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Torrance clutched the sandwiches close to his chest. “?’Ow in ’ell should I know? Mebbe find out, but it’ll cost yer!”
Monk leaned forward. “Leave it alone, if you know what’s good for you. You don’t want to make an enemy of either of us.”
Torrance smiled very slowly, and with soft, insolent sarcasm. “Oh, I know which side me bread’s buttered, Mr. Monk, sir. Believe me. I know ’oo’s goin’ ter last, an’ ’oo ain’t. Mr. McNab don’t like yer, an’ that’s fer sure. An’ I don’t wanna be in the middle of yer. What ’appened ter Mr. Orme, an’ Mr. Pettifer, I ain’t gonna let it ’appen ter me.”
Somewhere out of sight something fell into the water. Monk knew it was time they left. Perhaps it was even past time. He was glad of the weight of the gun in his pocket. He signaled to Hooper with his hand.
Without speaking, they turned and went, picking their way out slowly, careful not to return the way they had come in. There seemed to be water dripping everywhere. The ground underneath them was wetter. Was it sinking, or the tide rising? Or were they imagining it out of fear?
The smell of river mud and sewage filled the nose and rested on the tongue.
Another rat fell into the water somewhere.
Outside under the open sky there was a sudden sense of freedom. The rain had stopped and there were clear patches of blue above, even a weak light on the water.
Monk strode forward rapidly; he had to control himself not to run. If Torrance was telling the truth, then it was beginning to make sense. McNab was behind the pirate sabotage of the raid on the gunrunners, as Monk had believed. It might be for money, or some bigger ambition of McNab’s. That was something he would still have to find out, if he were to prove it. But he felt freer just from the knowledge. It was McNab, whatever the reason, whether Makepeace had known what he was doing or not. It was not Monk’s incompetence in the raid, which had been the source of the dark fear crouching at the back of his mind. Makepeace, acting for McNab, was responsible for the injured men, and for Orme’s death.
They reached the place where they had left their boat and got in, glad to heave hard on the oars, stretching their backs on the way upriver toward Wapping. The smell of salt and fish was clean. Even the turgid water was better than the stagnant, clinging odor of mud.
They rowed in silence. Conversation was difficult when they were both facing the same direction, one behind the other.
They were almost at the Wapping Stairs and in the slack water close in to the shore, when Hooper finally spoke. He leaned on the oar, holding the boat still, then turned in his seat and put one leg on each side of the bench so he could face Monk.
“Why’s McNab doing this then, sir? If he’s that bent on it, we need to know why. Can’t bring Mr. Orme back, but might save the next one he has in his sights.” He looked at Monk steadily, his dark eyes almost unblinking.
Monk took a deep breath. It was McNab who had been the immediate cause of the ambush, and if it was hatred of Monk that had driven him to it, then Monk had no right to lie to Hooper.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You’ll remember I told you about the accident I was in, that I lost my memory—lost my past?”
“Of course. And you thought McNab might have a grudge against you.”
“Yes, and now I’m certain of it, though I can still remember nothing from before I came round in hospital after the accident.”
“What are your memories from then?” Hooper asked tentatively.
Monk chose his words carefully, and yet they were still awkward.
“When I was well enough to leave the hospital I got my own clothes back. They were better quality than I had expected, more expensive. And yet they all fitted pretty well. A bit big in places, because I had lost weight lying on my back doing nothing.” He recalled it ruefully: a physical memory of discomfort, smooth fabric that did not seem right and yet slipped on easily.
Hooper sat watching him, still holding the oar to keep them steady in the water.
“I found where I lived,” Monk went on, wishing Hooper would show some reaction. “Very ordinary rooms, but my landlady knew me. I went back to work because there was no choice. There were bills to pay, largely tailors’ bills!” He had thought of it since with amusement, self-mockery, but telling Hooper in his work trousers and old pea coat, it brought back his feeling then of embarrassment.
Hooper conceded a smile, but he did not interrupt.
“They gave me a case still unsolved from before my accident. It was a gentleman officer from the army in the Crimea, and here, who had been beaten to death in his flat.”
Hooper nodded, his eyes steady on Monk’s face.
“I went over the crime, detail by detail, and eventually I solved it,” he said, only just loud enough to be heard over the noises of the river. “But while I was doing it I discovered a lot about myself, and why other men feared me. I also recognized many of the scenes from the crime. I had been there before. At one time I even thought I had killed the man myself….”
Hooper jerked his head up, caught by the moment, looking at him at last. Monk saw pity in his eyes, gentle, without judgment.
He smiled, partly to hide his gratitude. It should not matter so much!
“I didn’t, but I came close. He was one of the worst men I ever knew. After the end of that case I went on working in the regular police, getting more and more at odds with my commander. I never did tell him I’d lost my memory, except for the very occasional flashes of a scene or two. I managed to fake it. He knows now, and we have become the friends we used to be, in the beginning twenty years ago.”
“Who else knows?” Hooper said at last.
