William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

together from fragments learned here and there, people he had come across in investigations since the accident.
    He could not afford to trust that Taunton was a friend; he could not assume that of anyone. The little he knew of his life showed he had earned more fear than love. There might be all manner of old debts left unpaid, his and others’. This was a time when he wished fiercely that he knew himselfbetter, knew who were his enemies, and why, knew their weaknesses. He was without armor, without weapons.
    He searched Taunton’s face, and saw no warmth in it. The expression was guarded, careful, but already there was a beginning of pleasure, as if he had seen a vulnerability in Monk, and it pleased him.
    Monk racked his mind for something to say that would not betray his ignorance.
    “The place has changed.” He played for time, hoping Taunton would let slip some information, so at least he would know how long ago they had last met, perhaps even the mood, whether their enmity was open or concealed. Because with every passing second he was more and more certain that it was enmity.
    “Twenty-one years, I make it,” Taunton said with a faint curl of his lip. “We’re doing well. Did you think we couldn’t have the odd renovation here and there?”
    Monk looked around the office. It was well appointed, but not luxurious. He allowed his observation of it to reflect in his expression—unimpressed.
    The color deepened in Taunton’s cheeks.
    “You’ve changed too,” he said with a faint sneer. “No more fancy shirts and boots. Thought you’d have had everything made ’specially for you by now. Fall on hard times, did you?” There was a keen undertone of pleasure in his voice, almost relish. “Dundas take you down with him, did he?”
    Dundas. With blinding clarity Monk saw the gentle face, the intelligent, clear blue eyes with laughter deep in the lines around them. Then as quickly it was overtaken by grief and a raging helplessness. He knew Dundas was dead. He had been fifty, perhaps fifty-five. Monk himself had been in his twenties, aspiring to be a merchant banker. Arrol Dundas was his mentor, ruined in some financial crash, blamed for it, wrongly. He had died in prison.
    Monk wanted to smash the sneering face in front of him. He felt the rage burn up inside him, knotting his body, making it difficult even to swallow, his throat was so tight. Hemust control it, hide it from Taunton. Hide everything until he knew enough to act and foresee the results.
    How much did Taunton know of Monk since then? Did he know he had joined the police? Monk could not be sure. His reputation had spread widely. He had been one of the best and most ruthless detectives they had had, but he might never have had occasion to work here in the West India docks.
    “A little change of direction,” he answered the question obliquely. “I had certain debts to collect.” He allowed himself a smile, wolfish, as he intended it to be.
    Taunton swallowed. His eyes flicked up and down Monk’s very ordinary clothes, the ones he had chosen in order to be inconspicuous on the river and in the docks.
    “Doesn’t look like they amounted to much,” he observed.
    “I haven’t collected them all yet,” Monk answered, the words out before he gave them thought.
    Taunton was rigid, his hands moving restlessly by his sides, his eyes never leaving Monk’s face.
    “I don’t owe you anything, Monk! And after twenty-one years, I don’t know who does.” He let out a little snort. “We always did very well by you. Everybody made their profit. No one got caught, far as I know.”
    Caught! The word struck Monk like a physical blow. Caught by whom? Over what? He did not dare ask. What had Dundas been accused of in the end, what was it that had ruined him? Monk could remember only the fury he had felt, and the absolute conviction that Dundas was innocent, blamed wrongly, and he, Monk, should have known some way to prove it.
    But was it something to do with Taunton? Or did Taunton know about it because everyone did?
    Monk hungered to have the truth, all of it, more than almost anything else he could think of. It had haunted him ever since the first shafts of memory had struck him, fragments, emotions, small moments of recollection gone before he could perceive anything more than an impression, a feeling, a look on someone’s face, the inflection of a voice,and always the sense of loss, a guilt that he should have been able to prevent