Execution Dock - Anne Perry [78]
Monk had wanted to disbelieve it. What was a blank school registry, a parish record, the word of an injured prostitute, compared with his own knowledge of a man like Durban, who had served the River Police for a quarter of a century? He had earned the love and loyalty of his men, the respect of his superiors, and the healthy fear of criminals great and small the length of the river.
And yet Monk did believe it. He felt guilty, as if it were a kind of betrayal. He was turning his back on a friend when there was no one else to defend him. What did that say of Monk? That he was weak in faith and loyalty, placing himself first? Or a realist who knew that even the best of men have their flaws, their times of temptation and vulnerability?
He could argue with himself forever and resolve nothing. It was time to look harder for the truth, to stop using loyalty to justify evading it. He put the papers away and found Orme.
But it was late in the morning before they were alone where there would be no interruption. They had very satisfactorily solved a warehouse robbery and the thieves had been arrested. Orme stood on the dock near the King Edward Stairs as Monk finished congratulating him on the arrest.
“Thank you, sir,” Orme acknowledged. “The men did a good job.”
“Your men,” Monk pointed out.
Orme stood a trifle straighter. “Our men, sir.”
Monk smiled, feeling worse about what he had to do. There was no time to delay it. He liked Orme and he needed his loyalty. More than that, he admitted, he wanted his respect, but leadership was not about what you wanted. There would not be a better time to ask; maybe not another time at all today.
“How well did Durban know Phillips, Mr. Orme?”
Orme drew in his breath, then studied Monk's face, and hesitated.
“I have a good idea already,” Monk told him. “I want your view of it. Was Fig's death the beginning?”
“No, sir.” Orme stood more stiffly. The gesture was not one of insolence—there was nothing defiant in his face—just a stiffening against an awaited pain.
“When was the beginning?”
“I don't know, sir. That's the truth.” Orme's eyes were clear.
“So far back, then?”
Orme flushed. He had given himself away without meaning to. It was obvious in his tightened lips and squared shoulders that he also saw that Monk knew, and that evasions were no longer possible. It would have to be the truth, or a deliberate, planned lie. But Orme was not a man who could lie, unless it were to save life, and even then it would not come lightly.
Monk hated everything that had put him in the position of having to do this. He still did not wish to give away Durban's own lies about his youth. Orme might guess; that was different from knowing.
“When was the first time you knew it was personal?” Monk asked. He phrased it carefully.
Orme took a deep breath. The sounds and movement of the river were all around them: the ships, swaying in the fast-running tide; the water lapping on the stones; light in ever-shifting patterns, reflected again and again; birds wheeling and crying overhead; the clank of chains; the grind of winches; men shouting in the distance.
“About four years ago, sir,” Orme replied. “Or maybe five.”
“What happened? How was it different from what you'd seen before?”
Orme shifted his balance. He was very clearly uncomfortable.
Monk waited him out.
“One minute it was just Mr. Durban asking questions, the next minute the whole air of it changed an’ they were shouting at each other,” Orme replied. “Then before you could do anything about it, Phillips had a knife out—great long thing it was, with a curved blade. He was swinging it wide …” He gestured with his own arm. “Like he meant to kill Mr. Durban. But Mr. Durban saw it coming an’ moved aside.” He swerved with his body, mimicking the action. There was both strength and grace in it. What he was describing became more real.
“Go on,” Monk urged.
Orme was unhappy.
“Go on!” Monk ordered. “Obviously he didn't kill Durban. What happened? Why