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Monk decided to play the part. “How much worth my while? I can pick an easier opponent, if she’s really so lucky.”
The man regarded him with contempt. “Is that what you came for? An easy opponent?”
Monk smiled back at him, showing his teeth wolfishly. “It doesn’t hurt, now and again.” But his expression conceded that what mattered was the game. This conversation might be his only opportunity to find out anything useful. “She reminds me of Elissa,” he said to the man.
The man gave a sharp bark of amusement. “Except this one wins. Elissa lost. Oh, she won occasionally; you have to see to it that they do, or they don’t come back. But this one wins too often. I could do without her. She was good for a while. People liked watching her, pretty thing, and she encouraged others. Time to get rid of her, though. Some bloke hanging around after her. Could be her husband. Don’t want any more trouble. Not good for business.”
“Husband?” Then suddenly, like a rush of ice, Monk realized why she looked so familiar. Certainly there was a resemblance to Elissa Beck, the same slender body, the same soft dark hair, but this woman’s face was gentler, prettier, just without the passionate, haunting beauty he had seen in Funeral in Blue. She was less marked by the triumphs and tragedies of life. She was his sister-in-law, Imogen Latterly.
He found his mouth too dry to answer. Did Hester know? Was this what she was afraid of?
There was another game, and this time Imogen lost, and instantly played again.
He turned away quickly, suddenly realizing that if she looked up she would recognize him, too. He found his voice at last. “Her husband plays?” he said in amazement. He could not imagine Charles Latterly playing anything that involved the slightest risk. Surely his father’s death and the circumstances around it had driven every gamble of even the mildest sort from his mind?
“No, he was following her,” the man said tartly. His respect for Monk’s perspicacity had taken a sharp turn downward.
Monk cursed his emotions for getting in the way of his professionalism. He must make up the lost ground. “Not in here?” he assumed, forcing himself to smile again. “Jealous sort, is he? Or worried for his pocket?”
The man shrugged. “Could be either. More like jealous, I’d say.”
“Seen him often?” Monk asked as casually as he could. In spite of himself he was aware that his voice had an edge.
“Two or three times.” The man looked at him with more intent. “Why? What’s it to you?”
Monk returned his look with contempt.
The man lifted his shoulders even higher. “Your affair! Go after her if you want. But she’s trouble. Don’t know that she’s clever, but she’s lucky most of the time. And he looked pretty close to the edge, the husband.”
Monk stared ahead of him,
masking the dread inside him. “Did he? When was that?” He watched the dice without seeing them. He did not want the answer, but he had to know.
“Couple of times,” the man replied. “Still, it’s your affair. But if you cause any trouble here, I’ll have you thrown out. You can believe that.”
“Get a lot of angry husbands, do you?” Monk asked, turning back to face him but still hiding his face from Imogen. “Like Elissa’s husband, for example?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s with all the questions? Why do you care? Woman’s dead. I don’t know who did it. Allardyce, probably. Lovers’ quarrel, I expect. He was obsessed with her. Comes in ’ere to draw all sorts, but ’specially her. Couldn’t take his eyes off her when she was playing.”
Monk said nothing. It was more than he wanted to know, and yet there seemed a kind of inevitability about it, once he had realized who Imogen was.
He fingered the money in his pocket. Now it was soiled, and he wanted to escape the greedy, excited faces, the closeness of bodies pressed forward across the tables, eyes watching the cards, the dice, hardly seeing people. It was winners and losers, nothing else. He turned on his heel and pushed past the man, leaving him startled, not understanding. He reached the door and went out through the butcher’s shop into the early-evening street, gulping in the air, heavy and laden with the smells of refuse and manure, but also the decent sounds of people going about their work, making things, carrying them, buying and selling.
He walked as quickly as he could along to the Gray’s Inn Road and, as soon as the traffic allowed him, across it. He saw the gingerbread man in the distance, but ignored him this time.
He was going towards the police station. Even if he slowed his pace he would be there in half an hour. Runcorn might not be alone now, but eventually he would be. Putting off the time would alter nothing. He still had to decide whether to tell him what Hester had discovered about Kristian, or what he had now confirmed for himself. There was no doubt Kristian had both the time and the means to have murdered Elissa, and he had an extremely pressing motive.
Why did Monk hesitate? Did he believe Kristian guilty? The fact that he even asked the question told him the answer. If he could have dismissed it, then he would have. He would not even be thinking about it. He would go straight to Runcorn and tell him that these were the facts, but they meant nothing. They would have to look further.
Where? To Charles Latterly?
Perhaps someone to whom Elissa owed money, a conveniently unnamed person who might or might not exist.
Would Runcorn believe that? Not unless he were a fool. But even if it were likely, they would still have to pursue Kristian as well.
He crossed a side street, making a carriage driver rein in sharply, red in the face with the effort not to use the language that rose to his lips in front of his lady passengers.
Monk was barely aware of the inconvenience he was causing. He walked on, decreasing his pace even more, staying to the left so people could pass him.
