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Even outside in the bright air, wind ice-edged off the river, Runcorn kept his face forward, refusing to meet Monk’s eyes. There was no purpose in forcing communication where none was needed. Later they could discuss what each would do next. They walked side by side, heads down a little, collars high against the cold.
The only place Monk could begin was with the nature and opportunities of the man who had paid the assassin.
Was it Alan Argyll who had found him, or Toby? Or perhaps Sixsmith had actually contacted him first, for the task he had claimed?
That was an obvious place to start. He could speak to toshers, who combed the sewers for lost valuables, or to gangers, who led the men who cleared the worst buildups of detritus and silt that blocked the narrower channels. They were all displaced. It would take a while before their services were needed, and there was no trade in which to earn their way in the meantime.
He was walking from the Wapping station towards one of the cut-and-cover excavations when Scuff caught up with him. The boy still had his new odd boots on and the coat that came to his shins, but now he also had a brimmed cloth cap that sat uncomfortably on his ears. The hat needed something inside the band to make it a little smaller. Monk wondered how he could tell Scuff this without hurting his feelings.
“Good morning,” Monk said.
Scuff looked at him. “Yer doin’ all right?”
Monk smiled. “Improving, thank you.” He knew the enquiry was nothing to do with his health; it was his competence in the job that Scuff was concerned about. “Mr. Orme is a good man.”
Scuff appeared unsure whether he would go so far as to call any policeman good, but he did not argue. “Clacton’s a bad ’un,” he said instead. “You watch ’im, or ’e’ll ’ave yer.”
“I know,” Monk agreed, but was startled that Scuff knew so much.
Scuff was not impressed. “Do yer? Yer don’ look ter me like yer know much at all. Yer in’t got them thieves yet, ’ave yer!” That was a challenge, not a question. “An’ don’ let ’em talk yer inter takin’ on the Fat Man. Nob’dy never done that an’ come out of it.” He looked anxious, his thin face pinched with anxiety.
Perhaps it was enlightened self-interest, given all the hot pies they had shared, but Monk still felt a twist of pleasure inside him, and guilt. “Actually I’ve been busy on something else,” he answered, to divert Scuff’s attention. He and Orme had agreed on some preliminary plans, which Orme had been carrying out, but there was no point in frightening Scuff needlessly. “Right now I’m busy trying to find out about a man who was killed just over a couple of months ago.”
“In’t yer a bit late?” Scuff was concerned, his young face puckered. Monk’s incompetence clearly puzzled and worried him. For some reason or other he seemed to feel responsible.
Monk was both touched and stung. He found himself defending his position, trying to regain respect. “The police thought at the time that it was suicide,” he explained. “Then his daughter fell off the bridge, and that was my case. In looking back at that, I found out about the father, and it began to look as if it wasn’t suicide after all.”
“Wotcher mean, fell orff the bridge?” Scuff demanded. “Nobody falls orff bridges. Yer can’t. There’s rails an’ things. Someb’dy kill ’er too, or she jump?”
“I’m not sure about that, either.” Monk smiled ruefully. “And I saw it happen. But when two people are struggling a distance away, in the half-light just before the lamps go on, it’s difficult to tell.”
“But ’er pa were killed by someone else?” Scuff persisted.
“Yes. The man was seen leaving. I know pretty well what he looks like, and that he went east beyond Piccadilly.”
Scuff let out a sigh of despair. “That all yer got? I dunno wot ter do wi’ yer!” He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Monk hid his smile with difficulty. Scuff had apparently adopted him, and felt every parent’s exasperation with an impossible child. Monk found himself ridiculously caught in an emotion that all but choked him. “Well, you might give me a little advice,” he suggested tactfully.
“Forget about it,” Scuff replied.
“You won’t give me any advice?” Monk was surprised.
Scuff gave him a widening look. “That’s me advice! Yer in’t gonna find ’im.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to try,” Monk said firmly. “He murdered a man and made it look like suicide, so the man was buried outside Christian ground, and all his family believed he was a coward and a sinner. It nearly broke his younger daughter’s heart, so she spent all her time trying to prove that it wasn’t so. And now it looks as if she might have been killed for it too. Only they buried her outside Christian ground as well, and marked her as a suicide.”
Scuff skipped a step or two to keep up with Monk. “Yer daft, you are.” But there was admiration in his voice. “Well, if you won’t be told, I s’pose I’d better ’elp yer. Wot’s ’e like, this man wot killed the girl’s pa?”
Monk thought for a moment. What risk was there in telling Scuff? If he kept it vague, none at all. “Thin, dark hair,” he replied.
Scuff looked at him, his eyes hurt, his mouth pinched. “Yer don’ trust me,” he accused.
Monk felt a twist of guilt knot inside him. How could he undo the insult, the rejection? “I don’t want you to get involved,” he admitted. “If he kills people for money, he won’t think twice about getting rid of you if you get anywhere near him.”
“Me?” Scuff was indignant. “I’m not ’alf as green as you are! I can look arter meself! Yer don’ think I got no brains!”
“I think you’ve got plenty of brains—quite enough to get close to him and get hurt!” Monk retorted. “Leave it alone, Scuff! It’s police business. And you’re right,” he added. “I’ll probably never find him. But it’s the man who paid him I want most.”
