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‘It’s a good idea,’ he agreed. ‘Make it as good as you can, but quickly. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just to look good enough to make him understand what would happen. It will be far more powerful than simply telling him and leaving him to imagine it. Thank you.’
‘I’ll have it in half an hour,’ Squeaky promised. ‘Now let’s think exactly what to say.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ Squeaky said loudly. ‘But you’d better have a good reason.’
The handle turned slowly and the door swung open to reveal Worm. There was a small tray with a teapot, milk jug and a plate and cup sitting on the ground. He could not hold it and knock at the same time. He bent to pick it up, and carried it a little unsteadily across the room to put it on the desk in front of Monk.
‘I s’pose that’s a good reason,’ Squeaky said grudgingly.
Worm was used to him and took no notice at all. Instead he looked hopefully at Monk.
‘Thank you,’ Monk said to him, also ignoring Squeaky. ‘We are planning how to get Hester back. I hope you are staying here all the time so you can look after Claudine?’ He fixed Worm with a steady gaze.
Worm nodded gravely. ‘Yeah, I am. All the time.’
‘Thank you,’ Monk accepted. ‘And thank you for the tea.’
‘She says ter drink it while it’s ’ot,’ Worm added. ‘Cold tea don’t do no good.’ He looked at the plate. ‘Cake’s good any time.’
Monk looked at the piece of fruitcake. He broke it into halves and offered one piece to Worm.
Worm gulped. ‘It’s yours.’
‘You may have half of it,’ Monk told him.
Worm was a little boy – he had resisted once; that was enough. He took the cake and ate it in two mouthfuls.
Monk watched him go out of the door, and ate the rest himself. Then he sipped the tea. It was certainly still very hot.
‘Let’s begin,’ he said to Squeaky.
Once he had the article in his hand, Monk left the clinic and caught a hansom directly to the river, then he took a ferry to the Greenwich wharf. By then he had the article he and Squeaky had compiled so clearly in his mind he could have recited it. It was short, vivid, even garish, but the relish in the fall of Hamilton Rand and his execution by the rope was realistic, and brutal. Such newspapers as The Times would not have printed such a thing – they would have been far more restrained, even philosophical – but even so, it would be read by the people whose opinions both Magnus and Hamilton Rand cared about. It would be published by the papers that caught the eye in the street, quoted on billboards, and seen by one’s neighbours, whether they wished to or not.
Monk paid the ferryman, then climbed the steps and walked the short distance to the hospital. The warm sun shone at his back, the light was brilliant on the water, and the sound of distant voices came to him on the breeze. This bank was his home. If he looked up the hill he could see some of the trees, billowing like green clouds, that he could see from the windows of his own house. He had been happier here than any other place in his life.
Actually, considering that more than half his life was lost in amnesia that was a rash statement. Yet he had no doubt whatever that it was true. If he had lived anywhere else as he lived here, then surely some echo of it would remain? Small things would remind him: the perfume of grass, the sound of a woman’s laughter, a familiar footstep, the curve of a cheek, or throat, the colour of her hair . . .
He would do whatever was necessary to make Magnus Rand tell him where his brother was. He would dredge up any memory, ignite any fear . . .
He marched up to the hospital entrance and went in, looking neither to left or right. Someone called out to him and he ignored them. He knew where Rand’s office was and he would either find him there, or wait for him. This was not to be done in public, for many reasons. If he did it in front of Rand’s colleagues who respected him, possibly even liked him, certainly owed him some duty of loyalty, then they would all side with him, maybe even to forcibly removing Monk.
Also, if they were in front of those about whose opinion he cared, Rand would have an almost insuperable reason not to yield any information at all.
Magnus was standing staring at the bookcase, obviously searching for a particular title. He swung around as Monk came in. He did not bother to hide his annoyance.
‘I have already told you, Mr Monk, I have no idea where my brother is. Not that I would necessarily tell you if I did. Your wife is an excellent nurse. She has rare experience in certain areas that are useful to us, and if she chose to go with him, and has not informed you, then that is her own concern. Such things happen. And finally, Mr Monk, I do not know you very well, but if you are as overbearing with her as you are with me, then I could understand her choice.’ He looked across at Monk with defiance in his face, as if he had won some kind of victory within himself.
For an instant Monk was furious, then a wave of incredulity swept over him. That was so unlike Hester. But did every man think that he knew his wife so well he could understand everything about her, when actually he knew only the thinnest of outer layers, and all the hurt of her was hidden? Perhaps because he did not wish to see it? Might it reveal more of him than he wished to know?
Did Magnus Rand really believe what he was saying to Monk? Or was it a prepared defence?
Monk smiled thinly. ‘Of course, if that were so, Dr Rand, I might be the last one to realise it. But your brother also took with him three children who are not old enough to make any decisions as to where they wish to go. The youngest is barely four years old. That is kidnap, Dr Rand.’
Rand smiled without warmth, but there was still that sense that he was comfortable in himself, a belief of having the perfect defence.
‘Unwanted children, Mr Monk. Tragically, the river-banks are littered with them. Homeless, hungry, desperately vulnerable to unspeakable forms of abuse . . .’
