“I'm sorry,” Squeaky said as towards evening they walked along the path close to the river on the Isle of Dogs. They were making for All Saints Stairs to catch a ferry across to the pier on the south side, and then a bus to Rotherhithe Street, from which it was a short walk to Paradise Place. Squeaky had insisted on seeing her home, even though she frequently rode the bus or a cab by herself. “Looks as if yer Durban could ‘a been bent as a pig's tail,” he added.

She found it difficult to speak. What was she going to tell Monk? She needed to know before he did, so that she could do something to soften the blow. But what? If this were true, it was worse than she had imagined. “I know,” she said huskily.

“D'yer want ter keep on?” he asked.

“Yes, of course I do!”

“That's wot I thought, but I gotter ask.” He glanced at her, then away again. “It could get worse.”

“I know that too.”

“Even good men ‘ave got their weaknesses,” he said. “An’ women too, I s'pose. I reckon yers is believin’ people. It's not a bad one ter ‘ave, mind.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful for that?”

“No. I reckon it ‘urts yer. But if yer knew everythin’ yer'd be too cocky ter be nice.”

“Not much chance of that,” she replied, but she did smile, faintly, even though he could not see it in the fitful street lighting.

They made their way down towards the top of the All Saints Stairs. Just before they reached them, a figure stepped out of the shadows of a crane, and the light from the street lamp showed his face like a yellow mask, wide, thin mouth leering. Jericho Phillips. He looked at Hester, ignoring Squeaky.

“I know you've been looking for Reilly, Miss. Yer don't want ter do that.”

Squeaky was taken aback, but he hid it quickly. “You threatenin’ ‘er, Mr. Phillips?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.

“Spot of advice,” Phillips replied. “Friendly, as it were. Reckon I owe ‘er a lot.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “Might be swingin’ on a gibbet by me neck, if it weren't for ‘er evidence at me trial.” He laughed softly, his eyes dead as stones. “Yer would find out a lot o’ things yer'd be ‘appier not knowin’, seein’ as you admired Mr. Durban so much. Yer find Reilly, poor boy, an’ you'll like as not find out what ‘appened to ‘im. An’ believe me, Miss, yer won't like that at all.”

There was a ferry making its way across the oily black surface of the water, oars dipping in and out rhythmically.

“Brave boy, Reilly,” Phillips added. “Foolish, mind. Trusted those ‘e shouldn't ‘ave, like River Police. Found out more'n it's good fer a boy like ‘im ter know.”

“So you killed him, just as you killed Fig,” Hester said bitterly.

“No reason to, Miss,” Phillips told her. “It weren't me Reilly were goin’ ter tell on. I treat my boys very well. Stupid not to. Ask ‘em! You won't find one as'll speak against me. I don't beat ‘em, don't forget me-self an’ ‘oller and scream at ‘em. I know me business, an’ I look after it proper.”

She looked at him with total loathing, but she could find no answer with which to retaliate.

“Think about it, Miss,” Phillips went on. “Yer been askin’ a lot o’ questions about Durban. Wot did yer find out, eh? Liar, weren't ‘e? Lied about everythin’, even where ‘e came from. Lost ‘is temper something rotten, beat the tar out o’ some folks. Covered up crime in some, lied about it in others. Now me, I might do that, but then yer'd expect it o’ me.” He smiled utterly without humor. “ Durban 's different. Nobody trusts me, but they trusted ‘im. That makes it somethin’ else, a kind o’ betrayal, right? Fer ‘im ter break the law is bad, very bad. Believe me, Miss, yer don't want ter know all about Mr. Durban, yer really don't. Neither does your good man. Saved my life twice over, ‘e did. Once in the river… oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “Din't ‘e tell you that?”

She stared at him with hatred.

His smile widened. “Yeah, could ‘a let me drown, but ‘e saved me. An’ then o'course all that evidence of ‘is in court. Reckon without that I would've ‘anged, fer sure. Not a pretty way ter go, Miss, the rope dance. Not at all. You don't want ter know what ‘appened ter poor Reilly, Miss, nor all about Mary Webber neither. Now here's a ferryboat come ter take yer ‘ome. Yer sleep well, an’ in the mornin’ go tend to yer clinic, an’ all them poor ‘ores wot yer bent on savin.” He turned and stalked away, consumed almost immediately by the shadows.

Hester stood on the steps shivering with rage, but also fear. She could not refute a single thing Phillips had said. She felt helpless, and so cold in the summer night that she might as well have fallen in the dark, swift-moving water.

The ferry was now bumping on the steps, the oarsman waiting.

“Yer want ter leave it, Miss ‘Ester?” Squeaky asked.

She could not see his face; they had their backs to the light now. How could she read his emotions from his voice? “Can it get any worse?” she asked. “Hasn't anything got to be better than accepting this?”

“‘Course it can!” he said instantly. “It can get a lot worse. Yer could find out that Durban killed Reilly, an’ Phillips can prove it.”

“No, he can't,” she said with a sudden burst of logic. “If he could prove that, he would have done so already, and destroyed Durban 's evidence without having to hope Rathbone could discredit us. It would have been much safer.”

“Then if yer want, I'm ‘appy ter go on. Nailin’ that bastard'd be better than a bottle o’ Napoleon Brandy.”

“Do you like Napoleon Brandy?” she said in surprise.

“No idea,” he admitted. “But I'd like ter find out!”

NINE

Hester slept late the next morning, and was far less disturbed than usual to find that Monk had already left. There was a note from him on the kitchen table. Scuff was nowhere to be seen, so she assumed that he had gone with Monk.

However, she was halfway through her breakfast of tea and toast when the boy appeared in the doorway looking anxious. He was already dressed and had obviously been out. He was holding a newspaper in his hands. He seemed uncertain whether to offer it to her or not. She knew he could not read, but she did not want to embarrass him by referring to the fact.

“Good morning,” she said casually. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“I ‘ad some,” he replied, coming a couple of steps into the kitchen.

“There is no reason not to have some more, if you would like it,” she offered. “It's only toast and jam, but the jam is very good. And tea, of course.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes following her hand with the toast in it. “Well, I don't mind if I do.”

“Then come and sit down, and I will make it for you.” She finished her own toast and raspberry jam, holding it in one hand while she cut and toasted more bread with the other.

They sat at opposite sides of the table and ate in silence for some time. He took apricot jam, twice.

“May I look at your newspaper please?” she asked at length.

“‘Course.” He pushed it over towards her. “I got it fer yer. Yer in't gonna like it.” He looked worried. “I ‘eard ‘em talkin’ around the newsboy, that's why I got it. They're sayin’ bad things.”

She reached for the paper and looked at the headlines, then opened it and read inside. Scuff was right, she did not like it at all. The suggestions were veiled, but they were not so very far from the sort of thing that Phillips had said on the dockside the previous evening. There were questions about the River Police, their record of success suspiciously high. But were the figures honest? How had they come to recruit a man as obsessed with personal vengeance as Durban had been-and apparently not just once, but twice? Was the new man, William Monk, any better? What was known about him? For that matter, what was known about any of them, including Durban?