A small man with a withered arm looked at him, and shook his head towards his companion, and they both pulled up their collars and went outside into the cold.
A woman laughed over-loudly and a man hiccuped.
A fair-haired man with a Scots accent slid into the seat opposite Monk.
"We've no' got anything here for ye, Mr. Monk. Tell me what it is ye're after, an' I'll pass the word, but ye know I'd 'a great deal sooner ye did not sit in my house drinkin' yer ale. Aye, we've the odd thief in here, but small folk, no worth the bother o' a man like yourself.”
"Murder is worth my trouble, Jamie," Monk replied very quietly. "And so is rape and beating women.”
"If ye're talking about those two men that were found in Water Lane, none of us around here know who did that. Young policeman's been all over asking and wasting his time, poor devil. And Constable Shotts, who was born and bred around here, should know better. But why are you here?" His broad, fair face was wary, his crooked nose, broken years ago, and wide, blue eyes gave him a comfortable look which belied his intelligence. "And what's it to do wi' rape?”
"I don't know," Monk replied, taking another drink of his stout. "Have any women been raped around here in the last month or two? I mean ordinary women, women who work in the factories and sweatshops, and maybe go on the streets now and then when things get a little tight?”
"Why? What do you care if they have? Po-liss don't give a toss.
Though I heard as you're not with the po-liss any more." A flicker of amusement crossed his face, his lips curled as if he would laugh, but he made no sound.
"You heard truly," Monk replied. He was certain he knew this man. He had spoken his name without thinking. Jamie… the rest of it escaped him, but they know each other well, too well to pretend. It was an uneasy truce, a natural enmity held at bay by a certain common interest, and a thread, very fragile, of respect, not unmixed with fear. Jamie MacPherson was a brawler, hot-tempered, he carried a grudge and he despised cowardice or self-pity. But he was loyal to his own, and far too intelligent to strike out without a reason, or to act against his own interests.
He was smiling now, his eyes bright. "Throw you out, eh? Runcorn. Yer should o' seen that coming, man. Waited a long time to get his own back, that one.”
Monk felt a shiver of cold run through him. The man not only knew him, he knew Runcorn also, and he knew more than Monk did of what lay between them. The chatter and laughter washed around him like a breaking sea, leaving him is landed in his own silence, not a part of them but separate, alone. They knew, and he did not.
"Yes," Monk agreed, not knowing what else to say. He had lost control of the conversation, and it was not what he had intended, or was used to. "For the time being," he added. He must not let this man think he was no longer a force to fear or respect.
MacPherson's smile widened. "Aye, this is his patch. He'll no' be happy if you take his case from him.”
"He isn't interested in it," Monk said quickly. "I'm after the rapists, not the murderer.”
"Are they no' the same?”
"No… I don't think so… at least, one is, I think!
"You're talking daft, man," MacPherson said tartly. "Ye know better than to take me for a fool. Be straight wi' me, an' I'll maybe help ye.”
Monk made up his mind on the spur.
"A woman in Seven Dials hired me to find who was raping and beating factory women over there. I've followed it for three weeks now, and the more I learn, the more I think it may be connected with your murder here.”
"Yejust said it was no' the same people!" MacPherson's blue eyes narrowed, but he was still listening intently. He may dislike Monk, but he did not despise his intelligence.
"I think the young man who was beaten but lived may have been one of the rapists," Monk explained. "The man who died is his father…”
"Aye, we all ken that much…”
"Who followed him, having learned, or guessed, what he was doing, and got caught in the fight, and he was the one who got the worst of it.”
MacPherson pursed his lips. "What does the young man say?”
"Nothing whatever. He can't speak.”
"Oh aye? Why's that then?" MacPherson said sceptic ally "Shock. But it's true. I know the nurse who is caring for him." In spite of all he could do to prevent it, the picture of Hester was so vivid in his mind it was as though she were sitting beside him. He knew she would hate what he was doing, she would fight desperately to protect her patient. But she would also understand why he could not leave the truth concealed if there were any way he could uncover it. If it were not Rhys, she would want it known just as passionately.
MacPherson was regarding him closely. "So what is it ye're wanting from me?”
"There have been no attacks or rapes in Seven Dials since the murder,”
Monk explained. "Or for some short time before. I need to know if they moved to St. Giles.”
"Not that I heard," MacPherson said, his brow puckered. "But then that's a thing folk don't talk about easy. Ye'll have to work a little harder for that than just come in here and ask for it.”
"I know that. But a little co-operation would cut down the time.
There's not much point in going to the brothels; they weren't professional prostitutes, just women in need of a little extra now and then.”
MacPherson pushed out his lip, his eyes hot and angry. "No protection," he said aloud. "Easy pickings. If we knew who it was, and they come back to St. Giles, it'll be their last trip. They'll not go home again, an' that's a promise.”
"You'll not be the first in the line," Monk said drily. "But we have to find them before we can do anything about it.”
MacPherson looked at him with a bleak smile, showing his teeth. "I know you, Monk. Ye may be a hard bastard, but ye're far too fly to provoke a murder that can be traced back to ye. Ye'll no tell the likes o' me what ye find.”
Monk smiled back at him, although it was the last thing he felt like.
Every other time he spoke, MacPherson was adding new darkness to Monk's knowledge of himself. Had he really been a man who had led others to believe he could countenance a murder, any murder, so long as it could not be traced to him? Could it conceivably be true?
"I have no intention of allowing you, or Vida Hopgood, to contrive your own revenge for the attacks," he said aloud, icily. "If the law won't do it, then there are other ways. These men are not clerks or petty tradesmen with little to lose. They are men of wealth and social position. To ruin them would be far more effective. It would be slower, more painful, and it would be perfectly legal.”
MacPherson stared at him.
"Let their own punish them," Monk went on drily. "They are very good at it indeed… believe me. They have refined it to an art.”
MacPherson pulled a face. "Ye have no' changed, Monk. I should no' have underestimated ye. Ye're an evil devil. I could no' cross ye. I tried to warn Runcorn agin ye, but he was too blind to see it. I'd tell him now to watch his back for getting rid o' ye from the force, but it would no' do any good. Ye'll bide your time, and get him, one way or another.”
Monk felt cold. Hard as he was, MacPherson thought Monk harder, more ruthless. He felt Runcorn the victim. He did not have the whole story. He did not know Runcorn's social ambitions, his moral vacillation when a decision jeopardised his own career, or how he trimmed and evaded in order to please those in power… of any sort.
He did not know his small-mindedness, the poverty of his imagination, his sheer cowardice, his meanness of spirit!
But then Monk himself did not know the whole story either.
And the coldest thought of all, which penetrated even into his bones was Monk responsible for what Runcorn had become? Was it something he had done in the past which had warped Runcorn's soul and made him what he was now?
He did not want to know, but perhaps he had to. Imagination would torment him until he did. For now, perhaps it would be useful to allow MacPherson to retain his image of Monk as ruthless, never forgetting a grudge.