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“No,” Hester whispered back without knowing why. “No, I suppose you can't.”
TEN
t was the middle of the afternoon and Monk was busy catching up on some of the more pedestrian cases of theft from various yards along the waterfront when one of the men came to his door and told him that Superintendent Farnham had arrived and wished to see him, immediately.
Farnham was sitting down when Monk went into the room, and he did not rise. He was clearly unhappy and in a very bad temper. He indicated curtly for Monk to take the chair opposite him.
“The Phillips case is over,” he said grimly, his eyes hard and flat. “You lost. In fact, not only you, Monk, but the whole of the River Police. You don't seem to be aware of quite how much.” He held up his hand to keep Monk silent, just in case he should think of defending himself. “It was bad enough when the wretched man was acquitted, through your inefficiency and your wife's emotionalism, although one expects such a thing from women, but …”
Monk was so furious he could barely keep still. “Sir, that …”
“When I have finished!” Farnham exploded. “Until then, you will hold your peace. I am disappointed in you, Monk. Durban recommended you highly, and I was fool enough to listen to him. But thanks to your meddling, your obsession with this Phillips case, not only I, but most of the senior police in general, and half the ferrymen, lightermen, dockers, and warehousemen up and down both banks of the river also know a great deal more about the late Commander Durban than we wish to. Leave it, Monk. That is an order. There is quite enough crime on the Thames that genuinely needs your attention. Solve it, all of it, with speed and justice, and you may begin to redeem not only your own reputation but ours as well.”
“Commander Durban was a good officer, sir,” Monk said between his teeth, acutely conscious of everything Hester had told him the previous evening. “I have learned nothing about him to his discredit,” he added bluntly.
“That only suggests that you are not a very good detective, Monk,” Farnham replied. “There is a considerable amount that it seems, for all your effort, you failed to discover.”
“No, sir, there is not,” Monk contradicted. It was a firm lie, and he intended to stick to it. “I have traced him back to the day he was born. I just choose not to discuss it with others, when it is none of their business. He was a good man, and deserves the same dignity of keeping his family affairs private that is accorded to the rest of us.”
Farnham star
ed at him across the table, and gradually some of the temper died out of his eyes and left only tiredness and anxiety.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But now we have newspapermen asking more and more questions about him, why he was so obsessed with this damned Phillips case, and why you're just as bad, if not worse, and we are doing nothing to curb you. You're leaving half the regular work that should be your responsibility for Orme to do. He denies it, but others say it's true. He's a loyal man, Orme. He deserves better than to be lumbered with your job while you chase after Phillips. Phillips beat us. It happens sometimes. We can't catch every single villain on the river.”
“We need to get this one, sir. He's like a malignant wound, one that if it isn't cut out will poison the whole body.”
Farnham raised his eyebrows.
“Is he? Or have you just convinced yourself of that because he beat Durban, then he beat you? Can you swear to me that it isn't pride, Monk? And prove it to me?”
“Sir, Phillips murdered a young boy, Figgis, because Figgis wanted to escape the servitude Phillips had him in, which was far more than labor. He was an object of pornography for the use and entertainment of Phillips's customers …”
“It's filthy.” Farnham shivered with disgust. “But there are brothels all over London, and every other city in Europe. In the world, for all I know. Yes, he murdered the boy, God knows why. It would surely have been much simpler to have put him on one of the ships leaving port, and much less of a risk …”
It was discipline, sir, Monk interrupted. To demonstrate to the rest of his boys what happens to those who defy him.”
“Not very efficient,” Farnham countered. “They wouldn't go if they didn't believe they'd be the ones who'd get away.”
“Then he'd simply kill one of the others,” Monk explained, watching Farnham's face. “One of the younger, more vulnerable ones, whoever the escapee was most fond of.”
Farnham paled, and started to swear, then bit it off.
“It's more than that also,” Monk went on. “Have you considered, sir, what kind of men his clients are?”
Farnham's lips curled; it was a subconscious expression of revulsion. “Men with obscene and uncontrolled appetites,” he replied. “The use of street women may, by some stretch of the imagination, be understandable. The abuse of terrified and cowed children is not.”
“No, sir, it's not,” Monk agreed vehemently. “But that was not the aspect of them that I was thinking of. They are deplorable, but Phillips's clients are also rich, or they couldn't pay his prices. It's not a brothel he runs, it's entertainment, costumes, charades, photographs. They pay well for it.”
“Your point, Monk? We know Phillips profits. That's why he does it. It's hardly worth making a point of.”
“No, sir,” Monk said urgently. “That's only part of the reason. Perhaps even more important than that is its power.” He leaned forward a little, his voice becoming sharper. “They are important men, some of whom hold high office. They know their appetites are not only twisted, but because it is boys, they are also criminal.” He saw a hideous understanding dawn in Farnham's eyes. “They are highly corruptible in all sorts of other ways, sir. Have you never wondered why Durban couldn't catch Phillips before? He was close many times, but Phillips always got away. Oliver Rathbone conducted his defense, but who hired him, do you know that? I don't, but I would dearly like to.”
“It could be …” Farnham stopped, his eyes wide.
“Yes, sir,” Monk finished for him. “It could be almost anyone. A man in bondage to a devil inside himself, and a monster like Phillips outside, is capable of all manner of acts. He could lie at the heart of our justice, our industry, even our government. Do you still want me to forget about Phillips, and concentrate on warehouse robberies, and the odd theft from cargoes on the water?”
“I could tell this damn journalist this,” Farnham said very quietly. “God knows what he'd do with it. He's saying now that the corruption in the River Police is deep and lasting, and that the public has a right to know exactly what it is, and where it leads. He's even suggesting, so far only verbally, but print will follow, that we should cease to exist as a separate body at all but be broken up and come under the local stations. Our survival depends on this, Monk.”
