Dark Tide Rising Read online

  Bathurst was keen to learn, hungry, and likeable. He was curious—a good quality in a policeman. Curious people looked for answers. It was Walcott and Marbury who were unknown, therefore suspect, whether that was fair or not.

  Monk looked at Walcott sitting in the stern; a smaller man than Marbury, but pugnacious. Occasionally, when he thought no one was listening, he sang old bits of music-hall songs rather well. Once or twice, Monk had caught him, and he had immediately fallen silent. Pity. It was a pleasant sound. Why did he feel the need to conceal it?

  They passed in the shadow of a big ship lying at anchor. It was suddenly too dark to see each other, or anyone else if there was another boat in the shadow. That was careless.

  “Pull away!” Monk ordered sharply, throwing himself against the oar and digging deep into the swirl of the current.

  Surprised, Marbury obeyed. He was stronger and heavier than Monk, if not as skilled. The boat went off course for a few yards. They shot out of the shadow into the moonlight again. There was no one else close to them.

  Monk said nothing.

  They still had a quarter of a mile to go. They rowed in silence, weaving past the huge shadows of moored ships, riding lights high above them and reflected yards away in the black surface of the water. Each man was silent with his own thoughts. When they reached the Bull Stairs, where they were going to go ashore, they pulled in, shipping the oars and tethering both the boats.

  They went up the stone steps, one at a time, Hooper first.

  Bathurst slipped and Walcott caught him.

  “Watch what the hell you’re doing!” Walcott said sharply. “You’ll take us all down.”

  “Then get off my heels,” Bathurst snapped back.

  “Shut up, both of you,” Laker hissed, his voice brittle.

  Monk was the last, behind Marbury.

  At the top of the steps, they separated, some to the right toward the loading dock and the cranes, some, including Monk, to the left, the warehouse entrance. They moved slowly, eyes sufficiently accustomed to the dark without lamps.

  Ahead of them they could see figures moving. It was exactly what Monk had expected. The thieves were taking the cargo. He motioned his own men to stand back; if they moved before the men loaded the bales, the thieves could not be convicted of theft. At last, something was going exactly as planned.

  There were two ships at the dockside—which one were they going to?

  A man, bent double under the weight of the bale, passed within eight feet of Monk, who remained motionless. After several seconds, another man passed.

  How many more? Monk inched sideways, as close to the warehouse wall as he could get. He saw Marbury to his left and made a gesture to him to move along toward the side door. He was aware of the tension. Did Marbury know Monk did not trust him? He must. He and Walcott were the new men.

  Marbury obeyed. Then, a few moments later, they both slid silently round the gaping open door of the warehouse and inside. Over at the far end, there was one lantern on top of a pile of boxes. They could clearly see two figures moving more casks and bales, cooperating with signs and signals to each other. The soft sound of their footsteps, shuffling under the weight, was only just audible.

  The men passed only nine or ten feet away from them, with the loads weighing them down. They were taking the whole shipment. Monk rapidly adjusted his thinking. They must have a barge and would be going where there was a winch of some sort to help them unload, upriver or down.

  No more men passed. It was time to go. Monk moved softly along the side of the warehouse, back to the edge of the water. The men were stowing the last of the load. Two more men stood ready. Monk knew, even in the dark, from the very grace of their steps that they were bargees. It was a highly skilled job to guide the flat-bottomed craft, squared off at bow and stern, to keep an easy pace, especially when carrying a full load. Were at least two of them bargees? Or were they additional thieves? That would make one more man than Monk had expected. Misinformation? Another error?

  Monk moved nearer to make out in the dark what the thieves were doing. The barge was only a few feet from the shore, the loading almost finished. He was sure of that because the corner he could see, in the shift of moonlight through the cranes and the shadow of the ships along the shore, was so low in the water it would not take any more weight. Luck, or perfect judgment? It occurred to him that this was not the first time these men had done this.

  The River Police boats were on the far side of the dock, at the opposite steps. Monk touched Marbury’s arm and pointed away. Marbury followed him the twenty yards back to where they were moored and down to the water. They climbed into their boats quickly and Walcott, at the back oar, pulled away and round the corner to the open water. The current felt stronger.

  They were pulling out into the river, into the main stream of the flood tide. They could see glimpses of the barge ahead of them. The other police boat was invisible.

  Walcott was facing Monk, back to the prow, as all oarsmen were. Occasional lit windows and strings of lights along the street were visible where the alley ran down between warehouses to the shore.

  “Want a hand?” Marbury offered.

  “Think I can’t manage on my own because I’ve not got arms a yard long?” Walcott replied.

  Marbury ignored him.

  Monk was searching the river ahead for the other boat, with Hooper, Bathurst, and Laker in it. He could not see them.

  There was no sound but that of the oars and the rush of the water, and far away a man shouting. Where the hell were they?

  Then Monk saw them twenty yards ahead, almost level with the barge. What the devil was Hooper doing so close? Then he realized: the current was growing stronger as they came to a tighter bend in the river. He was moving out to avoid the eddies between the piers of London Bridge. He was not paying attention, and they had come much further than he thought. What were they making for? Not a ship, but another warehouse.

  The barge was passing right under the shadow of the bridge. It was already out of sight. What if it went right round, turned, and came back?

  “Steady!” Monk commanded.

  Walcott dug in more deeply. “We’ll lose them,” he said. “Sir, tide’s helping.” He dug in and pulled deeply again, ignoring the order.

  Marbury half rose to his feet, as if to take the oars from him by force.

  “You’ll have us in the water, you fool!” Walcott said. “Or is that what you want?” He dug the left oar in deeply, and the right one came out of the water, slicing the wave and drenching Marbury with it.

  Marbury swayed and fell over sideways, landing hard on the gunwale.

  “Sit down!” Monk grated between his teeth. “Are you trying to draw the attention of everybody in the bloody river?” His mind was racing. Had that been deliberate? Whether they said it or not, all the regular men suspected Walcott or Marbury. Did Walcott and Marbury suspect each other? Or did one of them know because it was him? And he had to blame the other, for his own survival?

  It was Monk’s task to know which one—and save the other. That man’s life was in his hands, depending on his skill and his judgment, which had become so flawed.

  Marbury sat down and picked up the oar. He dug it into the water and pulled it hard enough to send the bow sharply to the port.

  Monk swore under his breath, but said nothing more. They passed under the Queen Street bridge. Ahead of them, the barge was sliding into the shadow of Blackfriars Bridge, and the light of the streetlamps shone in bright patterns on the water. They were distorted near the piers, by the strength of the current eddying and pulling under. Monk knew only too well how powerful it was. Small boats could be caught and smashed against the pillars, then sucked down.

  “Pull out!” he shouted. He could feel the boat slewing sideways out of control. He heard the fear in his own voice. There was nothi
ng he could do. To take the oar from Walcott now would drive them straight into the whirlpool, spinning down under the surface, breaking the timbers against the stone.

  Seconds passed. Walcott was grasping and slipping. Marbury let his oar slide and lifted it out for a second, and Walcott regained control. The next stroke was almost even, the one after straight again.

  Monk could feel the sweat on his body and the icy air cold on his face.

  They were past the eddies and back to the shadow of the bridge. The water was still running swiftly; there were cross-vortices where the currents met. Now Monk saw the other boat ahead, Hooper at the starboard oar, Laker at the port. Bathurst sat hunched forward in the stern. He probably held the grappling iron in his hands, ready to board the barge when they drew level with it. They were traveling smoothly, picking up speed.

  There was a bargee standing in the prow of the boat, leaning on his pole, and another in the stern, his body angled to make it obvious he was watching the approaching boat. He would know by now it was not a ferry because of the speed of approach.

  “Fast as you can!” Monk said above the rush of the water and the creak of the rowlocks.

  Walcott and Marbury obeyed silently.

  The moon was rising, shedding more light on the choppy water. There were hardly any clouds in the sky, but the river before them was obscured by a huge bend.

  Ahead, the barge was slowing as the five men prepared to defend their cargo. Monk saw one of them wield the long barge pole like an immense staff, sweeping it through the air. Anyone it struck would go into the water, possibly with his head split open. Truncheons and even cutlasses would be useless against it.

  Hooper stood up, deliberately slowing his boat, letting the oars drag. Laker was standing, just out of reach of the barge pole. He looked easy on his feet, swaying with the movement. Bathurst was bent over, leaning forward.

  “Other side?” Marbury questioned.

  Monk made the decision instantly. “No. Same side.”

  “Sir? Don’t you want them having to defend from both sides?” Walcott argued. There was fear in his voice. He had no confidence in Monk, and he did not care who knew it.

  This was a fight Monk needed to win, more even for his men’s morale than to get back the stolen goods and arrest the thieves. “Ballast,” he said briefly, as if that were enough. Walcott would realize soon enough, when the barge began to tip.

  Hooper brought the boat alongside and Laker leaped onto the barge. He attacked the second man wielding the barge pole, ducking beneath its swing and catching the man by the legs, sending him crashing into the boxes. They rolled over, arms flailing.

  Hooper rose to his feet as Bathurst shipped the oars. The first bargee swung his pole. Monk could hear the sound of it as it slashed through the air, missing Hooper by inches.

  The other thieves started to come over from the far side. One of them jumped from the barge onto the boat, sending it rocking wildly. Hooper lost his balance and fell, and Bathurst had to step sideways over the forward gunwale.

  Laker was getting the better of his man, but there were now two more attacking him.

  The barge rocked so hard, two of the bales shifted, sliding to the starboard and making the barge list badly.

  One of the thieves yelled something, an order, a warning. Two of them tackling Laker left him immediately and started to heave at the boxes, to no effect. There was fear in their voices now. The current was fast and strong. It was slowly carrying them backward toward Blackfriars Bridge and the eddies beneath.

  Monk smiled grimly, only too aware of the danger. He had not meant it to be this close. A man who went overboard in the Thames did not often survive. It was not such a big river, but it was full of powerful currents, bending back on each other as they found obstacles, filthy, strongly tidal, and, at certain times of the year, cold enough to rob you of breath.

  Marbury understood now and was putting all his weight against the drag of the boat. They were nearly at the barge. Walcott was ready in the bow, grappling hook in his hands. Monk’s decision to board on the same side as the first boat obliged all the thieves to spend as much time trying to stop the barge from capsizing as fighting the boarders.

  Monk would have liked to keep all the cargo to return to its owners, but he was not going to risk a man’s life to save it.

  “Stay here!” he ordered Walcott. He and Marbury moved to the side, away from the others so as not to tip the boat, and then leaped onto the barge. Monk went for the nearest man, using the cudgel all police carried. It was heavy, easily adaptable, and silent. Unlike a gun, it could not run out of ammunition or misfire.

  He fought hard, dangerously, with more violence than he had anticipated. But it gave him a deep, savage feeling of satisfaction to be able to strike at a thief, catch him in the arm that he had raised to hit Laker, and feel the bone break as he connected with it.

  The man let out a howl of pain and lost his balance, landing hard on the edge of one of the crates. Laker slid away from him and grabbed one of the thief’s legs in time to stop him from going overboard.

  One of the men with barge poles was swinging it around his head like a long staff. It caught Monk on the shoulder, and he felt the jar of it right through his body. Marbury flung all his considerable weight on the man with the pole and sent him flying. But the man rolled over and stumbled to his feet again, coming back at Marbury.

  Laker was on Monk’s far side, jabbing with his fist at one of the thieves who doubled up. There was a scream and a loud splash as someone went into the water. The barge was drifting, still going upriver with the tide, but lying across the current and sliding further out into the mainstream of the river.

  Both police boats were tied together, one onto the near end of the barge. There was a man, unconscious or dead, lying on top of one of the bales. Another slid down onto the deck between boxes. At least one was gone into the water.

  Monk tried to make out silhouettes. He recognized Hooper from the outline of his head, Walcott from his stature and the tight, swift way he moved, like a bantamweight boxer. His blows, though, were those of a street fighter, kicking and gouging included. But the thieves would fight like that, too, with no rules, survival their only aim. Monk and his men also had to be aware they could be carrying knives. Most sailors did, although usually for practical use, not fighting.

  Monk was struck from behind and pitched forward, turning as soon as he could. Some instinct remembered from his shattered past made him hunch hard and low, and then swing the cudgel again. He took a glancing blow on the side of the head and retaliated with his right knee to the groin, and then in the same movement, a blow to the throat. The man went down and stayed there.

  Monk turned to see Marbury fighting with a bald-headed man. He could see that much in the light of the half-moon: the sheen on his skin, the dark patch of blood on his ear. His face was twisted with fear.

  Monk looked at Marbury. He was not swinging wide, but hard and low, with his body weight behind it. Then he aimed at the man’s head.

  Monk leaped forward and knocked Marbury off balance, then hit him, not with all his weight, but enough to startle him and ruin his swing.

  The man backed away, the terror still in his face.

  “What in hell’s the matter with you?” Monk shouted at Marbury.

  Marbury stared at him for a moment as if he would strike back, such fury in his eyes that Monk felt a twinge of fear for himself. For a terrible moment his mind leaped to Kate Exeter. Had she seen the same look, just before she felt the blow that killed her?

  Hooper was behind Marbury. He had two men manacled together. At the far end of the barge, Bathurst had two more.

  Walcott seemed to be poling them very slowly toward the shore, anchor at the ready.

  “Get in the boats and bring us all in,” Monk said to Marbury, his voice thick in his throat. “Now!�
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  Slowly the rage eased out of Marbury’s face and he obeyed. He was a good waterman and, with Hooper’s help, they got the barges into sheltered water and cast anchor. Then they took the thieves back to the shore, minus the one who was dead and the one who had been lost in the river.

  It took an hour to hand over the thieves and get the dead man ashore and to the police surgeon. Hooper attended to that before Monk faced Marbury, who was standing under a streetlamp on the dockside.

  Marbury turned to leave.

  “Marbury!” Monk called out sharply.

  Marbury turned and looked at him. In the gaslight, his face was haggard, huge shadows around his eyes.

  “What was that man to you?” Monk asked.

  Marbury frowned.

  “You’d have killed him if I hadn’t stopped you. Don’t lie. Who is he?”

  “He lived down the street from me once,” Marbury said, and his voice cracked. “We fought over some stupid thing, and I won. He beat my dog to death. And you’re right. I would have killed him.”

  Monk looked at Marbury, who was standing with his shoulders bowed but his head up. He was wet, filthy, exhausted, and probably bruised all over, but it was the grief that consumed him. Monk could see that, almost feel it himself. “Then you’d better do it where I can’t see you,” he said quietly. “Don’t want to have to take you in for it.”

  Marbury’s face softened, his eyes shone with tears, and he turned and walked away, as if he needed to be alone.

  Monk understood.

  * * *

  —

  AT THE WAPPING POLICE Station they formally charged the thieves. Monk thought they were finished and could at last go home when Hooper came to him, his step brisk. He stopped in front of Monk’s desk.