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Scuff walked in silence for fifty yards or so. They crossed the road and started along the next stretch.
“Will they bury that girl proper then?” he asked finally.
“I’ll see that they do,” Monk answered, pleased that Scuff had seen the heart of the matter so quickly. “I’m cold. Do you want a hot drink?”
“Don’ mind if I do,” Scuff said, but grudgingly. He was still hurt. “If this man weren’t killed on the river, why in’t the reg’lar rozzers doin’ it?”
“They are, as well.” They turned the corner, away from the river and out of the worst of the wind. The pavements were slick with ice. A coal cart rattled sharply over the stones, the horse’s breath steam in the air.
“S’pose yer don’ trust ’em neither,” Scuff said dourly.
“It isn’t a matter of trust,” Monk told him. “We need all the help we can find. We’re searching for one man in all London, who makes a living killing people! I know what he looks like, but that’s all. He shot one man and caused the death of the man’s daughter. An innocent man may go to prison for the murder, and the one who paid him is going to get away with it. Worse than that, we’ll never prove the real reason for it, and there could be a cave-in in one of the new sewer tunnels that would kill scores of men. So no matter how difficult it is, I’ve got to try. Now, let’s get a hot cup of tea and a hot pie each, and stop sulking!”
Scuff digested that in silence for a few minutes as they walked.
“Don’ yer know nothin’ ’cept ’e’s thin an’ got black ’air?” he asked finally, giving Monk a sunny smile. “Someb’dy saw ’im, so yer gotta know more’n that!”
“He had a narrow nose and quite big eyes,” Monk replied. “Blue or gray. And his teeth were unusually pointed.”
Scuff shrugged. “Oh, well, mebbe you’ll find suffink then. There’s a man wi’ real good pies round there, on the other side o’ the road.”
“And tea?”
Scuff rolled his eyes in exasperation. “O’ course ’e’s got tea! Pies in’t no good wi’out tea!”
In the afternoon Monk went back to his river patrol duties, forcing the Havilland case and all its implications out of his mind. The thefts had to be dealt with. He owed that to Durban, but more than that, to Orme. There was also the question of Clacton. He was very well aware that he had dealt with him only temporarily. Clacton was watching, awaiting his chance to catch Monk in another wea
kness or error. It was about more than money. His own promotion? To please someone else? Simply to gain another commander, one he could manipulate more easily?
The reason mattered little. It could not wait much longer. Orme, at least, was expecting him to act. Maybe they all were. Had Runcorn dreaded Monk the same way, as one of the burdens that comes with leadership, to be endured until it can be dealt with? He winced at the thought.
The river was cold, the incoming tide swift and choppy, and he was kept very fully occupied dealing with a warehouse theft. At half past six it was solved and he stood alone on an old pier beyond King Edward’s Stairs. It was totally dark in the shelter of a half-burned warehouse. Across the water the shore lights glittered as the wind blurred them. Lightermen were calling out to each other below him on the river, gusts of wind snatching their voices and distorting their words.
He heard the boat bump against the steps and someone’s feet climbing up, then Orme’s solid figure was silhouetted against the faint light on the water.
Monk moved forward. “Found the cargo,” he said quietly. “Did you get the boat they used?”
“Yes, sir. Butterworth’s gone to assist ’em now.” Orme paused, then said, “I ’ear as the Mets arrested Sixsmith. That true?” At Monk’s nod, he sighed. “Must say I believed it were Argyll. Not as clever as I thought I were.” His voice was rueful.
“I thought it was Argyll too,” Monk agreed. “I still do.” He told Orme briefly of his intention to find the assassin.
Orme was dubious. “Yer’ll be lucky ter see ’ide or ’air of ’im, Mr. Monk. But I’ll ’elp you all I can. If anyone’d know ’im, it’d be river men, or folks that live in the tunnels, or Jacob’s Island. ’E could be just a passing seaman, off to Burma, the fever jungles o’ Panama, or the Cape o’ Good ’Ope by now.”
“He wasn’t a seaman,” Monk said with conviction. “Pale face, thin, and he used a gun. In fact, he used Havilland’s own gun. There was a good deal of careful planning in this. I think he kills for a living.”
“There’s ’im as do,” Orme agreed.
The subject turned to the careful laying of the trap that would not only catch the actual thieves on the passenger boats, but would lead, with proof, to the hand behind them. Monk and Orme sincerely hoped that that was the Fat Man.
“It’ll be dangerous,” Orme warned. “It could turn ugly.”
Monk smiled. “Yes, I’m sure it could. There’s been something ugly about it from the beginning.”
Monk expected Orme to respond, perhaps to deny it, but he remained silent. Why? Did he not understand what Monk was alluding to, or did he already know the answer? Why should he trust Monk, a newcomer to the river police? He barely knew him. They had never faced a real danger together—nothing more than choppy weather, the odd barge out of control, or night work, when a ship in the dark could be lethal. It was not enough to test a man’s courage or loyalty to his fellows. Trust needed to be earned, and only a fool placed his life in another man’s hands blindly.
Or was he protecting someone? Could he want Monk to fail, spectacularly, so Orme could take his place? Orme deserved it. The men trusted him. Durban had. Which brought Monk back to the old question: Why had Durban recommended Monk for the post? It made no sense, and standing here in the dark on the windy embankment with the constant slap of the water against the stones, he felt as exposed as if he had been naked in the lights.
Still he asked the question. “Who put out the word that we are corrupt? It came from someone.”
