"Do you suppose he paid the money himself, or had someone else whom he trusted do it?" Monk asked when they were outside, matching his step to Runcorn's on the icy pavement.

"Toby?"

"Probably, but not necessarily. Who would even know where to find an assassin for money?"

Runcorn thought for a while, walking in silence. "Whom else would he trust?" he said at last.

"Can you trace the funds?" Monk asked him.

"Unless he's been saving it up penny by penny over the years, certainly I can. Havilland found something and Alan Argyll couldn't wait. He had to have got the money out of the bank, or wherever he kept it, and paid the assassin within a day or two of the actual murder. It's my case, Monk. I've got the men to put on it, and the authority to look at bank accounts or whatever it takes. I'll find out where Argyll was every minute of the week before Havilland was shot. And after. Unless he's a fool, he won't have paid all of it until the deed was done."

"What do you want me to do?" The words were not easy for Monk to say, but Runcorn's plan made sense. He could deploy his men to search, to question, to force out answers that Monk could not. And Monk needed to return to Wapping and start earning some of the loyalty he was going to need from his own men. Havilland's death was nothing to do with them.

Runcorn smiled. "Go back to your river," he replied. "I'll send you a message."

After two days the letter came, written in Runcorn's careful, overly neat hand. It was brought by a messenger and given to Monk personally.

Dear Monk,

Traced the money. Came from Alan Argyll's bank, but be gave it to Six-smith for expenses. Argyll can account for all his time, both before and after the event. Clever devil. No second sum paid. Could be lots of reasons for that-but if Sixsmith cheated him, then he's a fool!

I am sure Argyll is the man behind it, but it was Sixsmith who actually handed it over, whatever he believed he was paying for. Followed his movements, found where he did it. I have no choice but to arrest him straightaway. I am not happy. We have the servant, not the master, but I have to charge him. We still have work to do.

Runcorn

Monk thanked the messenger and scribbled a note of acknowledgment back.

Dear Runcorn,

I understand, but we damned well do have work to do! Everything I can do, I will. Count on me.

Monk

He gave it to the messenger. Then when the door was closed, he swore with a pent-up fury that shocked him.

Argyll had cheated them. They had followed the trail, and ended by being forced to arrest a man they knew was innocent, while Argyll watched them and laughed. Damn him!

It was three days before Monk had time to consider the Havilland’s case again. There was a large fire in one of the warehouses in the Pool of London, and the arsonists had attempted to escape by water. It was brought to a successful conclusion, but by the end of the second day Monk and his men were exhausted, filthy, and cold to the bone.

At half past eight, with the wind howling outside and the woodstove smelling of smoke, Monk was sitting in his office and finishing the last of his report when there was a knock on the door. He answered, and Clacton walked in, closing the door behind him. He came over to stand in front of the desk, looking casual and more elegant than perhaps he was aware.

"What is it?" Monk asked.

"Worked pretty 'ard the last couple o' days," Clacton observed.

"We all did," Monk replied. If Clacton was expecting any leave, he would be disappointed.

"Yeah," Clacton agreed. "You most of all… sir."

Monk was uncomfortable. He saw the gleam of anticipation in Clacton 's eyes. "You didn't come in here to tell me that."

"Oh, but I did, sir," Clacton responded. "I know 'ow 'ard it must 'a bin for you, wot with your own business on the side an' all. Can't 'ave 'ad much time for that."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Monk demanded.

Clacton blinked and smiled. "Yer bit o' private work. For Mr. Argyll, is it? Findin' out 'oo killed 'is pa-in-law, and get 'em off the 'ook? Worth a bit, I shouldn't wonder." He left the added suggestion hanging in the air.

Monk's mind raced. He had envisioned all kinds of attack from Clacton, even the remote possibility of physical violence. He had not foreseen this insinuation. How should he deal with it? Laughter, anger, honesty? What would Clacton 's next move be?

"Din't think I knew, did yer?" Clacton said with satisfaction. "Look down on the rest of us like we're beneath you. Not as clever as the great Mr. Monk! 'Oo don't know a damn thing when it comes ter the river. Come to 'ave Orme 'old yer 'and or yer'd fall in! Well, the rest of 'em might be stupid, but I'm not. I know wot yer doin, an' if yer don't want Farnham ter know as well, yer'd be wise ter let me 'ave a bit o' the price."

There was no time to weigh the consequences.

"I doubt Mr. Argyll will pay me for anything I've found out so far," Monk said dryly. "It looks like he's responsible for Havilland's death."

"Yeah?" Clacton 's fair eyebrows rose. "But it's Sixsmith they've arrested. Now why would that be, d'yer think? A bit o' shiftin' around of evidence, mebbe?"

Monk was cold and tired, and his bones ached, but now he was assailed by fear also. He recognized both cunning and hatred in the young man in front of him. There was no loyalty to Durban or anyone else, just pure self-interest. Monk had no time to care why. Clacton was dangerous.

"Do you think you can find this supposed evidence?" he asked bluntly.

Clacton 's eyes were bright and narrow. "Yer bettin' I can't?"

"I'll be happy if you can," Monk replied. "It's Argyll I want!"

For the first time Clacton was thrown off balance. "That's stupid! 'Oo'll pay yer?"

"Her Majesty," Monk replied. "There's a conspiracy behind Havilland's death. Thousands of pounds in the construction business, and a lot of power to be gained. Go and tell Mr. Farnham what you think, by all means. But you'd be better to go and get on with your job, and be glad you still have one."

Clacton was confused. Now he was the one needing to weigh his chances, and it angered him. The tables had turned, and he had barely even seen it happen.

"I still know yer crooked!" he said between his teeth. "An' I'll catch yer one day!"

"No," Monk told him, "you won't. You'll fall over yourself. Now get out!"

Slowly, as if still unsure whether he had another weapon left, Clacton turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Monk could see that as soon as he was in the main room his swagger returned.

Monk's tea was cold, but he did not want to go and get more. His hand was trembling, and the breath caught in his throat. Clacton 's accusation had been worse than he expected.

The following morning he went to Sir Oliver Rathbone's office. Monk was prepared to wait as long as necessary, but it proved to be no more than an hour. Rathbone came in elegantly dressed in a wool overcoat against the biting east wind. He looked surprised to see Monk, but pleased. Since he had realized how much he loved Margaret Ballinger his rivalry with Monk had softened considerably. It was as if he had reached a kind of inner safety at last, and was now open to a gentler range of emotions.

"Monk! How are you?" Rathbone was very different from Monk, a man of excellent education, comfortable with himself. His elegance was entirely natural.

Monk smiled. In the beginning Rathbone had discomfited him, but time and experience had shown Monk the humanity beneath the veneer. "I need your help in a case."

"Of course-why else would you be here in the middle of the morning?" Rathbone made no attempt to conceal his amusement or his interest. If Monk was out of his depth legally, then it offered an interesting problem, which was exactly what he craved. "Sit down and tell me."