William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

that suggested he was also younger.
    “You all right, sir?” His voice was concerned, challenging.
    “Yes, thank you, Sergeant Orme,” Durban replied. “Just Ollie Jenkins getting a bit above himself again. Thinks Mr. Monk here has designs on Little Lil.”
    Sergeant Orme was satisfied. The rigidity in him relaxed, but he did not leave.
    “What exactly is it that you’re doing here, Mr. Monk?” Durban asked. “What are you looking for?”
    “Thank you,” Monk said with profound feeling. It was embarrassing, being rescued by the River Police. He was used to being the one who helped, who did the favor and found the solutions. It was made the more so because he respected Durban and loathed not being able to be honest with him. It was a kind of grubbiness he would have paid a great deal to avoid.
    “What are you looking for?” Durban repeated. The water gurgled around the pier, the wash from something passing in the gloom sloshed against the stakes and the wood creaked and sagged sideways. “I know you’re a private agent of enquiry,” Durban said in an expressionless voice. What he thought of such an occupation could only be guessed at. Did he think Monk was a scavenger in other people’s misery, or a profiteer from their crimes?
    “Stolen goods,” he answered finally. “So I can return them to their owner.”
    Still Durban did not move. “What sort of goods?”
    “Anything that belongs to one man and has been taken by another.”
    “You’re playing with fire, Mr. Monk, an’ you aren’t good enough at it, at least not down here on the river,” Durban told him softly. “You’ll get burnt, an’ I already have enough murders on my stretch without you. Go back to the city an’ do what you know how.”
    “I’ve got to finish this job.”
    Durban sighed. “I suppose you’ll do whatever you want. I can’t stop you,” he said wearily. “You’d better come with us back along the river. Can’t leave you around here or somebody could attack you in the other arm.” He turned and led the way out towards the river edge of the wharf to where the police boat was waiting on the high tide, close enough to the bank to jump down into.
    Monk followed, and Sergeant Orme offered him a hand so he could balance himself in the dark. He landed moderately well in the boat, at least not falling over any of the oarsmen or pitching beyond into the water.
    He sat quietly and watched as Orme, who was apparently in charge, gave the order and they put out again and turned upriver towards the Pool. They moved swiftly on the still-incoming tide, the men pulling with an easy rhythm, with that special kind of unity that comes with practice and a common purpose.
    They maneuvered with skill, making little of the art and the knowledge required to weave their way between the anchored ships without hitting a boat. Now and then someone made a joke and there was a burst of laughter, a comfortable sound in the wind and the blustery darkness lit only by the glimmer of riding lights.
    They called each other by nicknames, which were often derogatory, but the affection was too plain to need display. The mockery was their way of robbing the fear from the reality of violence and hardship. Monk knew that as he listened to them, and remembered all the better parts of his own police days, things he had forgotten until now, and lied to himself that he did not miss.
    They put him off at London Bridge and he thanked them, climbing out stiffly, then walking towards the nearest omnibus stop.
    He was glad to feel the solid earth under his feet, but his mind was in turmoil, his emotions raw. He hated having appeared such a fool to Durban. Even when the time came that he could tell him the truth, it might not sound a great deal better, even though ideas were at last becoming clearer in his mind. There were threads to follow, something definite to do.

SEVEN
    Monk returned home for the night, but Hester was not there. The emptiness of the house oppressed him and he found himself anxious for her, thinking how tired she must be. At least she was in no danger; Margaret Ballinger and Bessie would look after her as much as they could.
    In the morning, he dressed, choosing another jacket with no tear, then went downstairs and cooked himself kippers and toast for breakfast. At eight he set out to pursue the ideas he had formed from the knowledge gained the day before. He began by enquiring for the exact location of Culpepper’s warehouse, then