Revenge in a Cold River (14 page)

It was one of those leaden November days when the rain threatened but did not come, and there was what was called “a lazy wind,” meaning it would go through you rather than around.

Hooper turned up the collar of his pea coat. “D'you think McNab planned for all this, sir?” he asked quite casually, as if the idea had just occurred to him. He had a dry sense of humor and Monk waited for the follow-up.

“Don't you?” he said at last, when Hooper did not add anything.

“I think he's a chancer, an opportunist,” Hooper answered. “He takes other people's work and bends it around. He doesn't make it himself.”

Monk considered for a moment, recalling what he could. “Riding on other people's backs,” he said at last. “Sounds about right.”

Hooper smiled and said nothing.

Monk shivered as they walked across one of the rickety bridges over the mud onto the island. The dank buildings creaked and sagged lower. The air tasted foul. Hooper followed just behind him, looking from left to right for any sign of human movement. The wind fluttered a few discarded rags and bits of old newspaper. The water lapped higher with the rising tide, giving the illusion that the ground was sinking fast enough to see.

As soon as they were inside the first building they saw a bundle of sacking and an old blanket in the corner. It stirred vaguely, enough to show that there was a live person sleeping underneath, and not a corpse.

Monk was profoundly glad not to be alone. One man could not watch in all directions in case he was crept up on. He and Hooper ignored the rats. No one wasted bullets killing them. There were thousands of them, and the shots would be a warning to anyone here.

A hundred feet farther in they found the man they were looking for. Hooper knew him by sight. They were deep inside the warren of passages and interconnected rooms. He actually had a wood-burning stove going and the air was warm. It made the smell worse, more acrid in the throat and lungs.

Torrance was a lean man with a large mouth and a thick black beard and mustache, which made his head look disproportionately huge. He looked up as they came in. There was neither fear nor curiosity in his eyes. Monk had not expected there to be. Jacob's Island had eyes everywhere. Torrance would have been aware of them as soon as they set foot on the bridge.

Monk had a bag with half a dozen fresh ham sandwiches he had bought from a peddler on the quay. “Food,” he said, holding the bag so Torrance could see it. Neither of them made any comment. He sat down cross-legged on the floor. Hooper remained standing, looking casual, but with his weight so balanced he could have struck out in an instant, or moved at the sound of a breath.

Torrance said nothing, waiting for Monk to speak.

“I want a little bit of information,” Monk began quietly. “Old stuff. The gunrunners we caught about three months ago. Big battle. I'm sure you remember it….”

“Everybody remembers it,” Torrance replied guardedly. “Sent 'em all down. Won't see the water, nor the sky again, for years. Hard, that, for a man o' the sea.”

“Right,” Monk agreed. “Unless they escape, of course. But that's not likely. Won't be getting them out for questioning, or evidence.”

Torrance gave a gap-toothed grin. “Not doing too well, Mr. McNab, is 'e? That's two 'e's lost in the last ten days, like. 'E in't no friend o' yours. Everybody knows that.”

Monk drew in breath to ask Torrance if he knew why, then stopped himself. It was an admission of ignorance that would give Torrance a leverage he would certainly use.

“I know,” he agreed instead. “Who told you in the first place?” He made a guess. “Was it Mad Lammond?” He mentioned a river pirate well known along the waterfront.

Torrance looked slightly taken aback, then he recovered quickly, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “No it weren't. Wouldn't go nowhere near Mad Lammond, even if yer paid me!”

“Then who was it that told you?” Monk resisted the temptation to put the name in his mouth.

“Were McNab's own man. Big feller wi' a beard. Good as mine.” He gave the huge, gap-toothed grin again.

Monk had the uneasy feeling that somewhere in this he was being distracted, duped, but he could not see how. “Name?”

“Never asked 'im,” Torrance replied. “ 'Ow about one o' them sandwiches, then?”

Monk passed him one and he ate it, cramming it into his mouth in two bites, and then had trouble swallowing it.

“Name?” Monk repeated.

“Feller wot got drowned,” Torrance replied, looking slightly sideways at Monk and holding his hand out for another sandwich. “Reckon you knows all about that. Did us a favor, you did, so I'll let you off light. All them sandwiches'll be enough. Won't ask fer nothing else, not this time, like.”

Monk looked at Hooper.

A bubble of gas came up through a stretch of mud, and burst, releasing a foul stench.

Hooper remained where he was, staring around in all directions, then back at Torrance.

Torrance groaned. “That in't nice, Mr. 'Ooper. Yer think I've got someone as'll jump yer? There in't nobody 'ere, ceptin' me. Leastways, not on this part o' the island.”

“We've been here long enough,” Monk said quietly. He passed the rest of the sandwiches over to Torrance, who snatched them from him.

Hooper took a step toward Torrance, and he shrank back.

“Why?” he said softly. “What was in it for McNab to give the pirates that tip-off, eh?”

Torrance blinked.

Monk glanced around them, then at Torrance. He, too, took a step closer. Was it as simple as money?

Torrance clutched the sandwiches close to his chest. “ 'Ow in 'ell should I know? Mebbe find out, but it'll cost yer!”

Monk leaned forward. “Leave it alone, if you know what's good for you. You don't want to make an enemy of either of us.”

Torrance smiled very slowly, and with soft, insolent sarcasm. “Oh, I know which side me bread's buttered, Mr. Monk, sir. Believe me. I know 'oo's goin' ter last, an' 'oo ain't. Mr. McNab don't like yer, an' that's fer sure. An' I don't wanna be in the middle of yer. What 'appened ter Mr. Orme, an' Mr. Pettifer, I ain't gonna let it 'appen ter me.”

Somewhere out of sight something fell into the water. Monk knew it was time they left. Perhaps it was even past time. He was glad of the weight of the gun in his pocket. He signaled to Hooper with his hand.

Without speaking, they turned and went, picking their way out slowly, careful not to return the way they had come in. There seemed to be water dripping everywhere. The ground underneath them was wetter. Was it sinking, or the tide rising? Or were they imagining it out of fear?

The smell of river mud and sewage filled the nose and rested on the tongue.

Another rat fell into the water somewhere.

Outside under the open sky there was a sudden sense of freedom. The rain had stopped and there were clear patches of blue above, even a weak light on the water.

Monk strode forward rapidly; he had to control himself not to run. If Torrance was telling the truth, then it was beginning to make sense. McNab was behind the pirate sabotage of the raid on the gunrunners, as Monk had believed. It might be for money, or some bigger ambition of McNab's. That was something he would still have to find out, if he were to prove it. But he felt freer just from the knowledge. It was McNab, whatever the reason, whether Makepeace had known what he was doing or not. It was not Monk's incompetence in the raid, which had been the source of the dark fear crouching at the back of his mind. Makepeace, acting for McNab, was responsible for the injured men, and for Orme's death.

They reached the place where they had left their boat and got in, glad to heave hard on the oars, stretching their backs on the way upriver toward Wapping. The smell of salt and fish was clean. Even the turgid water was better than the stagnant, clinging odor of mud.

They rowed in silence. Conversation was difficult when they were both facing the same direction, one behind the other.

They were almost at the Wapping Stairs and in the slack water close in to the shore, when Hooper finally spoke. He leaned on the oar, holding the boat still, then turned in his seat and put one leg on each side of the bench so he could face Monk.

“Why's McNab doing this then, sir? If he's that bent on it, we need to know why. Can't bring Mr. Orme back, but might save the next one he has in his sights.” He looked at Monk steadily, his dark eyes almost unblinking.

Monk took a deep breath. It was McNab who had been the immediate cause of the ambush, and if it was hatred of Monk that had driven him to it, then Monk had no right to lie to Hooper.

“I don't know,” he admitted. “You'll remember I told you about the accident I was in, that I lost my memory—lost my past?”

“Of course. And you thought McNab might have a grudge against you.”

“Yes, and now I'm certain of it, though I can still remember nothing from before I came round in hospital after the accident.”

“What are your memories from then?” Hooper asked tentatively.

Monk chose his words carefully, and yet they were still awkward.

“When I was well enough to leave the hospital I got my own clothes back. They were better quality than I had expected, more expensive. And yet they all fitted pretty well. A bit big in places, because I had lost weight lying on my back doing nothing.” He recalled it ruefully: a physical memory of discomfort, smooth fabric that did not seem right and yet slipped on easily.

Hooper sat watching him, still holding the oar to keep them steady in the water.

“I found where I lived,” Monk went on, wishing Hooper would show some reaction. “Very ordinary rooms, but my landlady knew me. I went back to work because there was no choice. There were bills to pay, largely tailors' bills!” He had thought of it since with amusement, self-mockery, but telling Hooper in his work trousers and old pea coat, it brought back his feeling then of embarrassment.

Hooper conceded a smile, but he did not interrupt.

“They gave me a case still unsolved from before my accident. It was a gentleman officer from the army in the Crimea, and here, who had been beaten to death in his flat.”

Hooper nodded, his eyes steady on Monk's face.

“I went over the crime, detail by detail, and eventually I solved it,” he said, only just loud enough to be heard over the noises of the river. “But while I was doing it I discovered a lot about myself, and why other men feared me. I also recognized many of the scenes from the crime. I had been there before. At one time I even thought I had killed the man myself….”

Hooper jerked his head up, caught by the moment, looking at him at last. Monk saw pity in his eyes, gentle, without judgment.

He smiled, partly to hide his gratitude. It should not matter so much!

“I didn't, but I came close. He was one of the worst men I ever knew. After the end of that case I went on working in the regular police, getting more and more at odds with my commander. I never did tell him I'd lost my memory, except for the very occasional flashes of a scene or two. I managed to fake it. He knows now, and we have become the friends we used to be, in the beginning twenty years ago.”

“Who else knows?” Hooper said at last.

“In the police, only Superintendent Runcorn of the Metropolitan Police, my old commander. He's in the Blackheath area now.”

He would be highly unlikely to keep his position, if it were known. But Hooper would know that.

Sitting on the bank, rocking slightly, as if the river were breathing beneath them, Monk felt as vulnerable as if a firing squad were standing aiming at him. Only every gun was loaded, not just the one unknown.

“So there could be any reason why McNab hates you?” Hooper said softly.

“Yes,” Monk agreed. “It could even be justified….”

“Or not,” Hooper argued. “A good man would have faced you with it.”

“He may have,” Monk pointed out. “Or it could have been so obvious no one could have misunderstood. I don't know.”

Hooper took a deep breath, then bit his lip. “Does he know that you can't remember?”

“I think so.” Monk swallowed, and then his mouth was dry. “He's made a few oblique remarks and he smiles far too often.”

Hooper looked at him steadily. “Then we assume he does.”

Monk heard the word
we,
not
you
. Did Hooper mean it? Was he even conscious of having used it? Then he realized that of course Hooper would be thinking of the safety of the whole force, not just the survival of Monk himself, and he felt a loneliness so wide and deep he could drown in it.

“We'd better give away nothing,” Hooper went on. “But assume the worst. At least now we know he's after you, so don't trust anything he says or does. Don't believe anything without proof.” He stared at the water beyond Monk, all the time gently moving the oar to keep the boat from drifting out into the current again. “I wonder how much he set up, deliberately, and how much was just a damn clever use of circumstances. With your permission, sir, I'd like to look further into these escapes. Were they really as clumsy as they look? Is McNab capable of setting up his own man Pettifer? Maybe we should know more about him.”

Monk followed Hooper's idea instantly. “You mean, was Pettifer loyal, or might he have turned on McNab and become a liability? A lieutenant who knew too much?”

Hooper nodded with a tight smile. “Wouldn't do to take McNab for a fool, sir.”

Monk looked across at Hooper, intensely grateful for his quiet loyalty, not necessarily to Monk himself, but to the value he placed on mercy.

“Better get on with it,” Monk agreed. “I need to know as much about McNab as he does about me.”

“Or more,” Hooper said, leaning forward to pull on the oar again, as soon as Monk was ready.