Alex Grecian - The Yard

He walked past Hammersmith and stood over the girl, Fiona, who had completed her sketch of the dead boy.

“It’s a good likeness,” he said.

He looked at Hammersmith, then down at his own shoes. Hammersmith noticed that Tiffany still hadn’t looked directly at the boy’s corpse.

“This boy wasn’t murdered, Hammersmith. He died. Everybody dies.”

Tiffany cleared his throat and stared at a point somewhere over the mantel.

“You said that it’s our job to chase lost causes. And I suppose you’re right. But every case that comes to us is a lost cause, because we can’t allow ourselves to care about a single one. The ones we care about are the ones that take the piss out of us. Them are the ones that kill us by degrees. The dead outnumber us, and we have no power over them. Our duty isn’t to these bodies, our duty is to the Queen and to the law. To the idea of the law. And to the living. Them’s the real victims, because they have hope, and they look to us.”

Tiffany was clearly talking about things that had weighed on him for a long time, and Hammersmith was afraid to interrupt. A window to Tiffany’s soul had opened, and anything Hammersmith said now might cause that window to slam shut again.

“This boy has no family asking us for justice. It’s horrible, but the reality is that no one really cares. No one at all. This is a lost boy, and nothing we do will change that fact. Our time and energy is best spent solving the cases that can be solved. I’m sorry, Hammersmith. But you’ve wasted my time and you’ve wasted the good doctor’s time. Have this room cleaned and go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow this hopeless job will begin again, and it will begin again for you every day until you quit it or retire from it. Unless it kills you first, as it killed Inspector Little.”

Tiffany walked to the stairs and hesitated, but didn’t turn around.

“Choose your causes more judiciously, Hammersmith.”

Then he took the steps two at a time up and out of sight.

Hammersmith stared at the Turkish rug as the other constables began rolling it back up against the wall.

“He’s wrong, you know,” Kingsley said. “About your duty to the living, I mean.”

The doctor had stood silent throughout Tiffany’s long speech, but now he stepped closer to Hammersmith and put a soot-smudged hand on his arm.

“Your duty is to society, and the dead have always been a part of society. How we treat the dead says much about us. Tiffany has never been the best that the Yard has to offer. He’s too easily overwhelmed, and now he’s frightened and cowers at the thought of more work. Don’t learn from him.”

Hammersmith shook his head, unsure about what to think. It was possible he was letting his own history, his time in the mines, cloud his judgment. But a glance at the tiny body on the floor helped him regain some focus.

“How long? You said he struggled. How long was he up there in the dark before he died?”

“I can’t say with much certainty, but it looks as if it took him a long time to finally suffocate. I’ll know more when I have a chance to examine the fauna nesting within his body. That is, if you plan to pursue this case.”

He watched the constable patiently, but Hammersmith avoided his gaze. He went to the body and knelt over it, moved a lock of the boy’s hair, and smoothed it back over his head. The boy’s forehead was still smooth and pink where his hair had covered it. Hammersmith licked his thumb and wiped away a smudge of grime. The room was quiet. Kingsley and his daughter stood like statues until Hammersmith finally spoke.

“It was difficult but not impossible to pull him from the chimney. Someone could have done it while the boy was alive, but nobody did.”

“The body has undoubtedly shrunk slightly due to the heat and the closeness within the chimney,” Kingsley said. “The bricks acted like an oven and he was virtually roasted by his own body heat.”

“Maybe. But someone left him there to die. This was murder by neglect, and that means the law was broken.”

“Shall I remove the body to my lab, then?”

“Please do, sir. I have no intention of dropping this case.”

“That’s good,” Kingsley said. “That’s a good lad.”

Day rummaged through the supply closet at 4 Whitehall Place. It was surprisingly free of clutter. He had assumed that Scotland Yard would be as filthy and hectic as the rest of London, but in the past week he had discovered something quite different. Sir Edward had made sweeping changes upon being installed as commissioner. The place was kept clean and neat, and while detectives, sergeants, and constables were expected to stay busy, they were not encouraged to treat the place like a home away from home. Sir Edward preferred that his police be family men and that they spend at least eight hours a day at home. Drinking was tolerated, but tacitly frowned on if it became excessive. And a cleaning service was now employed to keep the premises from looking like a bachelor’s flat.

Which meant that Day couldn’t find an empty box anywhere in the building. He returned to Inspector Little’s desk and leaned on it, staring at the piles of paper he’d gathered, until inspiration struck. He ran down the back hall, past Fawkes, the sergeant on duty, and out into the street. Fawkes looked up from his penny novel and said something, but Day was already out of earshot.

The evening was cool, and Day had left his hat and jacket hanging on the back wall of the common room, but he didn’t notice. He looked to his right and left without seeing what he wanted and, after a moment’s consideration, took off at a brisk pace down the right side of the street. A block and a half later, he stopped at the mouth of an alley and peered down it. He had just about screwed up his courage to enter the narrow passage when he noticed a bulky shape against the outside wall of the inn across the road.

Day looked both ways and crossed the road. Streetlamps cast his shadow out over the cobblestones, where it broke apart and flowed back together in increments. There was little traffic, and the nearby police station meant that prostitutes and pickpockets were scarce here. But Day knew there was one loiterer who had no fear of the police.

A blanket was draped over the crumpled body against the wall so that nothing of the man beneath was visible. The blanket moved up and down, up and down, as the homeless man breathed. Day knelt and spoke softly.

“Sir?”

There was no answer, and Day wasn’t sure how to proceed. Although they were on a public thoroughfare, the street was this man’s home, and Day was intruding. Cautiously, he reached out and poked a spot on the dirty blanket. The dancing man came to life, erupting from the pavement as the blanket went flying off to the side. The man was filthy but fully alert. He held a knife in one hand, pointed at Day. The knife undulated, back and forth, much the way the man himself did every day in front of the police station.

“Mine,” the man said.

Day held his hands out in front of him and took a step back. He wasn’t worried about the knife. The man holding it clearly didn’t know how to use it, and Day didn’t think he would even try. The dancing man was only defending himself, not trying to harm the detective. Still, Day’s errand seemed foolish to him now. He had disturbed someone who clearly didn’t need any more trouble.

“Of course it’s yours. Of course it is. I’m a detective with the Yard, sir. I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

“A favor?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll dance for you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I know you. You’re the one gives me money. You’re the only bluebottle gives me money there.”