Page 35 of Blood on the Water (William Monk 19)

“Yeah? An’ wot’s pudding?”

“Jam tart and custard.”

That did not require any considering at all. “Wot else d’yer wanna know?”

Big Bessie could be found easily enough. Squeaky would certainly be able to do that, and probably know the appropriate pressure to bear on her to gain the desired information. That it was so carefully planned at all was interesting in itself—well worth a fried sausage.

“I would like to know Big Bessie’s clients, but I don’t imagine you have access to that. Perhaps at least whoever she usually uses to provide the food and drink for such occasions, and music? Or anything else that would be customary.”

“Be wot?”

“Anyone else involved.” Claudine looked narrowly at the girl and saw fear, hunger, and an underlying, constant rage. Her life held little pleasure, and much uncertainty and pain. “If you can bring me anything like that, for certain, or if it’s a guess, then say so—no lies—then it’s worth a meal. We eat every day, about this time.”

Amy weighed her up. “Wot about that ’ol git? Wot if you in’t ’ere?”

“Then tell Mr. Robinson. I shall let him know of our bargain. But don’t lie. He will be ver

y unpleasant if he’s lied to.”

“Yer mean worse than ’e is now?” Amy asked incredulously.

“Yes, I do. Very much worse. But if I’ve given you my word then he will honor it.”

Amy took a deep breath. “Yeah … all right. Now I want me sausage an’ mash. An’ onions!”

“You will have it. Go and sit at the table.”

“YOU DID WHAT?” SQUEAKY demanded of Claudine. “That dozy piece o’ string? You—”

Claudine raised her eyebrows and stared at him coolly. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Robinson?”

Squeaky muttered under his breath, but conceded the victory. It was a very interesting piece of information, well worth a couple of sausages.

CHAPTER

8

MONK WENT BACK TO the beginning, starting with sitting on the river in one of the police boats, oars at rest, facing Orme, who was at the tiller keeping the boat headed into the stream. They ignored the steady flow of traffic passing them: pleasure boats, ferries, heavy-laden barges. They were barely conscious of the sound of the hurdy-gurdy music on the shore.

“What do you remember?” Monk asked grimly. He did not want to have to go over this again, but there was no other sensible way to begin. He did not prompt Orme. He wanted to see if he too had noticed the man going over the side of the Princess Mary the moment before the explosion.

Orme was quiet, his face somber. Yesterday he had been full of anecdotes about the new granddaughter. Today it seemed bad taste, even bad luck, to speak of her at the same time as of those who had died so suddenly and violently.

“Seemed like any other summer evening,” Orme began. “Lots of traffic, just the usual stuff. Remember someone crossing off toward mid-stream. String o’ barges near the far bank, and another about thirty yards behind them.”

“How many ferries?” Monk interrupted.

Orme thought a moment, visualizing it. “Three that I remember. One coming crosswise, about twenty yards behind us, level with the Princess Mary; another nearer the bank, as if they were waiting for her to get out of the way, and the rest to pass, before going in to the stairs. Another one out there,” he gestured. “Level with us. Don’t remember any more close. Don’t know what was behind, upriver of us.”

“Do you remember the explosion?”

Orme’s eyes widened. “Like I’d forget!”

“What did you see?”

Orme started to speak, then stopped. He stared at Monk.

Monk waited.