feared paperwork. They certainly generated a lot of it. They wrote everything down. They didn't like appearing on other people's paperwork, though. That worried them.
“I can't believe we got away with it, sarge!”
We probably haven't, Vimes thought. But Swing has enough to worry him at the moment. He doesn't
He turned and banged on the ironwork.
“Sorry for the inconvenience, ladies and gentlemen, but it appears the Unmentionables are not doing business tonight. Looks like
There was a stunned silence from within the wagon.
“Come on, come on,” said Vimes. “I haven't got all night. Does anyone want to overthrow Lord Winder by force?”
“Well…no?” said the voice of Miss Palm.
“Or by crochet?”
“I
“No one? Shame,” said Vimes. “Well, that's good enough for me. Lance-constable, is it good enough for you?”
“Er, yes, sarge.”
“In that case we'll drop you all off on our way home, and my charming assistant Lance-Constable Vimes will take, oh, half a dollar off each of you for travelling expenses for which you
Vimes could hear shocked whispering behind him. This was not how things were supposed to go these days.
“Sarge,” said Lance-Constable Vimes.
“Yep?”
“Have you really got the eye of a mass murderer?”
“In the pocket of my other suit, yes.”
“Hah.” Sam was quiet for a while, and when he spoke again he seemed to have something new on his mind.
“Er, sarge?”
“Yes, lad?”
“What's a tuppenny upright, sarge?”
“It's a kind of jam doughnut, lad. Did your mum ever make 'em?”
“Yes, sarge. Sarge?”
“Yes, lad?”
“I think it probably means something else as well, sarge,” said Sam, sniggering. “Something a bit…rude —”
“The whole of life is a learning process, lance-constable.”
They got the wagon back to the yard ten minutes later, and by that time Vimes knew that a new rumour was fanning out across the city. Young Sam had already whispered things to the other officers as the curfew- breakers were dropped off, and nobody gossips like a copper. They didn't like the Unmentionables. Like petty criminals everywhere, the watchmen prided themselves that there were some depths to which they would not sink. There had to be some things below you, even if it was only mudworms.
Rosie Palm bolted the door of her flat, leaned on it and stared at Sandra.
“What
“You heard the lads!” snapped Rosie. “No bribes now! And then he drags us off to Swing's bastards and
“Yes, what
Miss Palm paused. She quite enjoyed Sandra's company and the extra rent certainly came in handy, but there were times she wondered whether a) she should have a talk with the girl or b) she was being very gently wound up. She suspected the latter, since Sandra was taking more money than her most of the time. It was getting embarrassing.
“It's a kind of jam doughnut,” she said. “Now, you'd better go and hide the—”
Someone knocked on the door behind her. She motioned Sandra through the bead curtain, took a moment to pull herself together, and opened the door a fraction.
There was a very small old man standing in the hall.
Everything about him sloped hopelessly downwards. His grey moustache could have been stolen from a walrus, or a bloodhound that had just been given some very bad news. His shoulders sagged listlessly. Even parts of his face seemed to be losing the battle with gravity.
He held his cap in his hands and was twisting it nervously.
“Yes?” said Rosie.
“Er, it said ‘seamstress’ on the sign,” the old man mumbled. “An', well, since my ol' woman died, you know, what with one thing an' another, never bin any good at doing it for meself—”
He gave Rosie a look of sheer, helpless embarrassment.
She glanced down at the sack by his feet, and picked it up. It was full of very clean, but very worn, socks. Every single one had holes in the heel and toe.
“Sandra,” she said, “I think this one's for you…”
It was so very early in the morning that “late at night” wasn't quite over. White mist hung everywhere in the streets, and deposited droplets like tiny pearls on Vimes's shirt as he prepared to break the law.
If you stood on the roof of the privy behind the Watch House and steadied yourself on the drainpipe, one of the upstairs windows would bounce open if you hit it with the palm of your hand in exactly the right place.
It was a useful bit of information, and Vimes wondered if he should pass it on to young Sam. Every honest copper ought to know how to break into his own nick.
Tilden had limped home long ago, but Vimes did a quick sweep of his office and it was with great satisfaction that he did not see what he hadn't expected to be there. Down below, a few of the more conscientious officers were signing off before heading home. He waited in the shadows until the door had banged shut for the last time and there were no footsteps for several minutes. Then he made his way down the stairs and into the locker room.
He had been issued with a key to his own locker, but still oiled the hinge from a small bottle before he opened it. He had not in fact put anything in there yet but, behold, there was a rumpled sack on the floor. He lifted it up…
Well
Inside was Captain Tilden's silver inkwell.
Vimes stood up, and looked around at the lockers, with their ancient carved initials and occasional knife marks on the doors. He pulled from his pocket the little black cloth roll he'd taken from the evidence locker earlier. A selection of lock picks glinted in the grey light. Vimes wasn't a genius with the hooks and rakes, but the cheap and worn door locks were hardly a major challenge.
Really, it was just a matter of choosing.
And afterwards he walked back through the mists.
He was horrified to find he was feeling good again. It was a betrayal of Sybil and the future Watch and even of His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, who had to think about the politics of distant countries and manpower requirements
