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forget about Phillips, and concentrate on warehouse robberies, and the odd theft from cargoes on the water?"

"I could tell this damn journalist this," Farnham said very quietly. "God knows what he'd do with it. He's saying now that the corruption in the River Police is deep and lasting, and that the public has a right to know exactly what it is, and where it leads. He's even suggesting, so far only verbally, but print will follow, that we should cease to exist as a separate body at all but be broken up and come under the local stations. Our survival depends on this, Monk."

"Yes, sir. I've heard rumor of it already. But then he may be one of Phillips's customers, or in the pay of one."

Farnham looked as if Monk had slapped him, but he did not retaliate. It was himself he was furious with, because he had not thought of it. "He even put up the possibility that Durban was a partner in Phillips's trade," he said bitterly. "And his pursuit of Phillips was in order to take over all of it. That's what he'll write, if we don't find a way of stopping him." His shoulders hunched tightly, as if every muscle in his body were knotted. "Tell me, Monk, don't leave me defenseless when I talk to this bastard. What did you find out about Durban? We can't afford dignity now, for the living or the dead. I won't tell him, but I need to know, or I can't defend any of us."

Monk weighed his trust and his loyalties. He needed to trust Farnham, for the sake of the future. "He lied about his family, sir," he admitted. "Said his father was a schoolmaster in Essex. Actually I don't think he knew who his father was. His mother died in a foundling hospital, giving birth to him. He grew up there. He was put out in the streets to earn his own way when he was eight. That's why he had such compassion for mudlarks and other children, or women on their own, the hungry, the frightened, the abused. It was fellow feeling. He'd known it himself."

"Oh, God!" Farnham ran his hands through his sparse hair. "Any crime known against him? And tell me the truth, Monk. If I get caught in a lie just once they'll never believe me again."

"Not known, sir," Monk said reluctantly. "But friends of his robbed a bank. Bad associates. Growing up in the streets, that's unavoidable. It was just after that that he joined the River Police."

"Thank God. Now who is this Mary Webber he was hell bent on finding? Childhood sweetheart? Common-law wife? What?"

"Sister, sir. Older sister. She was adopted, but the family who took her, the woman was crippled and couldn't cope with a baby, so he was left behind. Mary used to save up pennies and send them to him. They lost touch when she married and later discovered her husband was a thief. She was too ashamed to let Durban know that. The hospital gave him the name of Durban, after one of their benefactors who happened to be from Africa. She changed her name when she married, and then again when her husband's creditors came after her."

"Where is she now?"

"I know, but it's irrelevant, sir. She's safe, for the time being."

Farnham blasphemed gently. "I apologize, Monk. You did a superb job finding out about Durban. I hope nobody but me ever has to know about it. I'll put a flea in this newspaperman's ear that will keep him busy, and far away from us for as long as possible. If he speaks to you, tell him you are under orders, on pain of losing your job, to say nothing. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"You'll keep me informed?"

"Yes, sir."

Monk told Orme briefly what Farnham had said, and was only just outside the station walking towards the stairs down to where the police boat was waiting when a man approached him. He was ordinary, slightly shambling, impossible to describe so he would be known again. He wore an old seaman's jacket, shapeless enough to hide his build, and a cap on his head, which hid his hair. His eyes were narrowed against the bright light off the water.

"Commander Monk?" he said politely.

Monk stopped. "Yes?"

"Got a message fer yer, sir."

"From whom?"

"Din't give me no more, sir. Said as yer'd know." The man's voice was innocent, even courteous, but there was something knowing in his manner, and the creases