Execution Dock

“That's not all,” Monk went on, his voice shaking now. “I must publicly condemn Durban and say everything bad about him that I can, including his early involvement with the men who robbed the bank. Then I must retract all the charges I've made against Phillips, and say that they were motivated by my desire to vindicate Durban 's name, and pay my debt to him. His price is Scuffs life. If I don't, his death will be slow, and very unpleasant.”

She stared at him for interminable seconds, unable to grasp what he had said, then slowly it became clear, indelible, impossible to bear. “We must do it.” She felt as if she were a betrayer even as the words were on her lips, and yet any other answer was unthinkable. What happiness or honor could there ever be again if they let Phillips keep Scuff, and one day torture him to death? The power of terror and extortion was sickeningly clear, and without escape.

She saw something else in Monk's face, intelligence, understanding, and deeper horror.

“What is it?” she demanded, leaning forward as if to grasp him, and at the last moment stopping. “What do you know?”

“I was thinking that I should go to Rathbone and tell him about Ballinger,” he replied, almost in a whisper. “He needs to know, for his own sake, hideous as it will be for him. And he might be able to help; I don't know how.”

“Poor Oliver,” she said quietly. “But I would tell everybody any truth, if I had to, to get Scuff back.”

“Claudine thought Ballinger might have recognized her,” Monk said quietly, his voice rasping. “It seems he did, and told Phillips. That's why Phillips has taken Scuff now. They know the net is tightening.” His face was very pale, eyes hollow. “We have to get Scuff back, or get some hostage of our own that will force Phillips to let him go. I'll go to Rathbone…”

“I'm coming too,” she said instantly.

“No. I won't shut you out, I promise…”

“I'm coming! If you go after Scuff, and anyone is hurt, I can do more for them than any of the rest of you.” For the first time her glance took in Orme, pleading. “You know that!”

Monk turned back and faced her. “Yes, I do know it. I also know that you would not forgive me if anything went wrong and you might have prevented it, and I couldn't live with that. I give you my word that I will not go without you. Or Orme, if you'll come?” he added, looking at the other man.

“I'll come,” Orme said simply. “I'll get a boat ready, and some pistols.”

Monk nodded his thanks, and touched Hester's hand in passing. It was just a momentary warmth, skin to skin, and then it was gone.

Monk went straight to Rathbone's office and asked to see Oliver.

His clerk, Dobie, was apologetic. “I'm sorry, Mr. Monk, but Sir Oliver is with a client at the moment. I expect him to be free in half an hour, if it is urgent,” he said courteously.

“It is extremely urgent,” Monk replied. “Unless his client is coming up for trial tomorrow, it ca

“Oh, dear,” Dobie said with extreme distaste. “Did you say Scuff, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, sir. Would you please wait here?” He did not bother to ask Monk to be seated. He could see very well that he was too distressed to sit down.

Monk paced back and forth. The seconds seemed drawn out, even the minutest sound ringing in his ears.

Finally Dobie returned, solemn-faced. “Sir Oliver will see you immediately,” he said. “I shall ask all other clients to wait, until you inform me otherwise.”

“Thank you.” Monk strode past him and opened Rathbone's office door.

Rathbone turned, face pale, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” He did not elaborate; there was no need.

“Yes,” Monk replied, closing the door behind him. “He sent a message to say that if I didn't stop pursuing him, and blacken Durban 's name in public, he'd use Scuff in his trade, and then kill him.” It was difficult to even say the words, as if they gave it a more intense reality. “I'm going to get him back, and I need your help.”

Rathbone started to say that it was not a legal matter, then realized that of course Monk knew that. He had not yet come to the worst.

Monk told him quickly, sparing nothing. “Claudine Burroughs dressed as a match woman and went to try to find where they were selling Phillips's photographs. She succeeded in finding at least one shop. The photographs were appalling, but what matters is that she recognized one of the purchasers, because she knew him socially. She is afraid that he also recognized her, and that is why Phillips has attacked.”

Rathbone frowned. “I don't follow your logic. Why would Phillips do that? He won't care about individual customers, even if Mrs. Burroughs was right.”

Monk hesitated for the first time. He loathed doing this. “It was Arthur Ballinger,” he said quietly. “I think he warned Phillips that we are closing in on him, and this is Phillips's retaliation. I'm sorry.”

Rathbone stared at him, the blood draining from his face. He looked as if he had been struck such a blow as to rob him momentarily of thought, or the power to respond.

Monk wanted to apologize again, but he knew it was futile.

“It is the only thing that has changed,” he said aloud. “Before that, Phillips was wi

Rathbone moved to the chair and sat down slowly. “I'll do what I can.” His voice was hoarse.

“I'll do what I can to help you rescue Scuff,” he said, his voice strained. He stood up and swayed very slightly. “Sullivan is the weak link. He will know where Phillips's boat is, and I can force him to take us. He'll know the times and places because he goes there. I don't think we have time to waste.” He moved to the door.

Monk followed him. He wanted to ask about Ballinger's involvement, but the wound was too raw, and too deep to probe yet. He could barely imagine how it must hurt Rathbone, not for Ballinger, but for Margaret. He thought of Hester, whose father had taken his own life after a financial scandal that had ruined him. He had believed it to be the only decent way out, and he had had no fault but faith in a man who was beneath honor of any kind.

They took a cab and rode in silence to Sullivan's chambers. The hot air was sharp with the smells of horse dung, the leather inside the cab, and stale sweat.

Monk's imagination was crowded with fear for Scuff. How had he managed to get caught? How terrified he must have been when he recognized Phillips, knowing what lay ahead of him. Was he already burned, bleeding? Where would Phillips begin, slowly, delicately, or straight into the maximum pain? The sweat broke out and ran cold on his own skin as he tried to force the images out of his mind.

They reached Sullivan's chambers still without speaking again. It was understood that Rathbone would address the subject for both of them.

As expected, they were told to wait, and possibly Lord Justice Sullivan would see them. Rathbone replied that it was a police emergency, concerning a matter of the utmost personal importance to Sullivan, and that the man would rue the day he did so if he attempted to block their way.

Within half an hour they stood in Sullivan's rooms, facing a man who was both angry and frightened. His big body was clenched and shivering, sweat shining on his skin in the heat as the sun shone in through the long windows.

“What is it you want?” He ignored Monk and looked only at Rathbone, as if expecting the details from him.

He was not disappointed. Rathbone came immediately to the point.

“We wish you to take us to Jericho Phillips's boat tonight, secretly. If you do not, i