By night it was also notorious for its lewd dancing, its drinking and assignations of all kinds, some consummated on the spot, as the bushes, narrower walks, and grottoes allowed. Other assignations, further outside the law, would happen elsewhere, less publicly.

“Who took ’em all out and back for their evening’s entertainment from up here?” Orme asked, more of himself than of Monk.

“Probably ’Orrie or Crumble,” Monk replied as they watched the light fade over the stretch of the river, flies dipping lazily on the water, fish making little rings of ripples as they broke the surface. “But if they say it was gambling, it would be difficult to prove otherwise.”

“What were the children doing?” Orme said sarcastically. “Serving their brandy? D’you suppose they could tell us anything?” His voice cracked a little. “Some of them are only five or six years old. They don’t even know what happened to them. They think they’re being punished for something they did.”

Monk looked at Orme’s face in the evening light, blunt, almost bruised by this new realization about himself. Orme had served the law all his life, and now he doubted what they were doing.

A few days ago Monk had wondered if Orme had thought Monk was squeamish, too soft to do his job. Now he saw in Orme’s averted face exactly the same pain he felt himself. But victims need justice, not pity. He thought of Scuff, and wondered if either was really any good. What they needed was for it not to have happened in the first place.

IT WAS FIRST THING the following morning when the police surgeon reported to Monk regarding the death of Mickey Parfitt. The surgeon was a dark man, thin-faced with a gallows humor. He found Monk in the Chiswick Police Station studying the records they had re-created regarding the finances of Parfitt’s business.

“Morning,” the surgeon said cheerfully, closing the door behind him firmly.

They had met several times before. “Good morning, Dr. Gordimer,” Monk replied. “I assume you have something on Parfitt’s death?”

“Came for the hospitality,” Gordimer replied bleakly, staring around the small, chaotic office with its piles of books and papers balanced precariously on every available surface. Any misplaced addition would send at least one pile crashing. “This is better than the morgue—marginally. Well, warmer at least.”

“I prefer the Dog and Duck,” Monk said drily.

Gordimer grunted. “Do you normally make this much mess? Have you lost something? You’ll probably lose it all at this rate.”

“Have you got anything new about Parfitt? I already know he was hit over the head and then strangled.”

“Ah, but what with?” Gordimer said with satisfaction.

“Rope? Twine? Something better?” Monk put down the paper he was reading and stared hopefully at the surgeon’s sardonic face.