Twisted Root - Anne Perry [175]
Or would he bluff? Double bluff?
Orme was on Monk’s heels.
Monk headed towards the alley entrance between the warehouses. Orme drew in a breath, and then followed him. The third policeman stayed on the quayside. He had done this sort of thing often enough to know men could double back. He would be waiting.
The alley, which was no more than six feet wide, went down steps, then twisted one way, then the other. The stink of urine was sharp in Monk’s nose. There was a chandler’s shop to the right, its narrow doorway surrounded by coils of rope, ships’ lanterns, wooden cleats, and a bucket full of hard-bristle brushes.
It was not far enough into the alley for Phillips to hide. Monk went past it. There was a paint shop next. He could see through the windows that it was empty inside. Orme was on his heels.
“Next alley’s blind,” Orme said quietly. “He could be up that waiting for us.” It was a warning. Phillips had a knife, and would not hesitate to use it. “He’s facing the gallows,” he went on. “The moment we get the manacles on it’s the beginning of the end for him. He knows that.”
Monk found himself smiling. They were close now, so very close. “I know,” he said almost under his breath. “Believe me, I’ve never wanted any villain more than I want this one.”
Orme did not reply. They walked forward slowly. There was movement ahead of them, the sound of scratching on the stones. Orme’s hand went to his pistol.
A brown rat shot out of a side passage and passed within a yard of them. There was a gasp somewhere ahead, then a curse. Phillips?
There was no stirring in the air. It was dark, and the smell was growing worse with the mix of stale beer from a nearby tavern. Monk moved more quickly. Phillips would not be slowed by any of this. Everything he had to fear was behind him.
The alley divided, the left going back towards the quayside, the right into a further warren of byways. There was a doss-house to the right. A man slouched in the doorway, one eye blind, his stomach bulging over his trousers, an old top hat balanced crookedly on his head.
Would Phillips have gone in there? Monk suddenly realized how many friends Phillips might have in these places: profiteers dependent on his business, suppliers, and hangers-on.
“No,” Orme said urgently, putting his hand on Monk’s arm, holding him with surprising strength. “We go in there, we’ll not come out.”
Monk was angry. He wanted to argue.
Even in the play of shadows across Orme’s face his resolve was unmistakable. “Dockside isn’t the only place that’s got patches police can’t go,” he said quietly. “Don’t tell me reg’lar police goes into Blue-gate Fields, or the Devil’s Acre, ‘cause we all know different. It’s us against them, and we don’t always win.”
Monk shook his arm free, but he didn’t pull away. “I’m not letting that bastard escape,” he said slowly and clearly. “Murdering Fig is only the tip of what he does, like the mast of a sunken wreck above the water.”
“There’ll be a back way out,” Orme added. “Likely more’n one.”
It was on the edge of Monk’s tongue to snap that he knew that, but he bit it back. Orme deserved to catch Phillips as much as Monk did, maybe more. He had worked with Durban on the original case. The only difference was that Durban’s death was nothing to do with him, and it was all to do with Monk.
They continued along the alley away from the dock, moving more swiftly now. There were doorways on either side, and sometimes passages no more than a yard wide, mostly dead ends, perhaps ten or twelve feet along.
“He’ll keep going a bit,” Orme said grimly. “Instinct. Although he’s a fly sod, an’ all.”
“He’ll have friends here,” Monk agreed.
“And enemies,” Orme said wryly. “He’s a nasty piece o’ work. He’d shop anyone for sixpence, so he won’t expect any favors. Try that one.” He pointed to the left, a twisted passageway leading back towards the open dock. As he spoke he increased his pace, like a dog scenting the prey anew.
Monk did not argue but kept up just behind him. There