Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [43]
It was over almost before Monk realized it. Without a word, the cortège departed. In silence, Runcorn, Cardman, and Monk left, in opposite directions.
“Suicide,” Monk’s superior said brusquely when Monk went into his office early in the afternoon. “For God’s sake, man! She jumped right in front of you, and took with her the poor devil who was trying to save her! Don’t make it even worse for the family by drawing it out!” Farnham was a big man, broad-shouldered and heavy-bellied. His long-nosed face could break into a sudden smile, and there were those who spoke of certain acts of kindness, but Monk felt uneasy in his presence, as if never certain he would be true to the best in himself. Farnham had sought authority and won it, and now he wore it with intense pleasure.
Arguments of belief or intuition would only be mocked. Anything Monk put forward would be seen as enlightened self-interest for the River Police. “It probably is suicide, sir,” he agreed aloud. “But I think we should make certain.”
Farnham’s eyebrows rose. He had trusted Durban and known where he was with him, or at least he had assumed he did. He resented the fact that now he had to learn the strengths and weaknesses of a new man. He was sufficiently aware of what had really happened not to hold Monk accountable for Durban’s death. But Monk had survived, and Farnham blamed him for that.
“Not much is ever sure in police work, Monk,” he said sourly.
“Thought you would have known that!” The criticism was implicit.
Monk swallowed his impatience. “Not about what happened on the bridge, sir. I’m thinking of what she was investigating to do with the sewer tunnels and their construction.”
“Not our concern!” Farnham snapped. “That’s the Metropolitan Police.” The distaste with which he said that was exactly what Monk had expected, had already seen in him in the few weeks he had been here. It was part of what Farnham disliked in Monk himself, and the fact that he had been dismissed from the Metropolitan Police was conversely a point in his favor.
“Yes, sir,” Monk agreed with difficulty. “But if there is something, and it causes a real disaster and we knew about it, or at least had a chance to find out, do you think they’ll see it that way?”
Farnham’s eyes narrowed. “You can have a couple of days,” he warned. “If you find something worth pursuing, then give it to them, on paper, and keep a record of it here! Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Monk thanked him and left before Farnham could change his mind or add any further restrictions.
He began by learning as much as he could about the vast network of new and old sewers and how they interconnected. It was an immense complex, intended to take the ocean of waste from London’s three million people eastwards away from the city and its present egress into the river, and instead process it through large purification works closer to the sea. Then the surplus water could be released, comparatively clean, and the solid waste otherwise disposed of. It was a brilliant feat of engineering, costing a king’s ransom of money, but for the capital of the Empire and the seat of government for a quarter of the world, it was absolutely necessary.
It took more time to find the exact place of the Argyll company in it, and he was surprised how large it was. It must have cost a considerable effort and influence to obtain it, and no doubt would not be easily forfeited. They had three sites close to one another. Two were cut-and-cover, like the crevasse that Hester had described, but one was too deep for that method. They were actually tunneling, burrowing like rabbits under the ground, scraping out the earth and rock and carrying it back to the entrance to get rid of it. The necessity for this was created not only by the depth but also by the fact that other rivers and gas lines crossed above it in several places and could have collapsed had they been exposed by the more open