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newspaper writers trampling all over the place or the commissioner expecting results before you begin,” Monk replied.
    Runcorn paled. “I know that, Monk! I don’t need you to tell me! Either say something helpful or go back to finding lost dogs, or whatever it is you do these days.” Then instantly his eyes were hot with regret, but he could not take back the words, and Monk was the last man to whom he would admit error, let alone ask for help.
    At another time Monk might have relished Runcorn’s discomfort, but now he needed his cooperation. However much they both disliked it, neither could see how to achieve what he wished without the other.
    Runcorn was the first to yield. He picked up a pen, although he had no paper in front of him. His fingers gripped it hard. “Well, do you know anything useful, or not?” he demanded.
    Monk was caught out by the directness of the question. He saw the recognition of it in Runcorn’s eyes. He had to allow him to taste the small victory. It was the only way he could take the next step. “Not yet,” he admitted. “Tell me what you have so far, and if I can help, then I will.” Now he sat down, crossing his legs comfortably and waiting.
    Runcorn swallowed his temper and began. “Number twelve, Acton Street. Cleaning woman found two bodies this morning when she went in around half past eight. Both roughly in their late thirties, the sergeant guessed, and both killed by having their necks broken. Looks like there was a struggle. Carpet rumpled up, chair on its side.”
    “Do you know which woman was killed first?” Monk cut in.
    “No way to tell.” There was resentment in Runcorn’s voice but none in his face. He wanted Monk’s help, whatever the emotions between them; he knew he needed it, and at the moment that overrode all past history. “The other woman was apparently Allardyce’s model, and she sort of half lived there.” He let the sentence hang with all its ugly judgments.
    Monk did not skirt around it. “So it’s going to look like jealousy of some sort.”
    Runcorn pulled the corners of his mouth down. “The model was half undressed,” he conceded. “And Allardyce was nowhere to be found this morning. He turned up about ten and said he’d been out all night. Haven’t had time yet to check if that’s true.” He put the pen down again.
    “Doesn’t make sense,” Monk observed. “If he wasn’t there, why did Mrs. Beck go for a sitting? If she arrived and found him gone, is she the sort of woman to have sat around talking to the model?”
    “Not if that’s all she went for.” Runcorn bit his lip, his face full of misery. He did not need to explain the pitfalls for a policeman faced with proving that the daughter of an eminent figure was having an affair, one so sordid in its nature that it had ended in a double murder, with an artist.
    There would also be no way whatever of avoiding dragging Kristian into it. No man would take lightly his wife’s betraying him in such a way. In spite of himself, Monk felt a twinge of pity for Runcorn, the more so knowing his pretensions to social acceptability and the long, hard journey he had made towards being respected, rather than merely tolerated, by those he admired. He would never achieve what he wished, and it would continue to hurt him. Monk had the polish in his manner, the elegance of dress to pass for a gentleman, partly because he did not care if he succeeded or not. Runcorn cared intensely, and it betrayed him every time.
    “Would it help if I were to see what I can learn in a round-about way?” Monk offered casually. “Through friends, rather than by direct questioning?” He watched Runcorn struggle with his pride, his dislike of Monk, and his appreciation of just how awkward the situation could become and his own inadequacy to deal with it. He was trying to gauge what help Monk would be and how willing he was to try. What did he want out of it, and how far could he be trusted?
    Monk waited.
    “I