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“Yes, sir. It was a cold night,” Monk agreed, biting his temper with great difficulty. Private work might leave him frighteningly short of money, but it afforded him the luxury of not putting up silently with remarks like that. He had to remind himself with cruel bluntness what it would cost him to retaliate now. “It was a harsh night,” he added. “It was snowing quite hard when I got home at half past one.”
Farnham looked irritated. “Chasing that suicide again? Do I have to remind you that river crime is up, which is our business—your business, Monk? There aren’t many passenger boats on the water this time of year, but the few there are are experiencing more thefts than usual, and we aren’t doing anything about it! Some people are suggesting that is because we don’t care to.” His face was hard and there were blotches of color in his cheeks.
Monk realized Farnham was losing control of his anger again, because the emotion inside him was too powerful to govern. It was fear, the possibility of disgrace to the police force he loved and which was his source not only of income and power, but of his belief in himself.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Monk said dutifully. “That perception is completely wrong. We care very much, and we must prove it.”
“Yes, you damned well must!” Farnham agreed vehemently. “Suicides are tragic, but they happen. It’s hard enough for the surviving family members without you nosing around asking pointless questions and
keeping it in the forefront of everybody’s minds.”
He started to pace up and down. He had apparently forgotten his tea. “People are saying that the River Police are corrupt!” The pink deepened in his cheeks. “That has never happened before since I’ve been in the force! They even said we’re taking a rake-off ourselves!” He stopped mid-stride and glared at Monk, his eyes bright and hot. “I won’t have my force destroyed by that slander. I lost my best man in Durban. He was wise, brave, and loyal, and above all he was honest. He knew this river like his own backyard, and he knew its people, good and bad.” He jabbed his finger at Monk. “No one would have said such a monstrous thing about us if he were alive. I don’t expect you to take his place. You wouldn’t know where to begin! But you’ll clear up this mess and prove we don’t look the other way at crime, any crime! And we take nothing out of it but our pay, which is hard earned by the best bunch of men who ever wore Her Majesty’s uniform! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Good. Then get out and begin to do what you are hired for. Good day.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Monk went back to the outer room and his own desk, where the reports were of monetary theft. None of the men commented, but he felt Clacton’s eyes on him. The patrol had already gone out before Monk had arrived. He read the account of the night’s events, the usual minor thefts, disturbances, and accidents. There was only one major incident, but it had narrowly avoided becoming a disaster, largely due to the rapid action of the River Police on duty.
Monk made a note to himself to congratulate the men concerned, and to do it as publicly as possible.
Farnham was not exaggerating. The thefts reported on the passenger boats going up and down the river had increased alarmingly. He had read the old reports from the same time last year, in Durban’s neat, strong hand, and it had more than doubled since then. The escalation had come since Monk had taken over.
Was that coincidence? Or had the thieves taken advantage of a new and slacker regime, a commander who was ignorant of a great deal of their names and habits, their connections with one another, their methods and tricks? A commander who also did not know his own men and whose men in turn had little confidence in him?
Then a darker and even uglier thought forced itself into his mind. Were Durban’s figures a good deal less than accurate? Was it possible that for his own reasons he had altered them, either to hide the true degree of crime or—a thought that was even more painful—because the accusers were right and the police were pocketing some of the takings themselves?
No. He refused to think that. Durban would not have stolen. Monk had known Durban only briefly and had not only admired him but liked him as a friend and companion. But who knew what other friends he had, or enemies, what debts paid and unpaid?
He realized with surprise that he intended to protect Durban—from Farnham, from whoever it was that accused them of corruption, even from Orme if necessary. It was not a matter of paying his own debt; it was simply out of friendship.
How to build such a defense was a great deal more difficult. He sat looking through the figures of recent crime again, reading and rereading them, trying to see a pattern in order to understand what had changed. Half an hour later he was forced to accept that he did not know any more than when he had begun.
He could not afford the luxury of pride and would have to ask one of his men. He sent for Orme. Confiding in him was a risk. If he did not understand what Monk was trying to do, he might feel confused and defensive, fearing that he was seeking to undermine Durban and establish himself on the ruin of another man’s reputation.
If he already knew of the corruption and even was a party to it, then Monk would have left himself vulnerable in a way that might prove his ultimate defeat. With Orme against him he could not succeed in any part of his job.
“Yes, sir?” Orme stood in front of him, his jacket buttoned straight, his clean collar fastened a little tightly around his neck. He looked anxious.
“Close the door and sit down,” Monk invited, indicating the wooden chair near the far side of his desk. “Mr. Farnham says that thefts have gone up alarmingly on the passenger boats,” he said when Orme had obeyed. “Looking at the figures in all the reports, he’s right. They’re much higher than this time last year. Is that coincidence, or is there something I have neglected to do?”
Orme stared at him, evidently confused by his candor. Perhaps in the work they had done together he had already realized that Monk was a proud man and had difficulty relying on anyone else.
All Monk’s instincts were to retreat, but he could not afford to. He had everything to gain from winning Orme’s trust, and everything to lose without it. He forced himself to speak gently. “Mr. Farnham says that there are people suggesting we are corrupt. We have to clear this up and prove them wrong—or liars, if that’s what they are.”
Orme paled, his body stiff. His eyes met Monk’s in a puzzled, unhappy gaze.
“The River Police have had a name for honesty for over half a century,” Monk went on, his own voice quiet and angry. “I won’t have it changed now! How do we stop this, Mr. Orme?”
Orme snapped to attention. Suddenly he realized Monk was asking his help, not somehow challenging him, and far less blaming him.
“There’s a lot fer us to do, sir,” he said carefully, as if testing Monk’s intent.
“There is,” Monk agreed. “There are the usual fights and robberies in the docks and along the barges and moored ships, the accidents, the dangerous wrecks or cargoes, the thefts, fights, sinkings, and fires.”
“And murders,” Orme added, watching Monk’s eyes.
