Free Acceptable Loss by Anne Perry Page A

in his boat.”
    “I dunno,” ’Orrie said helplessly. “Yer suppose ’e told the likes o’ me?”
    “No, ’Orrie, I suppose you had enough sense to see for yourself!”
    ’Orrie shook his head. “Not me. I never bin on the boat. I took folk out an’ I brung ’em back. I dunno wot they done. Gamblin’, mebbe?” He looked hopeful.
    Monk stared at him. With his swiveling eye it was impossible totell if he was frightened, half-witted, or simply physically disadvantaged. Monk considered asking him what the boys were for, but perhaps it would be better to keep that question for later. Let ’Orrie wonder for a while where they had gone to. Or perhaps he really didn’t know. It might have been Crumble, or even Tosh, who’d looked after them.
    ’Orrie smiled. “Ask Tosh. ’E’ll know,” he offered.
    Monk thanked him and went in search of Tosh. It took him nearly an hour, and a great deal of questioning, but at last he found him in a cramped but surprisingly tidy office. There was a woodstove burning in one corner, in spite of the comparative warmth of the day. Instantly Monk knew what had happened, and cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have left someone following Tosh, and probably Crumble as well. Then they would have found the papers in time to save them. Tosh and Crumble might deny it, but Mickey was bound to have had certain things noted down: debts and IOUs, if nothing else.
    Tosh looked up at Monk, his face calm, even affecting interest. “Found anything yet as ter ’oo killed poor Mickey?” he inquired politely. Today he had a yellow vest on, and he flicked a piece of ash off it carefully.
    Monk stood still in the middle of the floor, three feet from Tosh and the stove, controlling his anger with difficulty. “Business rival or a dissatisfied customer,” he replied. “Or one who couldn’t take being blackmailed anymore. Like the poor sod who shot himself on the river last year.”
    Tosh’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. “Dunno why ’e did that,” he said smoothly. “Could a bin anything. Mebbe ’is wife ran orff. It ’appens.”
    “Rubbish!” Monk snapped at him. “Upper-class women with rich husbands don’t run off with other men and create a scandal. They stay at home and take lovers on the side. They do it very discreetly, and everybody else pretends not to know. Leaves the husbands the latitude to do the same, should they wish to.”
    “Looks like you know ’em better ’n I do,” Tosh replied with a slight sneer. “But, then, I s’pose you would, bein’ police an’ all. So you’d be best placed to guess why ’at poor bastard shot ’isself. Don’tsee as ’ow it ’as anything ter do wiv ’oo croaked Mickey. In fact, ’e’s fer sure one ’o them ’oo didn’t, seein’ as e’s dead ’isself.”
    Monk ignored the jibe. “Revenge?” he suggested. “One of the dead man’s family coming after Mickey, maybe?”
    “Only makes sense if Mickey’d killed ’im.” Tosh was watching him very carefully now. “Which ’e didn’t.”
    Monk smiled. “I thought you’d know about it.”
    A flicker of anger crossed Tosh’s face. “I dunno nothing about it!”
    “What did Mickey sell to his customers, Tosh? And don’t tell me again that you don’t know. You’ve just destroyed all the papers, except those that prove his ownership of the boat, so that you can keep it for yourself.”
    There was an ugly stain of color in Tosh’s face now, but he didn’t attempt to deny it. “Jus’ burned a few private things. A man’s a right ter that. In’t you got no respect for the dead? Mickey were the victim of a murder! In’t it your job ter be on ’is side?” He looked up, his eyes gleaming with bright, malicious innocence.
    Monk looked back, equally blankly, wondering where the blackmailing photographs were. He glanced around the small room. There were cupboards and drawers on every wall, as if for an office of detailed business dealings. Here there