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He shivered as the ferry passed in the shadow of the huge boats anchored in the Pool of London, awaiting their turns to unload. Forty more yards and he would be at the Wapping Stairs and the Thames River Police Station. The night watch would have kept the potbellied stove alight, and inside it would be warm.
The last few yards of the water were choppy. The ferry swung alongside the stairs. Monk paid the fare with a word of thanks and stepped out of the boat, about the same size as the police rowing boats he was used to. Still, it took balance and care. Anyone who slipped on the wet stone would be in the water in seconds, drenched to the skin.
He ascended slowly, even though he knew every inch of the steps. When he came to the top he felt the wind catch him again. He was glad of his thick peacoat and the muffler round his neck. He walked quickly across the open dock and through the police station door.
“Morning, sir,” Bathurst said cheerfully. He was young and keen, although after all-night duty he had to be tired. “You’re early, sir.” His face shadowed with a flicker of anxiety. He started to speak, and then changed his mind.
“You’re right,” Monk said bleakly. “There’s a reason I’m here this early, and without breakfast. Anything to report for the night?”
“No, sir. Marbury and Walcott aren’t back yet, but it’s been a quiet night. I think the fog kept everybody in. No point in stealing if you can’t see what you’ve got.”
“Then write it up and go home and get a good day’s sleep. I want you bright and full of energy back here at three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Sir?” That was well before his next shift began, and Bathurst’s uncertainty about whether to point that out showed clearly on his face. He was twenty-six, but sometimes to Monk he looked about nineteen.
“We’ve got an operation later today, at turn of the tide. I want all my best men on it. Is there any tea left?”
Bathurst turned away, but not before Monk had seen the flush of pleasure in his face. “Yes, sir. I’ll fetch you a mug. There’s bread I could toast, if you like?”
“Yes,” Monk accepted. “Thank you.” Poor devil. Bathurst would be a good deal less pleased when he knew they had to go to Jacob’s Island. He hated the place as much as everyone else.
Monk had eaten two slices of toast and drunk a large enamel mug full of hot, slightly bitter tea by the time the other two men came back. Hooper arrived, and Bathurst eventually left.
“He looks cheerful,” Hooper remarked, taking his heavy seaman’s coat off. He had been in the Merchant Navy before joining the River Police, and he knew how to dress for all weathers. He hung it up and turned to look at Monk. He had a comfortable face, strong features, and steady blue eyes, often narrowed against the wind or the light off the water. He was a big man, with a rare, sweet smile. “You’re in early,” he remarked. “Something happened?”
Monk signaled him to close the office door. Other men would arrive in a moment or two, and he wanted to keep the Exeter case private, until he could decide who else to use on it.
Hooper closed the door silently and then, without asking, sat in the chair opposite Monk’s desk. They had worked many years together, since Devon had died and Monk had replaced him as commander. When Orme was killed, Hooper had taken over his position as Monk’s second. There had never been any formal decision. The whole battle, with the gunrunners and the fire, had demanded the utmost from every man. Their grief afterward had prevented any celebration of a promotion. No one felt any pleasure in filling a dead man’s place.
Hooper seemed to know something was troubling Monk, and he was waiting to learn what it was.
“We have a big task later today,” Monk answered the unasked question. “I told Bathurst to come back, but I haven’t decided who else to use, or how many men we’ll need.” He looked at Hooper’s face. He was a hard man to read. There was strength in him, and beneath it an unusual gentleness, but scars of hardship and bad weather at sea, experiences that he told no one, made his expression more opaque the longer you looked at him.
“Oliver Rathbone came to my house last night,” Monk went on. “He represents a man whose wife was kidnapped on Saturday afternoon. The kidnappers want a lot of money, but he can raise it. He wants us to go with him to make certain the exchange takes place without any trouble.”
“Us? You mean the Thames River Police?” Hooper’s eyebrows rose. “Why?”
Monk breathed out slowly. “Partly because she was taken off the riverbank at Battersea.”
Hooper stiffened.
“But mostly because the exchange is to take place at low water this afternoon, which is
just before dusk,” Monk finished.
He saw Hooper’s face change. There was no perceptible movement, but it was as if somewhere inside him a light had gone out. Perhaps Monk saw it because it reflected perfectly how he felt himself.
Hooper took a breath and asked the practical questions. “The husband told you? How does he know she was taken from the river walk? Did anybody see it happen? Who is he? How did they get in touch with him?”
“Yes, he told me. He doesn’t want to fight over it. He’s more than willing to pay. He just wants his wife back, and safe. His name is Harry Exeter. Big property developer. Got a project going in Lambeth. He’s done quite a few things.”
“Rich? Or pretending to be?”
“He says he’s going to get the last of the money today. He doesn’t seem concerned about it.” Monk remembered Exeter’s dismissal of the amount, which was more than even most professional men would earn in a decade. And he spoke of it as if it was only an idea in his head, not a reality. Monk wondered what he had sold, or pledged, to come up with so much in so short a time.
Hooper frowned. “You didn’t say how they got in touch with him.”
“A note was pushed through the letter box.”
