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It was in that chaos that Monk and his men had won, but at the loss of Orme. He had been so badly injured that in spite of everything they could do, he had bled to death. They had got him ashore, Monk carrying him in his arms. He had seemed so light. Monk’s own exhaustion had been nothing. They had done all they could, every one of them, weary, blood spattered, desperate to help. But in the end Monk had sat all night in the hospital, watching the life drain out of Orme’s body and leave it a surprisingly small and empty shell.
It was Monk who had had to go and tell Orme’s daughter and her husband and child that Orme would not be coming to retire with them in a couple of weeks. He could still see the shock in their faces, the empty eyes. They had not blamed him, at least not openly. But he had blamed himself—and McNab, for giving warning of the raid to the pirates.
It was time he proved this, even if no more than to himself. And it was time he found the truth as to how much it was his fault…even if that turned out to be entirely.
He reached the Wapping Police Station and went inside, passing his men with a brief acknowledgment. In his office he started going through all the reports of information before the event. Who had first learned of the shipment of guns coming in? What had they said, exactly? A man in Customs named Makepeace had warned the River Police, specifically Laker. Who had followed it up? What information had they, from where? After that Laker, then Hooper, had been getting it from McNab himself. How reliable was any of it? It had seemed, at the time, beyond doubt.
What could McNab have known of the planned raid, and when? What had he told Monk? That was less specific. Monk read every paper and wrote down the time sequence, all the information, how they had received it, from whom, and exactly when.
It was when he read the statement from Customs for the third time that he caught the discrepancy. It was very small, just two pieces of information out of order in time. Originally it had been an estimate of tides and therefore of the hour the pirates would attack. It could even be a clerical error, a three misread as a five, and carried that way. He’d done that himself, years ago. He had been lucky that error then had not cost him more. The issue was that he knew it could occur accidentally.
But if this was not an error, then one of McNab’s men had known of the smuggling and contacted the river pirates to question them two hours earlier than he had said he did. There was all the difference in the world between five in the morning, and three. If the pirates had been questioned at three, that would have allowed them time to lay the ambush.
The man was Makepeace. But if he were to be trapped, it must be carefully, with all the information in Monk’s hand before he acted.
Feeling a little light-headed, Monk folded up the sheet of paper with the statement on it and locked it in the safe. Then he called Hooper.
Hooper came in with his easy, loose-limbed stance, and half smile.
“Yes, sir?”
“I think I’ve found where the information went from McNab’s office to the river pirates.” Monk passed his notes across to Hooper. “Original’s in the safe,” he added. “But tell me what you make of that.”
Hooper sat down and read the notes in Monk’s handwriting. Then he looked up. “If that’s right, and we follow it up, we could be certain of it,” he said without hesitation. “But what a river pirate’s word is worth in court, I don’t know.”
“I don’t want it for court, I just want to know for myself.” Monk realized he had been more honest than he intended. “It might get more weight later,” he added. “If McNab is the instigator and he’ll do that once, he could do it again. Even if it doesn’t stand alone, it could be corroborative. He’ll know I know. He won’t catch us a second time.”
A curious expression crossed Hooper’s face. “You sure you want to do that, sir? Sometimes it’s better not to tip your hand. McNab’s…dangerous.”
It was not fear. Monk stared at Hooper and saw nothing but puzzlement in him, and caution. He had never seen Hooper retreat from confrontation, only from foolishness, from rushing into ill-thought-out attacks. He was a good second in command, better than Monk thought he had ever been himself. Better than he himself had been to Runcorn, at least in the days he could remember. But then he had hated Runcorn, as Runcorn had hated him. Hooper was far less readable. He had an internal composure, a knowledge of himself that Monk was beginning to ascertain only now.
“I need more,” he said. “I want to go and meet this man, Makepeace’s informant, Torrance. Do you know him?”
Hooper’s smile was sour. “River pirate, sir, when it suits him. Mostly takes no risks, sells information. But a good captain’s going to take him along, just to keep him honest, like. You don’t set somebody up if you’re going to be there yourself when it happens. You could too easily be one of the casualties.”
“Indeed you don’t,” Monk agreed. “Where do I look for him? Jacob’s Island? Sounds like his sort of place.”
“Yes, I think so,” Hooper agreed. “I’m coming with you.”
Monk had seldom tried arguing with Hooper. Hooper weighed what he said. So far, when he insisted on something, he had been right, except on the one or two occasions they had both been wrong. Neither had referred to them again, just exchanged the odd, wry glance, an acknowledgment of luck and error.
Jacob’s Island was not a real island in the sense that the river flowed right around it. It was one of the worst areas in the dockland, separated from the shore by a morass of deep, hungry river mud. It was built up with scores of rotting warehouses and warrens of passages and rooms, all slowly sinking into the ooze beneath. Most of it was dangerous because of the rats, both of the human variety and the literally verminous that infested it. And all of it was dangerous from the rotting wood and collapsing floors, which could drop a heavy man into mud that would never let him go. From the thick slime beneath it, lost bodies did not rise to the surface, to drift up or down river. The tide rose and fell, but it did not run. There was no current. The stench was palpable.
Monk and Hooper walked the last three hundred yards from where they had moored their boat. Both of them carried loaded weapons. It was a kind of no-man’s-land.
It was one of those leaden November days when the rain threatened but did not come, and there was what was called “a lazy wind,” meaning it would go through you rather than around.
Hooper turned up the collar of his pea coat. “D’you think McNab planned for all this, sir?” he asked quite casually, as if the idea had just occurred to him. He had a dry sense of humor and Monk waited for the follow-up.
“Don’t you?” he said at last, when Hooper did not add anything.
“I think he’s a chancer, an opportunist,” Hooper answered. “He takes other people’s work and bends it around. He doesn’t make it himself.”
Monk considered for a moment, recalling what he could. “Riding on other people’s backs,” he said at last. “Sounds about right.”
Hooper smiled and said nothing.
Monk shivered as they walked across one of the rickety bridges over the mud onto the island. The dank buildings creaked and sagged lower. The air tasted foul. Hooper followed just behind him, looking from left to right for any sign of human movement. The wind fluttered a few discarded rags and bits of old newspaper. The water lapped higher with the rising tide, giving the illusion that the ground was sinking fast enough to see.
