He had learned a lot since then. His character had become harder, his mind faster, more agile, more patient to wait his chance, less tolerant of stupidity, less afraid of either success or failure.

The snow was settling on his collar and seeping down his neck. He was shuddering with cold. Other people were dim forms in the gloom. In the streets the gutters were running over. He could smell the stench of middens and sour drains.

There was a pattern in these rapes. The violence was the same… and always unnecessary. They were not seeking unwilling women.

God help them, they were only too willing. These were not professional prostitutes. They were desperate women who worked honestly when they could, and went to do the streets only when hunger drove them.

Why not the professional prostitutes? Because they had men who looked after them. They were merchandise, too valuable to risk. If anyone was going to beat them, disfigure them, reduce their value, it would be the pimps, the 'owners', and it would be for a specific reason, probably punishment for thieving, for individual enterprise instead of returning their takings to their masters.

He had already ruled out a rival trying to take over a territory. These women did not share their takings with anyone. They certainly did not threaten any regular prostitute's living. Anyway, a pimp would beat, but he would not rape. This had none of the marks of an underworld crime. There was no profit in it. People who lived on the edge of survival did not waste energy and resources on pointless violence time after time.

He turned a corner and the wind was bitter and stung his skin, making his eyes water. He wanted to go home, weigh what he had heard and plan a strategy. But these crimes had happened at night. Night was the time when he should look for other witnesses, cab drivers who had picked up fares and taken them from the edge of Seven Dials back westwards. It was less than honest to go to his own warm rooms, hot food and clean bed, and tell himself he was trying to find the man who had done these senseless and bestial things.

He stopped off at a public house and had a hot pie and a glass of stout and felt at least fortified, if not comforted. He thought of scraping a conversation with some of the other patrons, or with the landlord, and decided against it. He did not yet want to be known as an agent of enquiry. Word would spread rapidly enough. Let Vida do the more obvious asking. She belonged here and would be respected, probably even told the truth.

He worked until long after midnight, trudging the streets on the edges of Seven Dials, generally to the west and north, towards Oxford Street and Regent Street, speaking to cabby after cabby, always asking the same questions. The very last was typical of them all.

"Where to, guy?”

"Home… Fitzroy Street," Monk replied, still standing on the pavement.

"Right.”

"Often work this patch?”

"Yeah, why?”

"Sorry to take you so far out of your way." He put his foot on the step, taking his time.

The cabby gave a sharp laugh. "That's wot I'm 'ere fer. Jus' round the corner in't no good terme.”

"Take a few trips north and west, do you?”

"Some. Are yer getting' in or not?”

"Yes," Monk answered, without doing so. "Do you remember taking a couple of gentlemen from this area, probably about this time of night, or later, who were a bit roughed up, maybe wet, maybe scratched or bruised, back up west?”

"Why? Wot's it toyer if I did? I take lots o' gents ter lots o' places. "Ere, 'oo are yer, an' wy dyer wanna know fer?”

"Some of the local women around here have been beaten, pretty badly,”

Monk replied. "And I think it was by men from somewhere else, probably west, well-dressed men, who came down here for a little sport, and took it too far. I'd like to find them.”

"Would yer!" The cabby was hesitating, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of co-operation. "W'y? Them women belong toyer, do they?”

"I'm bein' paid for it," Monk said honestly. "It's worth it to someone to have it stopped.”

"Oo? Some pimp? Look, I in't standin' 'ere all night answering damn silly questions for yer, less you pays, right?”

Monk fished in his pocket and brought out half a crown. He held it where the cabby could see it, but did not yet offer it.

"For Vida Hopgood, whose husband owns the shop where they work. She doesn't approve of rape. I take it you don't care?”

The cabby swore, his voice angry. "Oo the 'ell are you ter tell me I don' care, yer bleedin' toff from up west yerself? Them bastards come down 'ere an' took a woman, an' used 'er like dirt, then go ridin' back 'ome like they'd bin on a day's outin' in the city!" He spat with terse contempt.

Monk handed him the half-crown and he bit it automatically.

"So where did you pick them up, and where did you take them?" Monk asked.

"Pick 'em up Brick Lane," the cabby replied. "An' took 'em up ter Portman Square. "Nother time took 'em ter Eaton Square. Don't mean ter say that's where they lives. You in't got a cat in 'ell's chance o' finding 'em. And wot if yer do? "Oo dyer thinks gonna believe some poor bitch from Seven Dials agin' a toff from up west? They'll say she's sellin' 'erself, so wot's wrong if 'e's a bit rough? "E's bought and paid for it, in't 'e? They don't give decent women much of a chance wot's bin raped. Wot chance 'as an 'ore got?”

"Not much," Monk said miserably. "But there are other ways, if the law will do nothing.”

"Yeah?" The cabby's voice lifted in a moment's hope. "Like wot? Top the bastard yerself? Yer'd only get strung up for it, in the end.

Rozzers'll never let murder of a gent go. They won't upset their selves too much over it if some 'ore from down 'ere gets bashed over the 'ead, an' dies of it. "Appens all the time. But let some gent get a shiv in 'is gut an' all 'ell'll get loose. There'll be rozzers up an' dahn every street. I tell yer, it in't worth it. We'll all pay, mark my words.”

"I was thinking of something a little subtler," Monk replied with a tight, wolfish smile.

"Yeah? Like wot?" But the cabby was listening now, leaning sideways over his box, peering at Monk in the lamplight through the snow.

"Like making sure everyone knows about it," Monk replied. "Making it a news item, with details.”

"They don't care!" The cabby's disappointment was palpable. "Is friends'll all think it's clever. Wot's one 'ore ter them?”

"His friends might not care," Monk replied savagely. "But his wife will! His parents-in-law will, especially his mother-in-law!”

The cabby blasphemed under his breath.

"And maybe his investors, or his society friends' wives, the mothers of the girls his sons hope to marry, or of the men his daughters do," Monk continued.

"Or'right! Or'right!" the cabby snapped. "I un' understand yer. Wot yer wanna know? I don' know 'oo they was. I wouldn't know 'em now if yer marched 'em in front o' me. But then I don' s'pose I'd know you temorrer, an' these geezers kep' their faces away. I jus' thought it were cos they fancied they were too good ter talk ter the likes o' me.

Jus' give orders…”

"What orders?" Monk said quickly.

"Drive 'em north an' drop 'em in Portman Square. They said they'd walk 'ome from there. Careful sods, eh? I din' think nothin' of it then.

They don't even 'ave ter live near Portman Square. Could've got another 'ansom from there ter were ver they lives. Could be any place.”

"It's a start.”

"Go on! Even the bleedin' rozzers couldn't find 'em from that!”

"Maybe, but they've been here a dozen times or more. There'll be a common factor somewhere, and if there is, I'll find it," Monk said in a low, bitter voice. "I'll ask all the other cabbies, people on the street, and there are plenty of those. Someone saw them, someone will know. They'll make a mistake. They will already have made one, maybe several.”