Excellent new opportunity for business. Meet you on the boat, midnight. Be there, or I’ll give it to Jackie.

And underneath was a further note scrawled in a completely different hand:

Meet me at the dock, 11 o’clock. Don’t be late. Mickey.

Monk looked at the paper a few moments longer, feeling the texture of it between his fingers. It was good paper, pale blue and smooth, torn from a larger sheet.

He turned it over and saw on the other side what had apparently been part of a longer letter, or a list. This one was written in ink, but the words were harder to decipher, as if it were another language, perhaps Latin, although, with only half of some of the words, it was hard to tell. The letters were well formed, the script disciplined. He wondered where it came from.

“Thank you, ’Orrie,” Monk said in a whisper, letting his breath out slowly. “That is just about perfect.”

Chapter 8

CHAPTER
8

THE CHARGES HAD BEEN withdrawn against Rupert Cardew, and he was released from custody.

Once again the case was open.

Monk stood in the station at Wapping with the note ’Orrie had given him in his hand. It was strong evidence, but against whom? The pencil had smudged until it was only just legible, and the dirt and finger marks on that paper made it impossible to place. It could have been written by anyone.

Monk was not even certain if it was the man behind the blackmail, except who else would Parfitt have turned out for at that time of night? Anyone else he would simply have told to come at a more convenient hour. Who else but someone he knew, and trusted, would he have met alone, at night on the boat?

“Has to be,” Orme agreed. “But we aren’t going to tie it to anyone, with the note in that state. All it proves is that someone baited him to go there. And we know it was premeditated anyway, and with Cardew’s cravat.” Orme picked up the paper, turning it over in his hands. “Any idea where it came from?” he asked, squinting a little as he tried to read it, then looking up slightly at Monk.

“No,” Monk said honestly.

“Ballinger?” Orme said.

“Could be. Parfitt knew who it was from, or he wouldn’t have gone. Obviously he knew him well enough that no signature was necessary.”

Orme’s face was grim in the yellow glare of the lamplight. Outside, the wind was rising, and it was beginning to rain. It was going to be a choppy crossing on the ferry.

“Has to be the man behind the blackmail,” Orme said quietly. “We have to get it right this time.”