nothing in sight.
He had been there only a couple of minutes when he saw Hooper coming along from the other direction.
“Morning, sir,” Hooper said cheerfully.
“Morning,” Monk replied. “Going over the river?”
“Yes, sir.” Hooper shaded his eyes and scanned the water for sign of a ferry. Then, seeing one, he raised his arm. “What do you make of the news, sir?” he asked.
Monk had no doubt that he was referring to Beshara’s stay of execution.
“Surprised,” he answered. “I thought they would have kept quiet about the illness and just got on with it.”
Hooper’s face was grim. “It’s not over yet, sir. They should’ve left it with us. Got ’emselves in a right mess now.”
Monk looked at him, studying his face in the bright morning light. He saw resigned anger in it. Hooper was a man he had learned to respect since he had joined the River Police.
“An inevitable mess?” he asked. “Or would we have done better?”
Hooper smiled—a surprisingly gentle expression. “Maybe not, but our mistakes would ’ave been different. We know the water, and the watermen. We’d ’ave known who’d be out in the river, an’ who wouldn’t, who’s scared of wot, and who owes.”
“Do you think they’re wrong?” Monk asked.
“They went about it wrong,” Hooper replied. “They asked the questions as would get them the answers they wanted. Not lies so much as truths shaved to fit. We’d ’ave known that.”
“Is that all that is bothering you?” Monk asked.
“No,” Hooper answered firmly. “You work the streets, you work the river. You know the people. You know when something don’t smell right, even if you don’t know why. This don’t smell right.” He looked straight at Monk, prepared to defend himself.
“Do you think it was Beshara?” Monk asked.
“Could be, could be not. Too much hurry. He fits well enough, least if you don’t look too close, too long. Everyone wanted it over with.”
“You think they made mistakes?” Monk pressed.
Hooper nodded. “Maybe they got the right man. I’m not saying they didn’t. Just they didn’t get ’im the right way. That’s the trouble with real bad crimes—people look at it an’ don’t see straight.”
“There’s going to be a lot of feeling about not hanging Beshara after all,” Monk said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard some of it already, and it’s early yet.”
Hooper smiled. “There’ll be a lot more.” He shook his head. “We in’t more than halfway through this yet.”
The ferry bumped gently at the bottom of the steps and Monk straightened up and started to go down to it, Hooper on his heels. He did not answer, but he knew Hooper was right.
W HEN M ONK WENT INTO the police station at Wapping there was a sudden silence. Half a dozen men stared at him, waiting for his reaction. He had expected that.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Any word on the brandy smuggling in Bugsby’s Marshes? Mr. Orme?”
“Yes, sir,” Orme answered gravely. “All dealt with, sir. Quiet day, by the look of it. Except that everyone’s hopping mad about that Egyptian. Bit of smashing up of property owned by foreigners, that kind of thing. And of course everybody’s jumpy about it happening again. Pleasure boats losing custom. Should’ve ’anged him when we had the chance. Like before arresting him!”
“We didn’t arrest him,” Monk pointed out bleakly. “The regular police did.”
Orme pulled a face of disgust. “Yes, sir. That’s what they’re complaining about. Walpole, that old tosher down the King’s Arms Stairs, says he was never asked anything, an’ he doesn’t miss a trick. They took the word o’ Nifty Pete instead, skinny little toad, an’ he wouldn’t tell you straight what day it was.” His face was dark with disgust. “He’d tell you it was the prime minister who did it, for a ham sandwich an’ a cup o’ tea. If that was what you wanted to hear.”
“Do you think it wasn’t
He had been there only a couple of minutes when he saw Hooper coming along from the other direction.
“Morning, sir,” Hooper said cheerfully.
“Morning,” Monk replied. “Going over the river?”
“Yes, sir.” Hooper shaded his eyes and scanned the water for sign of a ferry. Then, seeing one, he raised his arm. “What do you make of the news, sir?” he asked.
Monk had no doubt that he was referring to Beshara’s stay of execution.
“Surprised,” he answered. “I thought they would have kept quiet about the illness and just got on with it.”
Hooper’s face was grim. “It’s not over yet, sir. They should’ve left it with us. Got ’emselves in a right mess now.”
Monk looked at him, studying his face in the bright morning light. He saw resigned anger in it. Hooper was a man he had learned to respect since he had joined the River Police.
“An inevitable mess?” he asked. “Or would we have done better?”
Hooper smiled—a surprisingly gentle expression. “Maybe not, but our mistakes would ’ave been different. We know the water, and the watermen. We’d ’ave known who’d be out in the river, an’ who wouldn’t, who’s scared of wot, and who owes.”
“Do you think they’re wrong?” Monk asked.
“They went about it wrong,” Hooper replied. “They asked the questions as would get them the answers they wanted. Not lies so much as truths shaved to fit. We’d ’ave known that.”
“Is that all that is bothering you?” Monk asked.
“No,” Hooper answered firmly. “You work the streets, you work the river. You know the people. You know when something don’t smell right, even if you don’t know why. This don’t smell right.” He looked straight at Monk, prepared to defend himself.
“Do you think it was Beshara?” Monk asked.
“Could be, could be not. Too much hurry. He fits well enough, least if you don’t look too close, too long. Everyone wanted it over with.”
“You think they made mistakes?” Monk pressed.
Hooper nodded. “Maybe they got the right man. I’m not saying they didn’t. Just they didn’t get ’im the right way. That’s the trouble with real bad crimes—people look at it an’ don’t see straight.”
“There’s going to be a lot of feeling about not hanging Beshara after all,” Monk said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard some of it already, and it’s early yet.”
Hooper smiled. “There’ll be a lot more.” He shook his head. “We in’t more than halfway through this yet.”
The ferry bumped gently at the bottom of the steps and Monk straightened up and started to go down to it, Hooper on his heels. He did not answer, but he knew Hooper was right.
W HEN M ONK WENT INTO the police station at Wapping there was a sudden silence. Half a dozen men stared at him, waiting for his reaction. He had expected that.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Any word on the brandy smuggling in Bugsby’s Marshes? Mr. Orme?”
“Yes, sir,” Orme answered gravely. “All dealt with, sir. Quiet day, by the look of it. Except that everyone’s hopping mad about that Egyptian. Bit of smashing up of property owned by foreigners, that kind of thing. And of course everybody’s jumpy about it happening again. Pleasure boats losing custom. Should’ve ’anged him when we had the chance. Like before arresting him!”
“We didn’t arrest him,” Monk pointed out bleakly. “The regular police did.”
Orme pulled a face of disgust. “Yes, sir. That’s what they’re complaining about. Walpole, that old tosher down the King’s Arms Stairs, says he was never asked anything, an’ he doesn’t miss a trick. They took the word o’ Nifty Pete instead, skinny little toad, an’ he wouldn’t tell you straight what day it was.” His face was dark with disgust. “He’d tell you it was the prime minister who did it, for a ham sandwich an’ a cup o’ tea. If that was what you wanted to hear.”
“Do you think it wasn’t
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