedom, or to marshal his returning confidence and attack the police. Neither would help find Scuff. The one advantage he had was that Phillips did not want violence either; it would be bad for business. His clients wanted imaginary danger, not the reality. They sought sexual release, bloodshed, but not their own.
He made his decision. “Jericho Phillips, I am arresting you for the murder of the boy known as Scuff.” He held the gun so that it was clearly visible now, pointed at Phillips's chest. “And Mr. Orme is going to arrest Sir John Wilberforce there.” He named the only other guest whose face he recognized.
Wilberforce burst into protest, his cheeks scarlet, streaming with sweat. Orme, his back to the bulkhead, raised his gun. The light gleamed on the barrel, and Wilberforce abruptly fell silent.
It was Phillips who spoke, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Makin’ a fool o’ yerself again, Mr. Monk. I dunno where your boy is, an’ I dint kill no one. We been through all o’ that, as ‘is Lordship Sullivan'll ‘ere tell yer, an’ Sir Oliver an’ all. Yer jus’ don't learn, do yer!” He turned to Wilberforce, the sneer broadening on his face, his contempt naked. “No need to get inter a sweat, sir. ‘E can't do nothin’ to yer. Think o’ ‘oo you are, an’ ‘oo ‘e is, an’ get an ‘old o’ yerself. Yer got all the cards, if yer play ‘em right.”
There was a snigger of laughter from one of the other men. They began to relax. They were the hunters again, no longer the victims.
Orme had taken off his jacket and given it to the older boy to cover his nakedness and his humiliation. Sutton did the same for the younger one.
The movement caught Hester's eye and suddenly she realized that they were all frozen here, arguing, and any torture could be happening to Scuff. There was no purpose in pleading with Phillips to tell them where he was. She slipped between two of the customers and touched Orme. “We have to look for Scuff,” she whispered. “There may be other guards, so keep your gun ready.”
“Right, ma'am.” He yielded immediately. He nodded to Sutton, who was almost beside him, Snoot now on the floor at his heels. The three of them inched towards the doorway as the quarrel between Monk and