Monk remembered the corpse’s withered arm. “I assume Mr. Parfitt was not able to row himself? Was this usually Mr. Jones’s job?”

“Yes. ’E obeys well enough, but not much use for anything else.”

“I see. And do you know for yourself that what he says is true, or do you just believe him?”

Tosh’s eyes opened very wide with exaggerated surprise, sending a row of wrinkles up his forehead. “I believe ’im ’cos it makes sense, and ’e ’asn’t the wit to lie. One of the benefits of employing idiots—they’re not imaginative enough to tell a decent lie. And ’aven’t the brains to remember it if they did.”

Monk forbore from responding to that. “So after he had appealed to you, at about six-thirty in the morning,” he continued, “you told him to go back to bed, but in fact ’Orrie actually continued to search for Mr. Parfitt along the riverbank?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Tosh confirmed.

“Remarkable that in so short a time he actually found him, don’t you think?” Monk asked. “It’s a big river, lots of weeds and obstructions, tides in and out, and traffic.”

Tosh blinked. “ ’Adn’t thought of it like that, but o’ course you’re right. Remarkable it is, sir.”

“I think this would be a good time to meet this Mr. ’Orrible Jones,” Monk observed.

“Oh, yes, sir.” Tosh blinked and smiled, showing very white and curiously pointed teeth.

THEY FOUND ’ORRIE JONES sweeping the sawdust on the floor of a pub just off one of the alleys leading down to the riverfront. Coburn pointed him out, although there was no need. He was stout and of less than average height. He was an unusually ugly man. His brown hair grew at all angles from his head, rather like the spines of a hedgehog. His nose was broad, but it was his eyes that were his most unnerving feature.

“Mornin’ ’Orrie,” Coburn said cheerfully, stopping in front of him.

’Orrie grasped the broom handle, his knuckles white. One large, dark eye was fixed balefully on the constable; the other wandered toward the far corner. Monk had no idea whether ’Orrie could see him or not.

“Yer found ’oo done that ter Mickey?” ’Orrie demanded.

“Done what?” Monk inquired, wanting to know if ’Orrie was aware of the strangulation, before Coburn mentioned it.

“Pushed ’im in the water.” ’Orrie shifted his gaze, or at least half of it.

“Could he swim?” Monk asked.

“Not with ’is ’ead stove in,” ’Orrie replied. His face was so vacant, Monk was not sure if he felt anger, pity, or even disinterest. It set Monk at an unexpected disadvantage.

“It doesn’t surprise you that he is dead?” Monk asked.

’Orrie’s gaze wandered round the room. “Don’t surprise me when nobody’s dead,” he replied.

Monk found himself irritated. It was a perfectly reasonable answer, and yet it sidestepped the real question. Was that intentional?