information about Gillander, but none of it added much to what Aaron Clive had said.
No trace whatever was found of Owen, nor any connection with Blount, except what the customs men had said regarding their questioning of both men. McNab raised that again when he came to the Wapping Police Station and found Monk working late, about half-past seven in the evening and long after dark. There were still papers on his desk, reports from his men, and various complaints and affidavits regarding cases. He used an empty mug as a paperweight.
McNab walked in casually, nodding to the constable at the door and walking past Hooper with no more than a glance. It was Laker who stopped him outside Monk’s office.
“Got some news for us, Mr. McNab?” he said boldly.
Monk put down the papers he was reading and waited.
“No, I haven’t,” McNab answered with a touch of irritation in his voice. “You were the ones who lost Owen. If you hadn’t interfered we’d have him safely in prison now. I wondered who tipped you off that he was going that way? We should have a bit closer look at them.” He looked intently at Laker. “I don’t suppose you’d know that, would you? Been poking around a bit, I hear.”
“We never had him,
sir
.” Laker made the emphasis very slightly harder than necessary. “If your man hadn’t attacked him, and so both ended up in the water, I daresay he wouldn’t have drowned, letting Owen get away. I can’t imagine that’s what he meant to do. Just a bad accident. Or perhaps he meant to chuck Owen in, but didn’t know the man could swim like a fish.”
Monk rose to his feet, sending a pile of papers onto the floor. He went to the door and opened it sharply.
McNab was standing, pale-faced, staring at Laker, who appeared to be enjoying himself. But that was Laker, gracefully insolent. One day he wouldn’t get away with it.
“Haven’t got much control of your men, have you?” McNab said angrily, walking round Monk and going into his office. He sat down without being invited.
Monk went in behind him and closed the door. He ignored the question, partly because McNab was right. Monk had earned both fear and respect, but not yet obedience, at least not from Laker. But they were closer since Orme’s death. Tragedy had created a bond that duty could not. There was an irony to the situation now, since Monk was still certain it was McNab who had betrayed them to the gunrunners, and possibly to the pirates that terrible day.
“Do you know anything?” Monk asked, remaining standing himself.
McNab tilted his chair a little and folded his hands across his stomach. He looked up at Monk. “A little. Pettifer was my right-hand man, you know. Hardworking. Loyal. The other men had a high respect for him. Hard to lose him, especially that way.” His face was unreadable. His words suggested grief, yet there was a hard light in his eye, as when a hunting animal scents its prey. “But I expect you understand that, don’t you? Tell you for nothing, that young man with the fair hair’s going to give you trouble. You’ll never keep him in control the way your man Orme would have. He’ll always be setting himself up against you, trying you, seeing who wins, looking for weakness. If he scents it, he’ll be on to it, like a weasel.” Now he was smiling and there was a bright, cold pleasure in it.
There was an element of truth in his words, enough to hurt. The word McNab had left out was
love
. In their own silent way, the men had loved Orme, even seen in him something of a father. They would never see Monk like that.
“How thoughtful of you to come all the way from the Pool of London to tell me,” Monk said sarcastically. “If you find a replacement for Pettifer, you’d better teach him to swim!” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. To lash back like that was a sure sign that McNab had hurt him. He saw knowledge of it in McNab’s face.
“I’ll have a few things to teach
No trace whatever was found of Owen, nor any connection with Blount, except what the customs men had said regarding their questioning of both men. McNab raised that again when he came to the Wapping Police Station and found Monk working late, about half-past seven in the evening and long after dark. There were still papers on his desk, reports from his men, and various complaints and affidavits regarding cases. He used an empty mug as a paperweight.
McNab walked in casually, nodding to the constable at the door and walking past Hooper with no more than a glance. It was Laker who stopped him outside Monk’s office.
“Got some news for us, Mr. McNab?” he said boldly.
Monk put down the papers he was reading and waited.
“No, I haven’t,” McNab answered with a touch of irritation in his voice. “You were the ones who lost Owen. If you hadn’t interfered we’d have him safely in prison now. I wondered who tipped you off that he was going that way? We should have a bit closer look at them.” He looked intently at Laker. “I don’t suppose you’d know that, would you? Been poking around a bit, I hear.”
“We never had him,
sir
.” Laker made the emphasis very slightly harder than necessary. “If your man hadn’t attacked him, and so both ended up in the water, I daresay he wouldn’t have drowned, letting Owen get away. I can’t imagine that’s what he meant to do. Just a bad accident. Or perhaps he meant to chuck Owen in, but didn’t know the man could swim like a fish.”
Monk rose to his feet, sending a pile of papers onto the floor. He went to the door and opened it sharply.
McNab was standing, pale-faced, staring at Laker, who appeared to be enjoying himself. But that was Laker, gracefully insolent. One day he wouldn’t get away with it.
“Haven’t got much control of your men, have you?” McNab said angrily, walking round Monk and going into his office. He sat down without being invited.
Monk went in behind him and closed the door. He ignored the question, partly because McNab was right. Monk had earned both fear and respect, but not yet obedience, at least not from Laker. But they were closer since Orme’s death. Tragedy had created a bond that duty could not. There was an irony to the situation now, since Monk was still certain it was McNab who had betrayed them to the gunrunners, and possibly to the pirates that terrible day.
“Do you know anything?” Monk asked, remaining standing himself.
McNab tilted his chair a little and folded his hands across his stomach. He looked up at Monk. “A little. Pettifer was my right-hand man, you know. Hardworking. Loyal. The other men had a high respect for him. Hard to lose him, especially that way.” His face was unreadable. His words suggested grief, yet there was a hard light in his eye, as when a hunting animal scents its prey. “But I expect you understand that, don’t you? Tell you for nothing, that young man with the fair hair’s going to give you trouble. You’ll never keep him in control the way your man Orme would have. He’ll always be setting himself up against you, trying you, seeing who wins, looking for weakness. If he scents it, he’ll be on to it, like a weasel.” Now he was smiling and there was a bright, cold pleasure in it.
There was an element of truth in his words, enough to hurt. The word McNab had left out was
love
. In their own silent way, the men had loved Orme, even seen in him something of a father. They would never see Monk like that.
“How thoughtful of you to come all the way from the Pool of London to tell me,” Monk said sarcastically. “If you find a replacement for Pettifer, you’d better teach him to swim!” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. To lash back like that was a sure sign that McNab had hurt him. He saw knowledge of it in McNab’s face.
“I’ll have a few things to teach
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