Lower down, closer to the water’s edge, one old man with tattooed arms was caulking the sides of a boat, his feet now and then shifting as the water seeped up through the shingle and soaked his boots.

They were sheltered from the breeze. The tide slurped on the stone of the slipway. There was a smell of river mud and wet wood.

’Orrie looked up and saw Monk approaching, and his face took on a look of infinite weariness.

“You again,” he sighed. “In’t it enough yer ’ang the poor bastard, yer gotta ’it every nail inter ’is coffin as well?”

“Have to be sure it fits, ’Orrie, just like those pieces you’re putting together.”

“So wot is it now, then?” ’Orrie’s good eye swiveled around.

“When did Mickey ask you to row him out to the boat?”

“I dunno!”

“Yes, you do. Think!”

’Orrie met his eyes and gave him that rare focused look of total clarity. “Why? What does it matter now? Don’t make no difference to ’oo killed ’im.”

“You tell the defense lawyer that, ’Orrie. If you can’t answer, he’ll pick your life apart detail by detail, and—”

“I dunno when ’e decided ter go out ter the boat!” ’Orrie protested angrily. “But ’e din’t ask me until a bit before eleven. I know ’cos I jus’ started a pint, an’ I ’ad ter put it down.”

“At the pub?”

“O’ course at the pub! D’yer think I were pullin’ it out o’ the river?”

“I don’t care where you got it. Why did Mickey decide so late? Were you at his beck and call anytime?”

’Orrie stiffened. “No, I weren’t! I weren’t ’is bleedin’ servant. Summink came up.”

Monk nodded, trying to curb his impatience and look encouraging. “An appointment, unexpectedly?”

“Right!”

“And he thought it was important enough to go? Not so convenient for him either. Was he angry? Or afraid?”

“No, ’e weren’t. ’E were ’appy.”

“Why?”

’Orrie drew in his breath, looked at Monk, weighed up his best advantage, and decided to answer. “Well, it don’t matter now. The poor sod’s dead, eh? ’E thought as it were a good chance o’ new business. But don’t waste yer breath askin’ me wot, ’cos I dunno.”

“Of course you don’t. Did he come for you personally, or did he send you a note?” He made his tone deliberately insulting. “Maybe someone read it for you?”

“I read it meself!” ’Orrie snapped. “Jus’ ’cos I got a walleye don’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Really? What did you do with the note?”

“I kept it ’o course. Never know when yer gonna need paper for summink.”

’Orrie fished in his trouser pocket and slammed a grimy piece of paper onto the wood he was working with. He glared at Monk.

Monk picked up the paper and saw written in an untidy but obviously educated script: