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For now it was Orme they trusted, Orme they would be loyal to and obey. Monk would get no more than lip service, and less than that from Clacton. That was a problem that still had to be addressed, and they would all be waiting to see how Monk handled it. Sooner or later Clacton himself would provoke a confrontation, and Monk’s authority would hang on whether he won, and how.
He tried to think of other plans he had used in the past to catch rings of thieves, but since the accident that had taken his memory he had worked largely on murder cases. Petty thieving belonged to a past before that—in the early years, when he and Runcorn had worked together, he thought wryly, not against each other. He had had flashes of going into the rookeries, those vast slums, which were part underground tunnels, part sagging tenements. There were passages, trapdoors, sudden drops, and blind ends—a hundred ways to get caught, and to get your throat cut. Your corpse would possibly go out on the tide, or if it finished in the sewer, most of it would be eaten by rats.
That world was violent and ugly. The poverty in it was so absolute that only the strongest and the luckiest survived. Police seldom went there at all, but if they did, they took with them someone they trusted not only in loyalty but in skill, speed, and nerve as well, and above all courage. He and Runcorn had trusted each other like that once.
In the rotting tenements of the waterlogged patch on the south bank known as Jacob’s Island, there could be a hundred men hidden in the wrecks of buildings sinking slowly into the mud. The same was true of the teeming slums of the docks, the ever-shifting tides of the Pool of London with its great ships, its cargoes here one day and gone the next. The opium dens of Limehouse or the wrecks on the long stretches towards the sea might conceal anything. He would need to trust Orme with his life, as Orme would have to trust him. It would not come quickly or without testing.
“I’ll work on a plan,” he said aloud at last. “If you’ve got one, tell me.”
“Yes, sir. I was thinkin’…” Orme stopped.
“Go on,” Monk prompted.
“I’d like to catch the Fat Man,” Orme said thoughtfully. “Owe ’im a lot, that one, over the years.”
“I assume you mean a lot of harm, not a lot of good?”
“Oh, yes, sir, a lot o’ harm indeed.” There was an edge of emotion in Orme’s voice that was extraordinarily sharp, as if from an accumulation of pain.
Monk was overwhelmed by how much he did not know about these men. Orme seemed not to resent him. In fact, he had deliberately steered him away from the station just now so that Farnham would not see him come in late. He had covered for him yesterday so that he could pursue the Havilland case.
An icy thought passed through Monk’s mind: that Orme was deliberately allowing him to do those things in order to betray him to Farnham, giving him enough rope to hang himself. Why had Orme himself not got Durban’s job? He was extremely able, and the men trusted him and admired him. He was far better qualified for it than Monk. Why had Durban suggested Monk? Was that a betrayal, too?
He was floundering. His ignorance was like a vast black tide carrying him towards destruction.
“I was thinkin’, sir”—Orme was still talking—“that if we get rid of the Fat Man, ’oo’s the best opulent receiver on the river, then someone else’ll take ’is place. I reckon that someone’ll be Toes. An’Toes is someone we can keep better under control. ’E’s greedy, but that’s all. At least fer now. The Fat Man is different, ’e ’as streaks of cruelty we need to get rid of. ’E isn’t above gettin’ people cut up slow if they really cross ’im up. Clever with a knife, ’e is. Knows ’ow to ’urt without killin’.”
Monk looked at Orme’s grave, pinched face and read the pain in it again.
“Very well, let’s get rid of him,” he agreed.
Orme looked at him steadily. “Yes, Mr. Monk. An’ no private scores settled. No favors and no revenge, that’s what Mr. Durban used to say.” He turned away quickly, his breath catching in his throat, and Monk knew that the ghost of Durban was always going to be there.
So he would use it. He would spend the day going through all Durban’s records until he had worked out what Durban would have done to trap the kidsmen and trace the goods to the Fat Man legitimately. No favors, no revenge. He also wanted to know why Orme had not been made commander. Perhaps he would be better off in ignorance, but he had to find out. It might matter one day; his life might even depend upon it.
Most of the cases that he studied were routine crimes exactly like those he had dealt with since he came. The only unusual thing in Durban’s notes was that they were briefer than Monk would have expected, and more personal. His handwriting was strong but occasionally untidy, as if written hastily or when he was tired. There were flashes of humor, and discreet asides that suggested to Monk that Durban had not been especially fond of Clacton either. The difference was that Durban had known how to keep him under control, largely because the other men would not tolerate Clacton’s disloyalty.
Monk smiled. At least he had found that solution, if he could work out how to use it.
He read carefully the reports of thefts from passenger boats. They seemed to vary, but in no particular pattern that he could detect. There were various other crimes, some very serious. One Durban had written on for many pages, and it had apparently disturbed him greatly. The writing was sprawling and many of the letters only half formed. There was a kind of jaggedness to it.
Monk read it because the urgency in it held him. It had nothing to do with theft or with passenger boats at all. It concerned the murder of a prosperous man in his early forties. His body had been found in the river, apparently shot to death some time the night before and dumped into the water. He was identified as Roger Thorwood, of Chelsea, a barber of considerable wealth and influence. He was mourned by his wife, Beatrice, and three surviving children.
Durban had put a great deal of time and energy into the investigation and followed every lead. His hope and frustration were clearly marked in his notes. But after nearly three months he had learned nothing of value and been obliged to abandon his concentration on it and turn his entire attention to other duties. The death of Roger Thorwood remained a mystery. Durban’s last entry on the subject was scribbled and in places almost illegible.
I have spoken to Mrs. Thorwood for the last time. There is nothing more I can do. All trails are closed. They lead either nowhere or into a hopeless morass. I never thought I would say of any murder that it is better left, but I do of this. And it is wrong to expect Orme to carry the responsibility here any longer. It is not even as if one day he might be justly rewarded for his work or his loyalty. He owes it not to me, but because that is his nature, nonetheless I am profoundly grateful to him. There is no more to say.
Monk stared at the page. It was oddly difficult to turn over and continue with the murders, robberies, fights, and accidents that occurred later. There was something painfully unfinished about it, not only the mystery of Roger Thorwood’s death but Durban’s obvious involvement. His anger and disappointment were there, and something else less obvious, which he was too guarded to name. Guarding someone else, or himself?
There was also his oblique reference to Orme never receiving appropriate recompense for his work. It seemed he had covered for Durban as well as for Monk. It raised the question again as to why he had not received the promotion his skill had earned him. It seemed that Durban knew the reason. Monk realized that perhaps he ought to, in order to make a better judgment of Orme. But he was g
lad there was no time to search now.
What he needed was a plan to catch the thieves on the passenger boats. More important, he wanted to trace them back to the opulent receiver who was organizing them, and probably the kidsmen as well.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Orme returned. Together, without mentioning Durban at all, they carefully constructed their strategy.
Orme looked nervous, but he did not argue with Monk’s intention to be present.
