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Monk smiled in spite of himself. ‘Thank you, Hooper.’
‘Do the other men know, sir?’
‘No. ’ He did not want to go into explanations; they would sound like he was trying to excuse himself.
‘Right, sir. I’ll leave Laker on it, if you don’t mind while I’m busy with looking for Mrs Monk. I want to get this bastard. We all do. A good man died because we were double-crossed. We’ll be prepared for McNab next time.’
‘Yes . . . thank you.’
Mornings and evenings were the worst. Monk went home to what for him was even more painful than an empty house. Scuff was always waiting for him. The look of hope in his face evidently took a greater effort to summon each time and it twisted like a knife in Monk’s gut. Scuff never gave words to his feelings. Monk did not know if he even had the words to say how much he hurt, or whether he felt it too private a thing to speak of at all. Or maybe he was afraid of causing Monk too deep a sorrow. What do you say to someone who fears the worst loss of their lives, one they could see nothing beyond?
Sometimes Monk wished he would speak, and then they both could talk about their fears for Hester’s safety. They were too busy tiptoeing around each other, as if not sharing their fears made them less real.
The worst of all for Monk was the sinking into sleep when he was too exhausted to stay awake any longer, the blessing of oblivion, then the waking up in the morning when it all flooded back again, sharp, powerful with the strength of new pain.
The evening after he’d searched Radnor’s house he walked the last few steps up Paradise Row and opened the door. Scuff was standing in the hall waiting. He must have been listening for Monk’s step.
Monk took a deep breath and tried to smile in recognition, not because of good news. Actually it would not have mattered what he had said. Failure was in his eyes and Scuff read it.
‘I’m glad you’re ’ome. I made dinner. It in’t much good, but it’s ’ot, an’ it’s ready.’ His grammar had slipped since Hester had gone, even in those few days, as if he were willing time to go backwards.
‘Thank you,’ Monk said absently. He did not want to eat. Then he looked at Scuff’s pale face and realised how much time and effort it must have taken him. He hated domestic chores. They were women’s work! It was the best way he could show Monk that he loved him, and he cared intensely that he had done it well enough.
Monk made the effort. ‘I’ll just wash my hands. I’ll be at the table in a few minutes.’ He turned his back so Scuff would not see the emotion in his face. It was ridiculous. He could feel the tears sting his eyes. Scuff needed more from him than this.
He went upstairs. The water he dashed on his skin was clean, and sharply cold, enough to make him wince. Then he roughly dried himself on the towel he liked most, put a comb through his hair, and went downstairs again.
The meal was set out on the kitchen table as Hester would have done it. It was simple fare: potatoes boiled and mashed, then fried with a little onion. The sausages had already been fried before and were a bit overdone, so bursting out of their skins, but smelled inviting.
Monk took another deep breath, and sat down. ‘Didn’t think I was hungry,’ he remarked, almost in his usual voice. ‘But this changes my mind.’ He started to eat, slowly, concentrating on what he was doing. It really was not bad. Perhaps Scuff’s own relish for food had taught him a thing or two.
He ate every last mouthful, aware of Scuff’s eyes on him all the time.
Afterwards they sat opposite each other in the sitting room with a cup of tea each and a slice of cake that Scuff had bought from the local baker. Scuff asked him about the day. Very carefully Monk skirted around the subject of Hester, as too painful a wound to touch. It was like discussing the weather while the ship sinks beneath you.
‘Mr ’Ooper getting better?’ Scuff asked.
‘I think he hurts pretty badly,’ Monk replied, ‘but he’s improving. He should be taking time off, but he won’t.’
‘’Course ’e won’t,’ Scuff said immediately, his eyes wide. ‘Nobody’s gonna do that, less they can’t stand up!’
Monk smiled in spite of himself. ‘Laker can hardly stand up, but he’s in there doing paperwork, which he hates.’
Scuff was impressed. He hated paperwork too. His face reflected his respect for Laker’s sacrifice.
‘Have you see Worm?’ Monk asked, largely for something to say. ‘Is he all right? And Mrs Burroughs?’
Scuff shrugged and put his cake down on his plate. ‘Yer really wanna know? Worm’s awful! ’E’s dyin’ ter get out an’ do summink useful, summink ter ’elp. Mrs Burroughs is working like someone’s got a whip at ’er back. And Mr Robinson’s got a face like a rotten egg and a temper ter match. I reckon ’e’d like ter kill someone, ’e just don’t know who.’ He looked at Monk. ‘I told ’im we’d find ’er and get ’er back, and I thought ’e were gonna hit me. Then ’e stormed out the door an’ slammed it behind ’im. ’E looked like I feel when I want ter cry, but I don’t want nobody ter know, ’cos I in’t a little kid no more.’
‘It isn’t only little kids that cry,’ Monk told him.
‘I know that!’ Scuff replied, picking up his cake again. ‘But we in’t gonna cry, ’cos we’re gonna get ’er back. They won’t ’urt ’er ’cos they need ’er. We just gotter be quick, in case that old bastard dies on them.’ He took a bite out of the cake and went on with his mouth full, ‘We gotter think who else cares as much as we do, and then trust them a little. I bin thinking about that. If them little kids die, they’ll ’ang the man wot took ’em, won’t they?’
‘I hope so,’ Monk replied. ‘In fact I’ll see to it!’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Scuff said soberly. ‘D’yer reckon as ’is brother would get real upset about that?’
Monk stared at him, a sudden new thought taking shape in his mind until in seconds it was fully formed.
