William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

Private work might leave him frighteningly short of money, but it afforded him the luxury of not putting up silently with remarks like that. He had to remind himself with cruel bluntness what it would cost him to retaliate now. “It was a harsh night,” he added. “It was snowing quite hard when I got home at half past one.”
    Farnham looked irritated. “Chasing that suicide again? Do I have to remind you that river crime is up, which is our business—
your
business, Monk? There aren’t many passenger boats on the water this time of year, but the few there are are experiencing more thefts than usual, and we aren’t doing anything about it! Some people are suggesting that is because we don’t care to.” His face was hard and there were blotches of color in his cheeks.
    Monk realized Farnham was losing control of his anger again, because the emotion inside him was too powerful to govern. It was fear, the possibility of disgrace to the police force he loved and which was his source not only of income and power, but of his belief in himself.
    “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Monk said dutifully. “That perception is completely wrong. We care very much, and we must prove it.”
    “Yes, you damned well must!” Farnham agreed vehemently. “Suicides are tragic, but they happen. It’s hard enough for the surviving family members without you nosing around asking pointless questions and keeping it in the forefront of everybody’s minds.”
    He started to pace up and down. He had apparently forgotten his tea. “People are saying that the River Police are corrupt!” The pink deepened in his cheeks. “That has never happened before since I’ve been in the force! They even said we’re taking a rake-off ourselves!” He stopped mid-stride and glared at Monk, his eyes bright and hot. “I won’t have my force destroyed by that slander. I lost my best man in Durban. He was wise, brave, and loyal, and above all he was honest. He knew this river like his own backyard, and he knew its people, good and bad.” He jabbed his finger at Monk. “No one would have said such a monstrous thing about us if he were alive. I don’t expect you to take his place. You wouldn’t know where to begin! But you’ll clear up this mess and prove we don’t look the other way at crime, any crime! And we take nothing out of it but our pay, which is hard earned by the best bunch of men who ever wore Her Majesty’s uniform! Do you understand me?”
    “Yes, sir, I do.”
    “Good. Then get out and begin to do what you are hired for. Good day.”
    “Good morning, sir.”
    Monk went back to the outer room and his own desk, where the reports were of monetary theft. None of the men commented, but he felt Clacton’s eyes on him. The patrol had already gone out before Monk had arrived. He read the account of the night’s events, the usual minor thefts, disturbances, and accidents. There was only one major incident, but it had narrowly avoided becoming a disaster, largely due to the rapid action of the River Police on duty.
    Monk made a note to himself to congratulate the men concerned, and to do it as publicly as possible.
    Farnham was not exaggerating. The thefts reported on the passenger boats going up and down the river had increased alarmingly. He had read the old reports from the same time last year, in Durban’s neat, strong hand, and it had more than doubled since then. The escalation had come since Monk had taken over.
    Was that coincidence? Or had the thieves taken advantage of a new and slacker regime, a commander who was ignorant of a great deal of their names and habits, their connections with one another, their methods and tricks? A commander who also did not know his own men and whose men in turn had little confidence in him?
    Then a darker and even uglier thought forced itself into his mind. Were Durban’s figures a good deal less than accurate? Was it possible that for his own reasons he had altered them, either to hide the true degree of crime or—a thought that was even more painful—because the accusers were right and the police were pocketing some of the takings themselves?
    No. He refused to think that. Durban would not have stolen. Monk had known Durban only briefly and had not only admired him but liked him as a friend and companion. But who knew what other friends he had, or enemies, what debts paid and unpaid?
    He realized with surprise that he intended to protect Durban—from Farnham, from whoever it was