“In't nothing compared with the water,” the bargee said, still with a smile. He fished in the pocket of his blue coat and brought out a bottle.

“ ' Ave a drop o' this. It don't cure much but the cold, but that's somethin'!”

Monk hesitated. It could be any rotgut, but he was frozen and bitterly angry. He had come so close.

“Not if yer goin' to jump, mind,” the bargee said, pulling a face. “Waste o' good rum. Jamaickey, that is. Nothin' else like it. Ever bin ter Jamaickey?”

“No. No, I haven't.” It was probably true, and it hardly mattered. The man held out the bottle again.

Monk took it and put it to his lips. It was rum, a good rum too. He took a swig and felt the fire go down his throat. He passed it back.

“Thank you.”

“Why don't ye come away from the water an' have a bite ter eat. I got a pie. Ye can have half.”

Monk knew how precious the pie was, a whole pie. The man's kindness made him feel suddenly vulnerable again. There was too much that was worth caring about.

“That's good of you,” he said gently. “But I have to catch up with a man, and I keep just missing him.”

“What sort of a man?” the bargee said doubtfully, although he must have heard the change in Monk's voice, even if he could not see his expression in the waning light.

“Caleb Stone,” Monk replied. “A violent sort of man, who almost certainly murdered his brother. I don't suppose I can prove that, not when the body could be anywhere. But I want to know if he's dead, for the widow's sake.

I don't give a damn about Caleb.”

“Don't ye? He murdered his brother, and ye don't care?” the bargee said with a sideways squint.

“I'd prove it if I could,” Monk admitted. “But I'm hired to prove the brother's dead, so she can at least have what's hers and feed his children.

I think she'd sooner have that than revenge. Wouldn't you?”

“Aye,” the bargee agreed. “Aye, I would that. So ye want Caleb?”

“Yes.” Monk stared fixedly at the darkening river. Was it worth trying to get across to the other side now? He had no idea where to start looking, or even if Caleb might have doubled back and by now be safe in some comfortable public house in the Isle of Dogs.

“I'll take ye,” the bargee offered suddenly. “I know where 'e's gone.

Leastways, I know where Vs likely gone. I don't do wi' leavin' baims without a father. He's a bad one, Caleb.”

“Thank you,” Monk accepted before the man had time to change his mind.

“What's your name? Mine's Monk.”