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By late afternoon, Hooper, having left a message for Monk at the Wapping station, was catching up on sleep before searching the pubs to find Lister again, when he heard sharp knocking on the back door. He rolled out of bed and went downstairs to stop the racket before it disturbed his neighbors.
He found Laker on the step, looking dirty and exhausted.
“Who was the man you followed?” Laker asked immediately, rushing inside and sitting down on one of the two hard-backed kitchen chairs.
Hooper pushed the kettle over onto the hob, then bent down and restoked the stove. Finally, he turned to face Laker. He was probably twenty years older than him, and he felt every day of it, but he also was deeply aware of the fear in the younger man. Anxiety
showed very plain in his features, now that he was too tired to guard it. The jokes and the banter were gone, all self-protection perhaps, but it was part of his nature. The man was ambitious, keen to prove himself. He had made the odd remark, lightly, about his brother, but Hooper had seen how deep the need was for Laker to prove that he could excel, even if it was in a very different field.
And there was more behind the need to succeed—something for Laker to prove to himself—but Hooper had no idea what it was, and no need to know.
“Laker,” he said.
“What?”
“The other man was a bank manager, small bank, but very nice offices. Lots of money there, I think. Very quiet, well-dressed people inside.”
Laker was paying attention now. “What was Lister doing with him?”
“I don’t know if we can find out. Banking’s very private.”
“We better tell Monk. He might be able to.”
“I did. At least, I left a message for him.”
Laker’s face shadowed for a moment, so fast it was almost invisible. “Didn’t trust me to?”
“If you were following Lister, you didn’t have time to.”
Laker smiled. He did not believe him, but he chose not to pursue it. Perhaps he didn’t trust Hooper either.
“Where did Lister go?” Hooper asked.
“All over the place,” Laker replied ruefully. “I lost him for a while, but most of the time I was behind him he was just enjoying himself, dining exquisitely, indulging himself.”
“How?”
“How do you think? He could afford the best.” Laker’s face showed a mixture of envy and disgust. “Then he went to a brothel down by the docks, and I lost him. I figured he probably was not going to do anything meaningful for the rest of the day. I’ve got to eat something and sleep. I feel like something a dog threw up!”
“I can see that,” Hooper said drily. “Want some stew? Mutton, potatoes, turnips, carrots?”
“Those yellow ones?”
“Certainly not! White turnips with mutton.”
For the first time, Laker laughed. “Right! Thank you.”
* * *
—
THEY CAUGHT UP WITH Lister the following morning, after a long, cold wait outside his rooms. It seemed he was making the most out of his wealth, particularly the luxury it afforded him of lying in on a cold, wet morning with a mist coming in off the river and the distant call of the foghorns every few minutes.
“I hope we’re not parked here all day,” Laker said with a shudder. “He’s in bed with some tart, while we’re out here freezing our backsides off.”
“He’ll get hungry sooner or later,” Hooper replied, hoping profoundly that it was true.
They did not have much longer to wait. Twenty minutes later, the woman came out, looking pleased with herself and clutching a good-quality coat around her shoulders as she passed down the street. Ten minutes after that, Lister came out himself, wearing his jacket collar turned up and his hat pulled down.
