The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [111]
Now he was following Jamie MacPherson. He could not see him, but he could re-create in his mind exactly his broad shoulders and slight swagger as he walked, a little roll, as if in his youth he had been at sea. He had a pugilist’s agility and his fists were always ready. He looked in his middle fifties, his reddish fair hair receding.
How long ago had it been that Monk and Runcorn had worked together there? Twenty years? That would make Monk in his twenties then, young and keen, perhaps too angry still from the injustice to the man who had been his friend and mentor, too ambitious to gain the power for himself which would allow him to right the wrongs.
Hester would have told him he was arrogant, claiming for himself a position in judgment to which he had no right and no qualification. He would never admit it to her, but he winced now for the truth of it.
MacPherson’s voice came out of the darkness ahead of him, warning him of the step, and an instant later he nearly fell over it. They were climbing again, and emerged into another cellar, this time with a lighted door at the far side which led into a room, and another. MacPherson banged sharply, once, then four times, and the door was opened by a man whose hair stood up in spikes on his head. His face was full of humor and the hand he held up was missing the third finger.
“Well, bless me if it in’t Monk agin,” he said cheerfully. “Thought yer was dead. Wot yer doin’ ’ere, then?”
“Looking into the rapes over in Seven Dials,” MacPherson said, replying before Monk could speak.
Jimmy Snaith’s hazel eyes opened wide, still looking at MacPherson. “Yer never tellin’ me the rozzers give a toss about that? I don’ believe ya. Ya gorn’ sorft in the ’ead, Mac? Ya forgot Oo this is, ’ave ya?”
“He’s no’ with the po-liss anymore,” MacPherson explained, going farther into the room and closing the door to the cellar behind them. “Runcorn got his revenge, it seems, and had him drummed out. He’s on his own. And I’d like to know for myself who’s been doing this, because it’s no’ one of us who live here, it’s some fancy fellar from up west way, so it is.”
“Well, if that don’t beat the devil! ’E wot lives longest sees most, as they say. So Monk’s workin’ fer us, in a fashion. That I’d live ter see the day.” He gave a rich chortle of delight. “So wot you want from me, then? I dunno ’oo dun it, or I’d ’a fixed ’im meself.”
“I want to know if there were any beatings or rapes of factory women in the last three weeks,” Monk replied immediately. “Or in the two weeks before that either.”
“No …” Snaith said slowly. “Not as I ’eard. ’Ow does that ’elp yer?”
“It doesn’t,” Monk answered him. “It was not what I was hoping you would say.” Then he realized that was not true. It would have indicated a solution, but not the one he wanted. He did not care about Rhys Duff himself, but he knew how it would hurt Hester. That should not matter. The truth was what counted. If Rhys Duff was guilty, then he was one of the most callous and brutal men Monk had ever known of. He was twisted to a depravity from which it would be unimaginable to redeem him. And more immediate than that, although he might recover, in time, there were his companions. He was not guilty alone. Whoever had been with him was still at large, presumably still bent on violence and cruelty. Even if the attack on Rhys had temporarily frightened them, it would not last. Such ingrained sadism did not vanish from the nature in one act, however harsh. The need to hurt would rise again, and be satisfied again.
Snaith was regarding him with growing interest.
“Yer’ve changed,” he observed, nodding his head. “Dunno as I like it. Mebbe I do. Edges ’a gorn. Yer in’t so ’ungry no more. Bloody nuisance, yer was. More ’n Runcorn, poor sod. Never ’ad yer nose fer a lie, ’e din’t. ’E’d believe yer w’en you’d smell the truth. Looks like yer lorst that, though, eh?”
“Difficult truths take longer,