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WHEN MONK LEFT HESTER at home, he returned to Wapping and found
Hooper and the rest of the men waiting for him, prepared to go catch the group of men who had successfully carried out two warehouse robberies and escaped both times. The River Police could not afford to let them slip away again.
“Ready?” Monk asked quietly.
Hooper looked at him steadily. “They’re as ready as they’re going to be. None of their families is missing, but you can’t escape the fact that someone told the kidnappers which way we were coming in.”
Ten minutes later, they were in the boats and pulling away from the Wapping steps. The wind was cold and the tide was well past low water and coming in fast. It would be a hard pull on the oars against the current. Monk threw his weight into it.
He wondered if he should try to say anything to the men to build spirit. He was in a boat with Walcott and Marbury. Hooper, Laker, and Bathurst were in the other, just a few yards away, their black bows cutting across the silver dappled water. The moon was higher now, and there were very few clouds; not the best night to catch people off guard. To anyone used to the river, they looked like exactly what they were: a police river boat, two rowing, a third man in the stern. No ferry rowed in that arrangement, and they had no platform on which to carry cargo. They were obviously moving swiftly, and with purpose.
For several minutes they rowed in silence, except for the creak of the rowlocks and the swish of the water. Careful planning had gone into the raid, and everything indicated they would be successful. And yet since the kidnapping, they no longer trusted each other. Monk could feel it in each of them. They pulled the oars steadily against the weight of water, against the incoming tide, but with anger rather than exhilaration.
Monk could see that in the set of Marbury’s shoulders, and on Walcott’s face, toward the bow. He avoided Monk’s gaze. They were all anticipating the same thing, working toward it, but separately. He knew their skills, certainly, and there were many. Their weaknesses were few, but he was mindful of them. For example, Laker sometimes thought he knew far more than he did. He was irreverent, but it hid the fact that he really did have considerable respect for both Monk and Hooper; he just didn’t want them to know it.
Bathurst was keen to learn, hungry, and likeable. He was curious—a good quality in a policeman. Curious people looked for answers. It was Walcott and Marbury who were unknown, therefore suspect, whether that was fair or not.
Monk looked at Walcott sitting in the stern; a smaller man than Marbury, but pugnacious. Occasionally, when he thought no one was listening, he sang old bits of music-hall songs rather well. Once or twice, Monk had caught him, and he had immediately fallen silent. Pity. It was a pleasant sound. Why did he feel the need to conceal it?
They passed in the shadow of a big ship lying at anchor. It was suddenly too dark to see each other, or anyone else if there was another boat in the shadow. That was careless.
“Pull away!” Monk ordered sharply, throwing himself against the oar and digging deep into the swirl of the current.
Surprised, Marbury obeyed. He was stronger and heavier than Monk, if not as skilled. The boat went off course for a few yards. They shot out of the shadow into the moonlight again. There was no one else close to them.
Monk said nothing.
They still had a quarter of a mile to go. They rowed in silence, weaving past the huge shadows of moored ships, riding lights high above them and reflected yards away in the black surface of the water. Each man was silent with his own thoughts. When they reached the Bull Stairs, where they were going to go ashore, they pulled in, shipping the oars and tethering both the boats.
They went up the stone steps, one at a time, Hooper first.
Bathurst slipped and Walcott caught him.
“Watch what the hell you’re doing!” Walcott said sharply. “You’ll take us all down.”
“Then get off my heels,” Bathurst snapped back.
“Shut up, both of you,” Laker hissed, his voice brittle.
Monk was the last, behind Marbury.
At the top of the steps, they separated, some to the right toward the loading dock and the cranes, some, including Monk, to the left, the warehouse entrance. They moved slowly, eyes sufficiently accustomed to the dark without lamps.
Ahead of them they could see figures moving. It was exactly what Monk had expected. The thieves were taking the cargo. He motioned his own men to stand back; if they moved before the men loaded the bales, the thieves could not be convicted of theft. At last, something was going exactly as planned.
There were two ships at the dockside—which one were they going to?
A man, bent double under the weight of the bale, passed within eight feet of Monk, who remained motionless. After several seconds, another man passed.
How many more? Monk inched sideways, as close to the warehouse wall as he could get. He saw Marbury to his left and made a gesture to him to move along toward the side door. He was aware of the tension. Did Marbury know Monk did not trust him? He must. He and Walcott were the new men.
Marbury obeyed. Then, a few moments later, they both slid silently round the gaping open door of the warehouse and inside. Over at the far end, there was one lantern on top of a pile of boxes. They could clearly see two figures moving more casks and bales, cooperating with signs and signals to each other. The soft sound of their footsteps, shuffling under the weight, was only just audible.
The men passed only nine or ten feet away from them, with the loads weighing them down. They were taking the whole shipment. Monk rapidly adjusted his thinking. They must have a barge and would be going where there was a winch of some sort to help them unload, upriver or down.
No more men passed. It was time to go. Monk moved softly along the side of the warehouse, back to the edge of the water. The men were stowing the last of the load. Two more men stood ready. Monk knew, even in the dark, from the very grace of their steps that they were bargees. It was a highly skilled job to guide the flat-bottomed craft, squared off at bow and stern, to keep an easy pace, especially when carrying a full load. Were at least two of them bargees? Or were they additional thieves? That would make one more man than Monk had expected. Misinformation? Another error?
Monk moved nearer to make out in the dark what the thieves were doing. The barge was only a few feet from the shore, the loading almost finished. He was sure of that because the corner he could see, in the shift of moonlight through the cranes and the shadow of the ships along the shore, was so low in the water it would not take any more weight. Luck, or perfect judgment? It occurred to him that this was not the first time these men had done this.
