AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Very possible,” Monk agreed. “Or maybe both of them had?”
Stockton’s shoulders tensed, as if under the table his fists had clenched.
“Dunno,” he said.
“Perhaps I had better check the infirmary records of sedatives,” Monk suggested. “And at the same time, get the Metropolitan Police to look at your spending habits around about that time. Did you come into a little extra money that week?”
“I didn’t kill him!” Stockton said sharply. A whisper of panic in his voice: thin, but Monk heard it.
“But you know who did.” That was a statement. “You have a big decision to make, Mr. Stockton. Which side are you on? The same as you have been up until now: the prison guards, the law? Or did you change sides to be with the prisoners, the men like Habib Beshara, who colluded in the murder of nearly two hundred people?”
“I weren’t never on ’is side!” Stockton cried out, rising slightly from his chair, his face white with fury. “And I never killed ’im neither. But I in’t sayin’ I’m sorry the bastard is dead. Nor should you be, if you ’ad any ’uman blood in yer.”
“Indeed?” Monk raised his eyebrows. “But if it wasn’t the other prisoners, it has to have been you. You’ve just said there was no one else here.” He pushed his chair back as if to stand up.
“Wait!” Stockton said sharply.
Monk relaxed. “What for?”
“I let someone in ter visit ’im. I didn’t know ’e were goin’ ter do anything like that. ’E said ’e were a friend, come ter say goodbye.”
Monk filled his expression with disbelief. “I’ve got you; I haven’t got this imaginary person of yours. The trial begins on Tuesday.”
“So you’d ’ang me ter cover yerself, even though yer knew I didn’t do it?” Stockton could hardly grasp such dishonor. “That’s p’lice for yer! Lyin,’ murderin’ filth!”
Monk shook his head. “I’m not hanging you rather than him, you are! You give me him, and all you’ll get is a rap on the knuckles for taking a bribe … providing you give us enough evidence to convict him, of course.”
Stockton looked at him with pure hate, made deeper by the fact there was nothing he could do about it.
“Stand up, Mr. Stockton,” Monk ordered.
Stockton did, awkwardly, as though his joints hurt him.
Monk moved around slowly, aware of Stockton’s balance, the tension in his body, and his own vulnerable ribs, which were still aching from the ferry ramming. He locked the manacles around one wrist before attempting to do the other. For an instant Stockton went rigid, as if he would have fought, and Monk twisted his arm up toward the shoulder in what he knew could end in a dislocation. He could not afford to use less strength. If Stockton managed to overpower Monk, he would likely kill him. There was no other way out. He might have already killed once. The unseen visitor to Beshara could be an invention. There was no proof. Stockton himself must know that.
What would the guard waiting outside do? Keeping Stockton in front of him, Monk rapped on the inside of the door.
It opened, and he pushed Stockton out, keeping his own hands low and tight around Stockton’s left wrist, pressing hard enough on the pulse to stop it if he tightened his grip a quarter of an inch.
“Take me to the governor’s office,” he ordered the other guard.
The man stared at him, then at Stockton’s contorted face.
Monk saw the indecision in him. Monk’s heart was hammering against his aching ribs. He was too weak to fight. One good elbow in the chest and he would be finished, possibly even dead with a punctured lung. He swallowed hard, and yanked Stockton’s arm higher. The man let out a squeal of pain.
“Geez! Do it, for Gawd’s sake. Don’t let this son of a bitch …” The rest was lost in another howl.
The guard obeyed, leading the way. It was a short distance, only twenty-five feet or so, but Monk realized with a ripple of horror that perhaps Fortridge-Smith would not side with the law, as he had assumed. He might turn his back and allow Monk to be disposed of. He could claim complete ignorance of it all. He could say that Monk had gone out another way, without calling in to pay his respects as he left. Who would argue?
For the second time in a space of weeks, he was going to have to fight for his life! Why the hell hadn’t he brought Orme with him, or even Hooper, who was as close to healed as he was himself?
With a burn of shame, he knew the answer. Because he had intended to get a confession from someone regarding Beshara’s death, and he preferred that neither Hooper nor Orme saw him do it. The anger inside him at the atrocity, first of murdering the passengers on the Princess Mary, then the corruption of justice in the trial, was tempting the man he used to be before the accident and before the amnesia that had forced him to begin again: a ruthless man, respected and feared, not liked. It was not who he wanted to be. Hester would not lie easily beside him. There would be no more laughter, no comfortable silences. Scuff would not trust him.
And yet they expected him to solve Beshara’s death and see not only Sabri convicted, but those who had lied in court, taken money or praise to convict an innocent man.
They were at Fortridge-Smith’s office, and he had no plan.
Then suddenly it was there in his mind’s eye: the photograph on Fortridge-Smith’s desk, a family group. Probably it was his wife and sons, but it did not matter. He could recall the light on the glass.
