Commander Sir Samuel Vimes leant against the entrance of the Assassins Guild and took a pull on his cigar, enjoying the night air. Much as he adored Lady Sybil and Young Sam, it had been a rather long lockdown so far, and working from home had started to become difficult - a dragon sanctuary never being the easiest place to work anyway, given the tendency of things (and some of the poorlier dragons) to go bang and catch fire. It was good to feel the cobbles under his boots again, despite the circumstance.
The sound of clinking alerted him to Fred’s presence in the doorway, and he straightened up to ask:
“Alright Sargent, what have we got?”
Red faced and sweating above his medical grade mask, and struggling somewhat with the weight of the large evidence box he was holding, Sargent Colon nonetheless prompted reeled off the contents.
“Er, twelve platters of canapés from the ‘Dibler’s Finest’ range, mostly uneaten or used as ashtrays, 36 empty wine bottles, and a banner saying ‘Happy Birthday to the World’s Best Boss’ Sir.”
“36?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Right, get Angua to glare at Nobby until he gives up the remaining 4 half drunk ones, please, and remind him, yet again, about not drinking the evidence, would you?”
“Yes Sir.”
Colon started to stomp off, but paused to look back at Vimes, his slightly bulging eyes suspiciously moist.
“It’s not right, what they’ve been doing, Sam. It’s just…not right.”
“No Fred, it’s bloody well not. But we’re going to make the bastards pay, you’ll see.”
The Sargent had barely left when Vimes heard sounds his copper’s brain immediately categorised as “someone attempting to resist arrest - but failing, because when Carrot arrests someone, they stay arrested.”
“Vimes! I must protest! In the strongest possible terms! This was a work event! A work event!!”
“Ah, good evening, Lord Downey. Work event, was it? I’ll have to tell the lads down at the station not to bother with tea and bacon butties next time we have to pull an all-nighter, as fine wine by the crate load are now an acceptable choice of refreshments for hard-working servants of the public whilst on duty.”
“Assassination is a very stressful career, and in these difficult times it was felt that for the good of the mental health and well-being of our…”
“I’m going to stop you there, Lord Downey, because you’re right, it is a difficult time, isn’t it? For some more than others. Carrot here, for example, didn’t see his girlfriend Angua for weeks until the Patrician brought in the rule that single person households could form a bubble with another. They’re a young couple, very much in love, and Angua’s the sneaky type so probably could’ve got around it, but Carrot’s an upstanding, law-abiding lad, so they didn’t. Corporal Littlebottom isn’t allowed to go home and visit her family, and that’s got to be tough on a young dwarf on her own in the big city. My lad Sam hasn’t been to school in months, and my wife’s a wonderful woman, very intelligent, and I do my best, so we’ve been trying to fill that gap, but at some point he could probably do with learning something that isn’t dragon care or ‘how to tell when a suspect is lying’, especially as when dealing with certain suspects it ends up being quite a short lesson because the answer is ‘their mouths are open.’ Dr Lawn at the hospital hasn’t had a night off in over a month, and it’s only thanks to the tireless hard work of the Igors to create and then administer a vaccine that we’re beginning to see a way out of this whole mess, and I’m very grateful, but it’s a bit bloody late for some people, isn’t it? People like Sargent Colon, for example - good man, Fred Colon, very loyal, not the brightest but he tries hard - who whilst you lot were having Chablis and sausage rolls because you were stressed wasn’t allowed in to see his wife when she was dying of this damn disease!!”
Sam paused for breath and to pin the now-gibbering Head of the Assassins with a furious glare.
“Well, you’re not half as stressed as you’re going to be Lord Downey, I can promise you that. Take him away Carrot.”
“Right away Sir.”
“Oh and Carrot? I know emotions are running high back at the station, but make sure His Lordship and the others don’t take a “fall down the stairs’, alright? We’re doing this by the book .”
Sam turned back to the entrance of the Assassins Guild, now covered in yellow police tape, and added grimly:
“Someone’s got to.”