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Monk felt the coldness run through him again. He was looking straight into the face of the wolf. His slightest tremor would be seen. That hesitation would be like the smell of fear that a predator gets, a shark at sea smelling blood half a mile away.
“Long time ago,” Monk replied. “All I can remember is the fear, and the cold. But if you really want to know about it, you should listen to some of the seamen you deal with who have brought cargoes from the West, and the Pacific beyond.”
“Oh, I do listen, Monk. Hear all kinds of things I don’t expect to. You’d be surprised.” He nodded several times. “But you’re right. It’s another world out there, and we know very little about it. We’ve no time to find out any more. We’d better assume that this Piers Astley could be here, and keep an eye on Clive’s warehouse. Wish we could find Owen, but I’ve asked the Metropolitan Police to keep an eye out for him, or for any other first-rate forger they might get hold of instead. Perhaps I’d better go and have another word with Mr. Clive? What do you think? He seems to have a remarkable memory….”
Monk waited, watching McNab.
McNab looked back at him, studying him slowly, quite openly.
“Find anything about the other escapees?” McNab said at last, an edge to his voice now.
“Only what you already know,” Monk replied. “The best at their jobs. Dangerous, clever.”
McNab pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Hope we didn’t get caught out,” he said, staring at Monk. “Clive wouldn’t be a good man to cross. He knows about the threat. Pity about that…” He let the implication hang in the air.
Monk wanted to think of a retort, but nothing came to mind. He was always aware that McNab knew him better than he knew himself. He was fighting with one hand tied behind his back.
He stood up. “Pity you didn’t get anything useful out of Blount,” he said. “Or Owen, for that matter.”
McNab’s eyes narrowed. “Might have, if Pettifer’d lived,” he said between his teeth.
Monk went back to Wapping to find out what Hooper had learned about the raid on the gun smugglers that had gone so disastrously wrong. McNab’s face haunted him in the short cab ride from the customs office to his own station. Was he imagining the jubilation in McNab’s eyes, the knowledge that he was playing with Monk as a cat does with a mouse? The hunger was for the game, not the prize at the end. Well-fed domestic cats did just the same. Eating it was merely tidying up afterward.
He had slipped up over his reference to Cape Horn. His own fears were causing him to make mistakes. He was vulnerable, and McNab knew it, with his senses if not his brain.
It must stop. Monk must take the offensive, move McNab’s attention to something else. He found Hooper waiting for him when he went in. He looked pleased with himself. It was discreet, but there was an energy in him as he stood up and walked over to meet Monk.
Monk looked at him expectantly.
“Found a lot more about Pettifer,” Hooper said quietly. “He’s been working for Customs most of his life. Taken down a lot of smugglers of all kinds of things, particularly guns. I can’t prove that he set us up on the gunrunners’ raid, but I certainly can confirm that he knew enough to sell us out completely. Did very nicely for himself, did Mr. Pettifer. He drank at the Dog and Duck, down by Shadwell way. Found out he owned it, on the quiet, like. You get all sorts drinking there and Pettifer liked to keep his customers happy. Don’t think I could prove it, but I’m satisfied Pettifer set up both sides against the middle on that one.”
“Thank you,” Monk said slowly. “Thank you very much.”
“Nothing to tie in McNab,” Hooper went on a little ruefully. “But quite a lot to add into these escapes. It seems Pettifer was the one who actually found Blount, but gave the credit to someone else.”
“Really? That’s interesting.” Monk told Hooper what he had learned about someone selling Californian artifacts to Velvet Boy. He repeated the description Velvet had given.
“It sounds like Gillander,” Hooper said with quiet conviction. “That means he’s part of it.”
“I know,” Monk conceded reluctantly. He had liked the man, but personal regard had nothing to do with innocence or guilt. There had been outwardly good men, virtuous and upright, whom he had disliked for their speed and relish to judge others, even at times for their total lack of humor. And there had been villains who had made him laugh, whom still he had admired, whose love of life he had enjoyed.
“I’m going to see him now,” he added.
“I’ll come with you,” Hooper stated, straightening up.
“That’s not—” Monk began.
“I’m coming with you,” Hooper repeated, squaring his shoulders and turning toward the door.
—
THEY FOUND GILLANDER ON board the Summer Wind, anchored opposite Aaron Clive’s warehouses again, and he welcomed them with the same easy grace as when Monk had met him before.
“What can I do now? Still looking for Owen?” He led the way across the deck and down the steep wooden stairs to the main cabin. It was surprisingly warm, as before, and there was a pleasant odor coming from the galley. Everything was still impressively tidy, brass fixtures polished.
“Got no tea,” Gillander said with a smile. “Got some very good soup. Won’t tell you what’s in it. Like a mugful? It’s a devil of a day.”
Monk was inclined to agree with him. The water was choppy and the wind scythed in over its rough surface like the edge of a blade.
