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“Who was shouting at whom?” Monk interrupted.
“They was shouting at each other, o’ course.”
Monk produced the picture of Leighton Duff. “Was this him, or could it have been?”
The man studied it for several moments, then shook his head. “I dunno. I don’ fink so. W’y? ’Oo is ’e?”
“That doesn’t matter. Have you ever seen him, the older man?”
“Not as I knows of. Looks like a few as I seen.”
“And the other time? Who was the young man with then?”
“Woman: Young, mebbe sixteen or so. They went together inter an alley. Dunno after that, but I can guess.”
“Thank you. I don’t suppose you know the name of the woman, or where I can find her?”
“Looked like Fanny Waterman ter me, but that don’t mean it were.”
Monk could scarcely believe his good fortune. He tried not to let his sense of victory show too much in his voice.
“Where can I find her?”
“Black ’Orse Yard.”
Monk knew better than to try for a number. He would have to go there and simply start asking. He paid the man half a crown, a magnificent reward he feared he would regret later, and then set out for Black Horse Yard.
It took him two hours to find Fanny Waterman, and her answers left him totally puzzled. She recognized
Rhys without hesitation.
“Yeah. So wot?”
“When?”
“I dunno. Mebbe free or four times. Wot’s it to yer?” She was a slight, skinny girl, hardly handsome, but she had a face which reflected intelligence and some humor behind the belligerence, and in different circumstances she could well have had a kind of charm. She was certainly fluent enough with words, and there was a cockiness in her walk and the attitude of her head. There was nothing of self-pity in her. She seemed as curious about Monk as he was about her. “W’y d’yer wanna know, eh? Wot’s ’e done to yer? If ’e broke the law, I in’t shoppin’ ’im.”
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“ ’Urt me? Wo’s matter wive yer? ’Course ’e din’t ’urt me! W’y’d ’e ’urt me?”
“Did he pay you?”
“W’y yer wanna know?” She cocked her head to one side, looking at him out of wide, dark brown eyes. “Like lookin’ at fellas, do yer?” There was the beginning of contempt in her voice. “Cost yer.”
“No, I don’t,” he said tartly. “A lot of women have been raped and beaten, mostly in Seven Dials, but some here. I’m after whoever did it.”
“Geez,” she said in awe. “Well, nobody ’urt me. ’E paid proper an’ willin’.”
“When was that? Please try to recall.”
She thought for a moment.
“Was it before or after Christmas?” he prompted. “New Year?”
“It were between,” she said with sudden enlightenment. “Then ’e came again arter New Year. W’y? Can’t yer tell me w’y? Ye don’ think as it were ’im, do yer?”
“What do you think?”
