‘All right,’ said Vimes, in the ringing vacuum. ‘Who’s going to be the first to tell me a huge whopper? Corporal Nobbs?’
‘Well, Mister Vimes,’ said Nobby Nobbs, lowering the mute Brakenshield to the floor, ‘… er… Brakenshield here… picked up Mica’s… yes, picked up Mica’s mug by mistake, as it were… and… we all spotted that and jumped up, yes…’ Nobby speeded up, the really steep fibs now successfully negotiated, ‘… and that’s how the table got knocked over… ’cos,’ and here Nobby’s face assumed an expression of virtuous imbecility that was really quite frightening to see, ‘he’d have really hurt himself if he’d taken a swig of troll coffee, sir.’
Inside, Vimes sighed. As stupid lame excuses went, it wasn’t actually a bad one. For one thing it had the virtue of being completely unbelievable. No dwarf would come close to picking up a mug of troll espresso, which was a molten chemical stew with rust sprinkled on the top. Everyone knew this, just as everyone knew that Vimes could see that Brakenshield was holding an axe over his head and Constable Bluejohn was still frozen in the act of wrenching a club off Mica. And everyone knew, too, that Vimes was in the mood to sack the first bloody idiot to make a wrong move and, probably, anyone standing near him.
‘That’s what it was, was it?’ said Vimes. ‘So it wasn’t, as it might be, someone making a nasty remark about a fellow officer and others of his race, perhaps? Some little bit of stupidity to add to the mess of it that’s floating around the streets right now?’
‘Oh, nothing like that, sir,’ said Nobby. ‘Just one of them… things.’
‘Nearly a nasty accident, was it?’ said Vimes.
‘Yessir!’
‘Well, we don’t want any nasty accidents, do we, Nobby…’
‘Nosir!’
‘None of us want nasty accidents, I expect,’ said Vimes, looking around the room. Some of the constables, he was grimly glad to see, were sweating with the effort of not moving. ‘And it’s so easy to have ’em, when your mind isn’t firmly on the job. Understood?’
There was a general muttering.
‘I can’t hear you!’
This time there were audible riffs on the theme of ‘Yessir!’
‘Right,’ snapped Vimes. ‘Now get out there and keep the peace, because as sure as hell you won’t do it in here!’ He directed a special glare at Constables Brakenshield and Mica, and strode back to the main office, where he almost bumped into Sergeant Angua.
‘Sorry, sir, I was just fetching—’ she began.
‘I sorted it out, don’t worry,’ said Vimes. ‘But it was that close.’
‘Some of the dwarfs are really on edge, sir. I can smell it,’ said Angua.
‘You and Fred Colon,’ said Vimes.
‘I don’t think it’s just the Hamcrusher thing, sir. It’s something… dwarfish.’
‘Well, I can’t beat it out of them. And just when the day couldn’t get any worse, I’ve got to interview a damned vampire.’
Too late Vimes saw the urgent look in Angua’s eyes.
‘Ah… I think that would be me,’ said a small voice behind him.
Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs, having been rousted from their lengthy coffee break, proceeded gently up Broadway, giving the ol’ uniform an airing. What with one thing and another, it was probably a good idea not to be back at the Yard for a while.
They walked like men who had all day. They did have all day. They had chosen this particular street because it was busy and wide and you didn’t get too many trolls and dwarfs in this part of town. The reasoning was faultless: in lots of areas, right now, dwarfs or trolls were wandering around in groups or, alternatively, staying still in groups in case any of those wandering bastards tried any trouble in this neighbourhood. There had been little flare-ups for weeks. In these areas, Nobby and Fred considered, there wasn’t much peace, so it was a waste of effort to keep what little was left of it, right? You wouldn’t try keeping sheep in places where all the sheep got eaten by wolves, right? It stood to reason. It would look silly. Whereas in big streets like Broadway there was lots of peace which, obviously, needed keeping. Common sense told them this was true. It was as plain as the nose on your face, and especially the one on Nobby’s face.
‘Bad business,’ said Colon, as they strolled. ‘I’ve never seen the dwarfs like this.’
‘It always gets tricky, sarge, just before Koom Valley Day,’ Nobby observed.
‘Yeah, but Hamcrusher’s really got them on the boil and no mistake.’ Colon removed his helmet and wiped his brow. ‘I told Sam about my water and he was impressed.’
‘Well, he would be,’ Nobby agreed. ‘It would impress anyone.’
Colon tapped his nose. ‘There’s a storm coming, Nobby.’
‘Not a cloud in the sky, sarge,’ Nobby observed.
‘Figure of speech, Nobby, figure of speech.’ Colon sighed, and glanced sideways at his friend. When he continued, it was in the hesitant tones of a man with something on his mind. ‘As a matter of fact, Nobby, there was another matter about which, per say, I wanted to speak to you about, man to—’ there was only the tiniest hesitation, ‘—man.’
‘Yes, sarge?’
‘Now you know, Nobby, that I’ve always taken a pers’nal interest in your moral well-being, what with you havin’ no dad to put your feet on the proper path…’ Colon managed.
‘That’s right, sarge. I would have strayed no end if you hadn’t,’ said Nobby virtuously.
‘Well, you know you was telling me about that girl you’re goin’ out with, what was her name, now…’
‘Tawneee, sarge?’
‘That’s the… bunny. The one you said worked in a club, right?’
‘That’s right. Is there a problem, sarge?’ said Nobby anxiously.
‘Not as such. But when you was on your day off last week me an’ Constable Jolson got called into the Pink PussyCat Club, Nobby. You know? There’s pole-dancing and table-dancing and stuff of that nature? And you know ol’ Mrs Spudding what lives in New Cobblers?’
‘Ol’ Mrs Spudding with the wooden teeth, sarge?’
‘The very same, Nobby,’ said Colon magisterially. ‘She does the cleaning in there. And it appears that when she come in at eight o’clock in the morning ae-em, with no one else about, Nobby, well, I hardly like to say this, but it appears she took it into her head to have a twirl on the pole.’
They shared a moment of silence as Nobby ran this image in the cinema of his imagination and hastily consigned much of it to the cutting-room floor.
‘But she must be seventy-five, sarge!’ he said, staring at nothing in fascinated horror.
‘A girl can dream, Nobby, a girl can dream. O’course, she forgot she wasn’t as limber as she used to be, plus she got her foot caught in her long drawers and panicked when her dress fell over her head. She was in a bad way when the manager came in, having been upside down for three hours with her false teeth fallen out on the floor. Wouldn’t let go of the pole, too. Not a pretty sight — I trust I do not have to draw you a picture. Come the finish, Precious Jolson had to rip the pole out top and bottom and we slid her off. That girl’s got the muscles of a troll, Nobby, I’ll swear it. And then, Nobby, when we was bringing her round behind the scenes this young lady wearing two sequins and a bootlace comes up and says she’s a friend of yours! I did not know where to put my face!’
‘You’re not supposed to put it anywhere, sarge. They throw you out for that sort of thing,’ said Nobby.
‘You never told me she was a pole-dancer, Nobby!’ Fred wailed.
‘Don’t say it like that, sarge.’ Nobby sounded a little hurt. ‘This is modern times. And she’s got class, Tawneee has. She even brings her own pole. No hanky-panky.’