Chapter 114: The Complex Real World
Chapter 114 The Complicated Real World
Westminster, London, 4 Whitehall Street, London Metropolitan Police Force Headquarters.
Colonel Charles Rowan, the Commissioner of the Greater London Police, leaned back in his leather seat, his right hand pressed against the front of the case, underneath the palm of his hand were several letters on letterhead along with some of the archived documents that had just been pulled from the archive.
Opposite his wide desk sat Superintendent Taylor Clemens, who was sweating on his forehead but still maintained a calm demeanor.
Director Rowan picked up the pipe in front of the case and held it in his mouth, lit it and took a few puffs, the smoke instantly obscuring his face from view.
The only thing that could be heard in the office was Director Rowan’s immaculate to terrifying voice: “Clemens.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Go open the window for me.”
Clemens stood up at the word, and then with steady steps he went to the window, and he reached out his hand just as he was about to open it, when he heard a whistling wind from behind him.
All that was heard was a thump, and a flying dagger plunged impartially into the wall beside his hand.
Clemens’ movements paused gently, but he still remained without turning around, instead opening the window and then standing upright by it.
Behind him came the sound of Director Rowan tapping the table with his knuckles, “Need I introduce you to what these things are that I have on my table?”
Clemens was silent, in fact he had sensed something was wrong.
But people, until something bad is officially confirmed, there will always be some unrealistic hopes in their hearts.
Director Rowan pushed back his seat and slowly got up from his chair.
“Not speaking? Without speaking you think I’ll just pretend you don’t know?
To tell you the truth, to my left is the whistle-blowing letter that Fred sent to Scotland Yard and the relevant evidence of your corruption over the past half a year or so.
And these on my right hand side are the official protests made by the Huskissonite MPs to the Greater London Police Department and the internal documents from Sir Peel demanding a serious investigation into the malfeasance.”
Director Rowan slowly stepped behind Clemens as he raised his arm on his subordinate’s shoulder and spoke, “Tell me, if you were in my position, how do you think I should proceed with these things after receiving them?”
Clemens’ throat knots shrugged slightly as he spoke back aloud, “Report! Handle it according to internal regulations!”
“Internal regulations?” Director Rowan leaned against the wall with both arms wrapped around him, “Are you talking about those regulations written in the duty manual, or those rules we’ve agreed upon?”
Director Rowan’s eyes as sharp as vultures stared at Clemens, and he saw a bead of sweat on Clemens’ temples sliding down his cheeks a little bit.
Director Rowan’s eyes widened a little bit, and he asked word by word, “You, don’t, know, know? You don’t know what to do with it and you still dare to do such a thing?”
Clemens stood straight as if he was a marble statue, yet he still did not answer.
Director Rowan looked at him in this state and did not reprimand him more. His back snapped and he rose from the wall, then opened his mouth.
“I will now give you two choices. First, now, immediately, immediately jump down from here! If you don’t fall to your death after jumping, bite your tongue for me. I swear on my honor that your family will get a pension.”
Director Rowan raised his arm to glance at his watch and tapped Clemens on the shoulder.
“I’ll give you a minute to think it over.”
He returned to his desk and sat down, pulling one of the thick stacks of papers out and beginning to read it, working as he always did.
It seemed that in his eyes there was no Clemens here, that the man standing by the window was nothing more than a mass of air.
Director Rowan finished reading the special document from the Ministry of the Interior and looked up at the title.
A Call for Proposals for the Proposed Promotion of Arthur Hastings, Sub-Inspector of Police, Greenwich Police District, East London Region, London Metropolitan Police to Superintendent-in-Charge, East London Region, London Metropolitan Police.
Director Rowan exhaled softly as he glanced up at Clemens, who stood motionless by the window, and hummed softly through his nose before rather skillfully picking up a quill pen stuck in an inkwell and keening a line of text at the bottom of the document.
-Colonel of the Army of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Acting Head of the Greater London Police, Superintendent of Police, London Metropolitan Police Force, Charles Rowan, seconded.
Director Rowan finished signing and threw the quill pen on the table, then crossed his arms over his knees as he leaned back in his chair and sneered.
“Looks like you want to deal with it internally? Good, since you’re so selective, that’s fine. Pack up the returned stolen goods and money in the next two days, I’ll send someone to take it back to the bureau, and Fred’s matter will end here, and no one will mention it again.
Also, for Mr. Huskisson’s sake, and for the sake of the Home Office and the reputation of Scotland Yard, I want to see your resignation on my office desk first thing in the morning; our superintendent’s position has never been a rich one.”
Clemens turned and saluted Director Rowan.
When Director Rowan saw this, the corners of his mouth suddenly tugged, and he suddenly stormed up, lifting the white porcelain teacup in his hand and slamming it towards Clemens’ face. “Hurry up and get lost, dumbass!”
Clemens had a string of blood drops hanging from the corner of his face, and the broken porcelain shards scraped the corners of his eyes, but it didn’t change his expression.
He stood at attention and yelled, “Goodbye, sir!”
He walked out of the office with heavy steps, only to hear a click as the office door was gently closed behind him.
Director Luo Wan looked at the door, his face still angry, “Fucking hell! The Konoha Cavalry Regiment is full of these fucking idiots!”
……
Meanwhile, in the Greenwich Police District’s police station.
Inside the dreary, lightless confinement room, Sergeant Jones stared blankly at the dark roof with both eyes.
Since coming to London, his mind had never been as tranquil as it was now.
There was silence all around him, no fawning, flattering compliments from street vendors to be heard, and no need to bow and scrape in front of his superiors.
Even if he yelled, there would be no response.
It was like being cut off from the human world.
Alone, with no companions, and no need to play antagonist with the enemy.
It was dark and there was no light to be seen, but staying here made Jones feel at ease.
Suddenly, he heard a ticking sound, and Jones pressed his ear gently against the cold bricks of the wall.
He listened quietly for a moment, and suddenly a smile grew on his face; it was raining in London.
It was just like the day he and his wife first came to London, it was raining in London again.
On that day, he and his wife couldn’t even afford to buy an umbrella, and they didn’t rent a suitable house, not willing to spend money to stay in a hostel, they had to spend the night in a hole under the London Bridge.
He remembers that there were a lot of mosquitoes under the bridge that night, and had to be on guard against thieves and vagabonds lurking in the darkness.
So, that night, he didn’t sleep very soundly.
However, his wife and children slept peacefully.
Thinking about this, Jones felt as if his heart was violently gripped by something, and he remembered the things that happened later.
Joining Scotland Yard by chance, the days and nights on the front line patrols, and then being seen by Superintendent Clemens and being transferred to headquarters to act as his personal assistant.
In these six months or so, he had come into contact with a lot of people and dealt with a lot of things.
He knew a lot of things weren’t good to do, and he could lie to his wife, but he couldn’t lie to his conscience.
Clemens was no good, he knew that of course, but he had to look up to the big man with no conscience to survive.
For the first time in his life, Jones sincerely prayed for Clemens in his heart, even if he himself didn’t believe that God would pay any attention to a blessed word for the wicked.
Just as Jones fell to his knees and murmured the prayer, a second voice, other than that of the rain, rang in his ears.
The sound sounded like the sound of water-stained riding boots on the floor.
It was traveling, not too fast, not too slow, so it was impossible to hear the mood of the owner of the riding boots at that moment.
The door of the confinement room was opened with a holler, and what covered the front of the light was a majestic and broad figure.
Jones could not help lifting his hand to cover his eyes, having been accustomed to the darkness, he had been somewhat unable to bear such an intense light.
He could not make out the face of the visitor, but could only see the red dots that dotted the corners of his mouth.
As a white mist rose, Jones’ ears rang with a voice he never wanted to hear.
“Most of the cops in Scotland Yard, myself included, are destined for hell. Jones, even if you’re maverick enough to want to go to heaven, wouldn’t it be, slightly too late to pray to God?”
(End of chapter)