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He told Stockton to knock on the door. The moment it was answered he pushed Stockton’s head inside, and then hit him on the side of the skull so hard he tripped and fell, rolling on his injured shoulder. He stayed motionless on the floor.
Monk followed him in, slipping his own jacket off his left arm so his right sleeve hung over his hand. He seized the photograph off the desk and smashed it on the hard, wooden corner, shattering the glass. He picked up the longest, sharpest shard, using his coat sleeve to protect his palm, then he lunged behind the still gaping Fortridge-Smith.
“Sorry,” he said as calmly as he could, his breath making the words jerky. “But I need to get out of here, and send someone back for Stockton. Either he murdered Habib Beshara, or he took money to let in the man who did. And I have no idea whether you were part of this or not. I can’t afford to take the chance.”
“God Almighty, man! Are you insane?” Fortridge-Smith’s voice rose to falsetto with outrage. “I’ll have you arrested for this!”
“We both have to get out of here alive first,” Monk replied, forcing the words between his teeth.
“Then put down that damn piece of glass, before you slip and kill me with it!” Fortridge-Smith shouted.
“Don’t waste time,” Monk told him bitterly. “We might not have it to spare. The prisoners have no love for either of us. It won’t matter to me who they blame for my death. I don’t know if it does to you—for your death, I mean.”
Fortridge-Smith gulped. “You’ll not get out of here alive!”
“In that case, neither will you,” Monk pointed out, giving the shard of glass a little nudge, enough to go through Fortridge-Smith’s jacket and nick the flesh.
“All right! But I’ll see you pay for this!” Fortridge-Smith walked carefully over to the door. He opened it and peered out.
“Take the key from the lock,” Monk ordered. “And lock it from the outside. We’ll send someone to let Stockton out.”
Fortridge-Smith did as he was told. Then slowly they walked along the corridor to the entrance, nodding as they passed the guards on duty. One footstep after another, they went through into the outside air.
Fortridge-Smith hesitated.
“You realize that if the prisoners break my office door down, they could kill Stockton to stop him telling you who killed Beshara?” he said. “Then what will this insane action have cost you?”
“Probably my job,” Monk replied. “And yours.”
Fortridge-Smith tried to swing round, and earned another hard prick in the flesh. He swore in language that Monk was surprised he knew. It was ugly, and yet it made the man more human.
“Perhaps it would be wise to move a little more sharply,” Monk told him. “Until we get some reinforcements.” Now he, too, was shaking beyond control. The very streets around him, the open air, the regular police constable, who had accompanied him to the gate earlier and was now walking purposefully toward them, were all more sane and beautiful than gardens full of flowers.
The constable stopped. He looked from one to the other of them. “Everything all right, gentlemen?” He blinked, hesitated. “Commander Monk?”
“Yes.” Monk’s voice was scratchy. “There’s been an unpleasantness at the prison. Governor Fortridge-Smith is coming with me to report the matter, and see a doctor. He had a slight injury. Not serious, but best to get it seen to.”
“Yes, sir! And are you all right, sir?” the constable said with concern.
Monk touched his ribs tenderly where he was still bruised from the ferry attack. He smiled with absurd gratitude. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”
IN THE SHORT TIME until the trial of Gamal Sabri began, Monk questioned Stockton over and over, and gained from him very little of value. He described the man who paid him to allow a visit to Beshara, but his account was so general it could have applied to thousands of people.
“Between twenty-five an’ thirty, I reckon,” Stockton said. “But the light were bad. Could ’ave bin morning. Stubble on ’is chin. That makes yer look different. ’Bout my weight, I’d say.”
Monk estimated Stockton to be a couple of inches short of six feet.
Stockton added, “Kind o’ greasy ’air, cut short.”
“Color?” Monk said without hope.
“Brown. Medium brown. Blue eyes, I think.”
“In fact an average Englishman,” Monk concluded. “I suppose he was English? He wasn’t Welsh, or Scots was he? Or perhaps Irish?”
“Can’t say.” Stockton shook his head. “Looked like hell, but he spoke like a gentleman. ’Course that could ’ave bin put on. Mimic, like.”
“But you took his money and let him in to see Beshara, and murder him. Oddly gullible, for a prison guard,” Monk said sarcastically.
