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“Thank you,” he said with intense gratitude.
The man’s voice was filled with pity. “I’m sorry, mate, there ain’t nothin’ you can do now.”
“I know,” Monk answered him. “I saw her in the water. I couldn’t just let her be…washed away with the tide, like rubbish.”
“Do you know who she is?” He put his hand on Monk’s arm, strong and steady, as if he feared Monk might collapse.
“Yes. Bella Franken. I think she was murdered.”
“Then we’d better get the police. And you’d better stay here, like. Right?”
“Right.” Monk gave a twisted smile. He could feel the emotion well up inside him, close to hysteria. “Get Runcorn. I think this is his patch.”
“Do you know Mr. Runcorn, then?”
“Yes. Tell him it’s Monk.”
“Jeez! You’re Monk of the River Police? Never thought you’d be such a fool as to get in the water after a corpse. ’Ere—she isn’t…?” He stopped, his voice choked with emotion now.
“No,” Monk told him more gently. “She isn’t anybody I really know.”
“Thank the Lord for that!” The ferryman’s voice cracked for a moment.
“Send someone for Runcorn,” Monk repeated. “And thaw me out before I’m bloody dead as well!”
“Right! Right, sir. Just you ’ang on.”
Monk shrank into himself, trying to find a little heart of warmth within his body.
The ferryman moved back, and for a moment or two, Monk did not know where he had gone. Only moments later, there were more men about, regular police. He was helped to his feet, shuddering with the almost living cold of his wet coat clinging to him. He could hardly feel his feet, although he could just manage to find them enough to stand up. The men made him walk. He had no idea how far. He became dizzy, needing their strength not to buckle and fall.
Eventually, he was aware of being inside a room and someone taking his coat, then his jacket and trousers. Someone was handing him a rough towel, and then a kind of shirt and dry trousers. There was a mug of hot tea in his hands, and somebody helped him to drink, holding it steady for him.
He heard the voice, and the moment after he saw Runcorn’s bulk in the doorway and then beside him.
“What the hell are you doing, Monk? You look absolutely god-awful. Who is she? And who killed her?”
“She’s Bella Franken, bookkeeper at Nicholson’s Bank, who worked for the manager, Mr. Doyle. She was coming to meet me. She had something to give me, but it’s gone somewhere down the river. I think it was some important figures.”
“But they got to her first,” Runcorn said quietly. “You better tell me more about it. You’re in no fit state to manage this—and don’t argue with me. She was washed up on my patch, and so were you!”
“But…” Monk said, then tried to sip the tea in his mug.
Runcorn took it from him and held it to his lips so he could drink. “You’re in no condition to investigate this,” he said when Monk had his mouth full of tea. “You’ll catch your death if you don’t go home, have a hot bath, and put on dry clothes. This needs following up now. Fresh witnesses, if we can find them. Either way, the ferryman who pulled you out and people on the last ferries that crossed. Many people are regulars. Anyone who was around here in the last hour or two.”
He gave Monk another sip or two of the tea. For a large, usually clumsy man, he was surprisingly gentle. His quick, unexpected marriage had changed him. He believed in all the best in himself. Before that, Monk had believed in the worst in him and let him know that, something he now regretted. But perhaps they had both changed since then.
“Why were you going to meet this woman?” Runcorn asked.
“She found some discrepancies in some figures and was bringing them to show me.”
Runcorn screwed up his face in clear disbelief. “At the Greenwich Pier, in the dark? For heaven’s sake, Monk, if you’re going to lie, at least make it credible. And you need help, whether you want it or not. This Exeter case has got you down. Don’t blame you. It’s horrible. But you’re not chasing young bookkeepers in the dark, on the dockside, over some petty fraud in a bank. You don’t know the first thing about bookkeeping. Anyway, the bank is miles from the river.”
Monk was too tired and too cold to argue. In spite of all their vast differences, it was pleasant to be able to rely on Runcorn. The man was not always as quick in thinking as Monk, as he had proved, but the fact no longer irritated Monk. Runcorn had other qualities, including common sense, and Monk trusted him.
“It’s to do with the kidnapping case,” he said, without prevaricating. “Doyle was Exeter’s banker, and I think he may have helped the kidnappers.”
“What a filthy thing to do! What makes you think that?” Runcorn’s voice reflec
