"Dunno. You don"t - "
" - ask the boss," said Reg. "Right. I suppose no one saw the murder, did they?"
Once again the troll screwed up its enormous face in thought.
"Der murderer, yeah, an" prob"ly Mister Sonky."
"Was there a third party?"
"I dunno, I never get invited to dem frogs."
"Apart from Mister Sonky and the murderer," said Shoe, still as patient as the grave, "was there anyone else here last night?"
"Dunno," said the troll.
"Thank you, you"ve been very helpful," said Shoe. "We"ll have a look around, if you don"t mind."
"Sure."
The troll went back to his vat.
Reg Shoe hadn"t expected to find anything and was not disappointed. But he was thorough. Zombies usually are. Mr Vimes had told him never to get too excited about clues, because clues could lead you a dismal dance. They could become a habit. You ended up finding a wooden leg, a silk slipper and a feather at the scene of a crime and constructing an elegant theory involving a one-legged ballet dancer and a production of Chicken Lake.
The door to the office was open. It was hard to tell if anything had been disturbed; Shoe got the impression that the mess was normal. A desk was awash with paperwork, Mr Sonky having followed the usual "put it down somewhere" method of filing. A bench was covered with samples of rubber, bits of sacking, large bottles of chemicals and some wooden moulds that Reg refrained from looking at too closely.
"Did you hear Corporal Littlebottom talking about that museum theft when we came on duty today, Buggy?" he said, opening a jar of yellow powder and sniffing it.
No. "I did," said Reg.
He put the lid on the sulphur again and sniffed the air of the factory. It smelled of liquid rubber, which is very much like the smell of incontinent cats.
"And some things stick in the mind," he said. "Special job, eh?"
It was Constable Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets"s week as Communications Officer, which largely meant looking after the pigeons and keeping an eye on the clacks, with of course the assistance of Constable Downspout. Constable Downspout was a gargoyle. When it came to staring fixedly at one thing you couldn"t beat a gargoyle. The gargoyles were getting a lot of employment in the clacks industry.
Constable Visit quite enjoyed the pigeons. He sang them hymns. They listened to short homilies, cocking their heads from side to side. After all, he reasoned, had not Bishop Horn
preached to the molluscs of the sea? And there was no record of them actually listening, whereas he was certain that the pigeons were taking it in. And they seemed to be interested in his pamphlets on the virtues of Omnianism, admittedly as nesting material at the moment, but this was certainly a good start.
A pigeon fluttered in as he was scraping the perches.
"Ah, Zebedinah," he said, lifting her up and removing the message capsule from her leg. "Well done. This is from Constable Shoe. And you shall have some corn, provided locally by Josiah Frument and Sons, Seed Merchants, but ultimately by the grace of Om."
There was a whirr of wings and another pigeon settled on the perch. Constable Visit recognized it as Wilhelmina, one of Sergeant Angua"s pigeons.
He removed the message capsule. The thin paper inside was tightly folded and on it someone had written "Cpt. Carrot, Personal."
He hesitated, then put the message from Reg Shoe into the pneumatic tube and heard the whoosh of the suction as it headed off to the main office. The other one, he decided, required a more careful delivery.
Carrot was working in Vimes"s office but, Visit noticed, not at the Commander"s desk. Instead he"d set up a folding table in the corner. The tottering piles of paperwork on the desk were slightly less alpine than yesterday. There were even occasional patches of desktop.
"Personal message for you, captain."
"Thank you."
"And Constable Shoe wants a sergeant down at Sonky"s boot factory."
"Did you send the message down to the office?"