Corridors of the Night (4 page)

He identified with Laker. He was arrogant, often funny, and sometimes right when others who were slower saw only part of the picture.

‘Yes, sir?’ Laker said politely, but with no deference.

‘What did you find in Mr Derby’s warehouse?’ Monk said, leaning back a little in his chair and looking up at Laker, still standing. ‘Any trace of the guns?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Nothing whatever altered in Laker’s attitude. He still stood gracefully, not quite to attention.

‘Well?’ Monk demanded.

‘Just one, sir, but very nice, very smooth. A good marksman could probably hit a man on the other side of the river with no trouble. I tried the action and it was like silk. Not a mark on it. I’d guess it was a sample, sir. But it had definitely been fired. Tried out.’

‘Did you see any paperwork?’ Monk asked without much hope. Derby was too clever to leave evidence. He was one of the best smugglers in Europe, but as far as Monk was aware, he was fairly new to the arson trade. Usually he dealt in brandy and tobacco.

‘Yes, sir. It read like it was the usual stuff he was supposed to deal in: Spanish steel from Toledo, and exotic woods. So many cases of ebony, so many engraved swords, plates and so on. Probably weighs about the same.’

‘Dates, amounts, money?’ Monk prompted.

‘Yes, sir. And a few other interesting things.’ Laker’s smile was bright with satisfaction.

‘Don’t make me pull your teeth, Laker,’ Monk said impatiently.

Laker gave a little shrug and his mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I think he’s got at least one of the Excise men in his pocket, sir.’

Monk felt a chill inside himself. It was one of the ugly pieces of corruption he knew existed and one day he would have to deal with, but it still worried him more than it might another man who was more certain of his own past.

The carriage accident just before he had first met Hester, over a decade ago now, had injured his body, but that had healed quickly. The loss of his memory, however, had never been made up, except in snatches here and there, and as his detection had uncovered things about himself, by no means all pleasant. He did not know who all his friends or enemies were, not by a long way. He had once worked in the regular Metropolitan Police. He knew the docks. Unexpected flashes of familiarity told him that: a corner turned and the scene known to him, a smell that brought back powerful feelings.

The worst fear was that a man he did not know, knew and remembered him. Old debts sometimes waited a long time. Monk had solved a lot of cases. If he could look back on those now, would he still be happy to own the methods he had used in all of them?

He met Laker’s eyes. ‘I assume you have hard evidence of this, not just whispers in the dark?’

‘Yes, sir. Facts and figures, things that don’t add up. I’m just not sure which of two or three men it is. I suppose it could be all of them.’

‘Good. Write it all down.’

‘I’ll remember, sir . . .’

‘You’ll also write it down,’ Monk told him levelly. ‘I’m not trusting this to any one man’s recollection. Thank you. That’s all.’

Laker turned to leave.

‘Laker!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You’ll go up the river, opposite direction, for the next few days.’

‘But I might learn something more, sir. I’ve got—’

‘One fact that will be recognised and remembered,’ Monk said. ‘If you want to remain in the River Police, you’ll do as you’re told.’

Laker winced. ‘Yes, sir.’

Monk went back to his paperwork and completed it before putting it away and going outside into the dock in the late summer afternoon. He was just in time to see Hooper coming up the steps from the water. In the past the matter of the Excise men was something he would have discussed with Orme first, but it was time he allowed Hooper to step forward. When Orme retired, he would have to. Hooper would fight beside him, watch his neck, and risk his own life to save him.

But he would not coddle his superior officer as far as Orme had. His critical judgement was sharper. He would hate doing it, and think less of Monk if he had to be told too often. He had not Orme’s gentleness – or perhaps he had, but it was not authorised by age and an awareness of times changing and his own strength slipping away from him. Hooper did not expect a commander who was flawless, but he certainly required one who learned from his mistakes and did not repeat them, and one who never put himself before his men.

One day he would have to tell Hooper about his lost memory, the things in the dark he could not recall. He knew that without Hester’s belief in him, when they had just met, he would not have had the courage to fight for his own innocence of the hideous murder of which circumstances had implicated his guilt so powerfully that he had even to accept it himself. It was she who had fought for another answer, not he.

But did Hooper sense the darker self that lay in his past? One day they might talk about it, but not now. The satisfaction, the respect apparent in Hooper’s face was something not to be risked yet, unless it became necessary.

‘Laker’s given a pretty clear report,’ Monk said to Hooper, quietly, although there was no one else in earshot. ‘Derby has a sample of a particularly good gun. I’ve looked at the paper that makes it pretty clear he’s bringing them upriver soon.’

Hooper studied Monk’s face, seeing something in it deeper than these words.

‘But he thinks there’s someone in Customs and Excise involved. It isn’t going to be as simple as we thought.’

Hooper nodded slowly, no surprise in his face. ‘Have you told Mr Orme yet, sir?’

‘No.’ Monk did not know how to explain his reluctance to involve Orme, without robbing him of some of his dignity in Hooper’s eyes. ‘Not certain yet,’ he went on. ‘Don’t like the thought of someone in Customs tipping them off.’

‘You’ll have to tell him, sir.’ Hooper kept his own voice down, although he was softly spoken anyway. ‘He may have some ideas.’

‘I know,’ Monk admitted. He stared out across the river where the sun was still bright, although it was late afternoon. It stayed light until nearly ten in the evening this time of the year, especially over the water where everything was reflected back.

‘I am going for a walk along the river,’ he added. ‘South bank. I’ll give it some thought. See you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Hooper replied quietly. ‘Good night.’

Scuff was standing on the wharf at Greenwich when Monk’s ferry pulled up to the steps and he climbed out. Scuff had grown almost a foot in height in the five years since Monk had adopted him. Or, more accurately, since he had adopted Monk. He had been eleven, or thereabouts, anyway, and felt far too old to need parents!

But Monk himself had been new to his job on the river and really did need somebody who knew the teeming life of the Thames to stop him making the worst mistakes, if he were to succeed, never mind solve any crimes. Scuff had made his own way on the river-bank for several years. It seemed natural that he should keep an eye on Monk, help him now and then, and explain how things worked.

Scuff had always liked Monk. Hester was a different matter. Scuff was too big to need a mother, and anyway, he already had one, but he had left home years ago. There had been no room for him there since he was about seven and his mother had remarried and had more babies.

Scuff had been very wary of Hester. She was an odd one, not like any other woman he knew. At first she seemed so strong she was frightening. She knew things no one else did, about medicine, and government. He was almost ready to admit to himself that he loved her, in some ways even more than he loved Monk. The quality of the feeling was different. There was a kind of peace in it that he did not understand.

He rose to his feet as Monk reached the top of the steps. Although Monk was smiling, he looked tired, which was a pity because Scuff had things he needed to talk about with him, and he didn’t want to have to wait for another opportunity. It had taken all his courage to make up his mind now. He had it worked out and the words were on his tongue, although there were too many for the short walk home. Monk’s house was home to Scuff now, just as if he had been born there. Sometimes, however, he woke in the night and just lay still, feeling the space and the cleanness of it, then getting up and touching things to make sure it was all real.

‘D’yer wanter walk?’ Scuff asked hopefully. ‘Dinner in’t ready yet.’

Monk hesitated only a second, and then he smiled and agreed.

They started to walk east along the bank, towards the Estuary, which led eventually to the sea. They watched the water, the longest street in London, where the ships made their way past them up towards the Pool, the biggest port on earth.

They stopped to stare as an ocean-going schooner made its way with half-sails set.

‘Wonder where it’s come from,’ Scuff said in awe. His imagination skipped through the possibilities that Monk had taught him: countries on the coasts of Africa, China, Australia, Egypt – names that conjured up visions like a magic incantation.

Monk smiled. ‘India?’ he suggested, as if he knew it was the one Scuff had not thought of.

‘Have you ever been to India?’ Scuff asked.

‘No,’ Monk answered quickly. ‘Would you like to go?’

‘Not yet,’ Scuff said. ‘I like it here . . . for now.’

They started to walk again.

‘Then what’s wrong?’ Monk asked quietly.

A string of barges passed, followed by a coastal scow heavy-laden with coal.

Scuff needed to find the right words to tell Monk what he had decided. He was not at all sure what Monk would think; if he would be disappointed, even angry. Scuff glanced at him and felt his heart sink. This was not a good time for him to bring up decisions for the future. Monk clearly had something on his mind already. But he would have to tell him some time soon, and there were always going to be other things that mattered. He drew in his breath to start, right words or not, then he looked at Monk’s face again and saw the anxiety in it.

‘Summink go wrong?’ he asked.

Monk was startled for a moment, and then he smiled ruefully. ‘Is it so obvious?’

‘Yeah,’ Scuff nodded. Then he saw the flicker in Monk’s expression and knew that he would rather not be so easily read. Well, he would just have to put up with it. Scuff had always had a pretty good idea of when he was troubled, even if he was quite often wrong as to the cause. This time he made a very well-educated guess. ‘Mr Orme going to stop working any more?’ he asked.

Monk sighed. ‘Yes, I think so.’

Scuff kicked at a small stone and sent it rattling across the path.

‘Don’t worry. Mr Hooper’ll be there.’ He said it as comfort, but also with belief and some considerable respect. His mind slipped back to Hooper arriving at the door in Paradise Row, badly injured and needing help because he had gone alone to fight a battle to save Monk. He could close his eyes and see Hooper sitting on the hard-backed chair in the kitchen while Hester stopped the bleeding with all the towels she could find, and then stitched him up. It must have hurt like being stuck with daggers, but Hooper had never moved. It had been a bad time. Scuff didn’t really want to remember it, except that if they could all come through that, then they would probably come through anything. And Hooper had been part of it.

‘He will!’ he said again, with conviction.

‘I know,’ Monk agreed. His hand casually brushed Scuff’s shoulder, just a touch, then gone again.

It was time for Scuff to stop avoiding it. ‘I got summink I need ter tell you,’ he said.

He glanced at Monk and saw him nod, waiting.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Scuff began. ‘I kind of got ter like school. Some of it I don’t care about, but most of it’s good.’ How could he say the next bit? That was what Monk might really mind . . . a lot.

‘Good,’ Monk said with some surprise. ‘When did this happen?’

Now was Scuff’s chance to tell him. He drew in his breath, and then his words deserted him. He shrugged.

‘I s’pose when I didn’t have to work so hard to read. It sort of began to make sense. I looked at the counting and I could see it without thinking.’

‘That’s how it should be. Reading can be fun.’

‘Yeah,’ Scuff agreed. He knew this was going to be difficult, but now he was in the middle of it, it was terrible. How would he get over it if Monk was angry, or worse, upset?

They walked in silence for another fifty yards. Below them the tide was rising in the river, covering steps, filling in hollows in the mud and swirling upstream, carrying flotsam and debris with it. A string of barges went by, lightermen balanced with angular grace in the stern, always watching.

‘Why are you mentioning it now?’ Monk asked him finally.

There was no help for it; Scuff clenched his teeth, drew a deep breath, and said it.

‘I want to be in medicine, like Hester. Be a doctor or a nurse, or something.’ He gulped. ‘I’m sorry, but I do. It’s what I want.’

There was a moment’s silence except for the crying of the gulls wheeling and diving above them.

‘Are you sure?’ Monk said at last. ‘It’s not easy.’ He sounded worried. Scuff could hear it in his voice. He wished he had never spoken, but he couldn’t take it back.

‘Yeah!’

‘Have you told Hester?’ Monk asked.

Scuff was caught completely by surprise. Did Monk really think he would tell Hester before saying something to him?

‘No!’ he said fiercely. ‘’Course I didn’t!’

‘Would you like me to?’ Monk suggested.

Scuff stopped on the path and turned to stare at him.

‘You would?’ he said a little breathlessly.

‘If you tell me why,’ Monk replied.

‘Why?’

‘Yes. Why do you want to be a doctor?’

Scuff was embarrassed. He was aiming too high.

‘I don’t think I can be a doctor. I in’t the right sort of person for that.’

‘Crow’s a doctor.’ Monk mentioned the doctor for the poor that they both knew. He was not formally qualified, but his skill was high and his dedication total.

‘But Crow is . . .’ Scuff began, then did not know how to finish. He should never have started this. He was being ridiculous, reaching far too high.