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Hooper looked at him with a clearing of the fog and saw his face seeming older, without the usual humor. Perhaps he had been hurt, too, in ways he could not share.
He wanted to agree with Laker, but, unwilling to risk further conversation, he did not know how.
CHAPTER
9
“IT DOESN’T HELP MUCH,” Hooper said unhappily at Wapping the next day.
Monk seemed determined to be optimistic. “It’s the first break we’ve had. And you said Lister got away?”
“Yes. But it may not have been more than a fight over money. He was throwing it around like he had lots more where that came from,” Hooper pointed out. “He’s…lightweight, behaving like a fool. He’s slick enough and a good street fighter, but he’s not got the brains to plan the Exeter kidnap.”
“But he knows who has,” Monk argued. “Which is almost certainly why someone tried to kill him. You’re sure that was what the third man was trying to do? Not rob him?”
“Yes, he meant to kill him.” The more Hooper played it over in his memory, the more certain he became. “Ask Laker,” he added.
“You trust Laker?” Monk asked it with a twisted smile, little humor in it.
Hooper imagined he could hear the pain behind the question. He thought for a while. Did he trust Laker? He pictured Laker’s face in the momentary light before the fog swirled back again. He had been remembering something, some incident, some loss, with shame, an awkwardness, as if it still hurt. But if there was guilt in it, Hooper had not seen it. He found himself defensive. Was that because he wished to defend not only Laker, but himself as well? “Yes. He’s young, but not too young to have a wound or two.”
“Twenty-eight,” Monk told him.
“Well, he came to my aid yesterday afternoon, when he could’ve finished me if he’d wanted to. And if the third man was behind the kidnapping, and Laker betrayed us, that’s what he would’ve done.”
“And you think the third man was behind the kidnapping? Not just someone else who saw Lister flashing money around and decided to take some of it?” Monk asked.
“I don’t know. It was just an impression. Why kill him if all he wanted was money?”
“And you’re sure he meant to kill him?”
“I was then, but now I don’t know,” Hooper admitted. The impression remained, but was it fear? “He only attacked Lister, not either of the other two.”
“Lister had the money,” Monk said.
“I know that, because the other two hadn’t had time to rob him, but did the third man know that?”
“I agree with you,” Monk conceded. “We’ll go with that. It’s all we have. I’ll tell Exeter.”
“Want me to come with you?” Hooper offered. A part of him would have given a great deal to avoid encountering Exeter’s grief again. He had no way of easing it at all. It was painful to see, and he felt guilty as well. They had failed in every way to keep their promises to the man. It was cowardly to refuse to look at your errors and allow someone else to suffer. But he also wanted to know if he could see the shadow that Celia Darwin saw in Exeter. Perhaps an arrogance? An insensitivity? Had he given Kate everything he thought she wanted, without ever asking her?
Why on earth did he need to know that? Because he wanted to believe that Celia Darwin was not petty minded, denying what she could not have, needing to see a fault in it.
Ridiculous. And yet he stood up and went with Monk outside, into the fine rain, which seemed to have cleared the fog away, at least for a while.
They took a hansom ride and were at Harry Exeter’s house by late morning. They expected to find him at home. He was too recently bereaved to be having any social life, and his businesses took care of themselves, at least for a while. His juniors would be expected to call on him, rather than he call upon them.
The house still had all the elements of mourning: the drawn curtains and the black wreath on the door, small and discreet. Inside, perhaps the mirrors were turned to the wall, even some clocks stopped, but there was no sawdust on the roadway to muffle the sound of horses’ hoofs.
The butler opened the door to them, inquired how he might help, and then conducted them through to the withdrawing room, where a huge fire was burning. Harry Exeter sat in the armchair, staring into the flames. He rose as they came in and went straight to Monk, initially ignoring Hooper. He held out his hand.
Monk took it and Exeter grasped onto him. “Any news?” he asked. “I can see it in your face. What is it? What have you found? Have you some idea who it was? Tell me!”
Hooper knew Monk well enough to read the expression in his face, the sudden hardening of resolve, the effort to imagine what Exeter must be feeling and to meet it not with pity, but with measured honesty. He had seen it all before, if in more measured degree. This was the first case where they’d been involved before a violent tragedy occurred, believing they could avoid it. Monk was carrying it all himself. He would not expect Hooper to share it.
“We think we have identified one of the kidnappers,” Monk said levelly. “He has certainly spent a great deal of money lately, and he never has before. He hires out his services on violent jobs, and we have an informant that placed him at Jacob’s Island.”
“An informant?” Exeter was clearly startled. “From other kidnappings?”
