Sometimes you just know it's going to be a bad day. You wake up and it's raining or you have a headache, you catch a mouse getting too well acquainted with what was to be your breakfast or you can only find one clean stocking despite the fact that the laundress definitely returned them in pairs (Why does this happen and why does it always happen to you? unanswerable questions both). One petty annoyance and a cold dread covers on your heart. You feel that the rest of the day is spoilt and, not wishing to disappoint, it confirms you expectations by being diabolical.

But these aren't the worst kind of days. Shit they may be, but at least they are consistently shit and 'to be forewarned is to be forearmed' as I tell my men. No, the kind of days I really object to are days like today that lull you into a false sense of security by not revealing their full unrestrained awfulness until later, thus taking you quite off balance.

Today has been a real deceitful, deceptive bitch of a Monsieur Madeleine of a day. A proper wolf in sheep's clothing.

The morning passed entirely without incident. I caught up on my paperwork, ate lunch at lunchtime. The stoves were working so I even had the luxury of being able to stand around with my coat-tails up trying to get really warm (only singing my coat once, I might add!)

At around one I was interrupted by some species of young man who 'wished to report a crime to the Superintendent of Police'. Since M le Commisaire is abed with a rheumatic fever, the boy got me instead. He was one of those insufferable young pups to who nature has given the beauty proper to a woman without endowing them with the proportionate amount of brains, and I dare say that if I'd had to put up with him for very long he would have thoroughly exasperated me. As it was he didn't stay long, was only marginally more stupid that the majority of people I have to put up with and considerable more willing to be helpful than your average Jacques.

The crime he came in to report was also extremely interesting, finally presenting me with an opportunity to pocket a goodly proportion of Patron-Minette.

So far, so good. That evening I posted my men and set off to find the two Jondrette girls. The younger I found easily (named Azelma – what goes through the minds of some parents is beyond me) I escorted her to one of the three fiacres we had on hand and, to be honest, the girl looked more relieved than anything else – it being now cold and snowing heavily. The elder girl, however, proved impossible to locate. When question, her sister said that's she'd probably run off with Montparnasse to have some fun (I can't say I blame her – Crime in the snow or mere immorality in the warmth? Tough call). Although not in itself disastrous – the girl was pretty insignificant and the 'devil's playmate' will always resurface when he needs more curl-papers - this was the first inkling that I was not to have things all my own way

So I waited for the signal that I had arranged with the young lawyer. And I waited. It didn't come. Finally I decided that I had better things to do with my life than stand around the Barriere des Gobelins waiting for my nose to turn blue and drop off so I told the lads that we were going in signal or no signal.
Upstairs was a real high society party, full of the bon ton. As I looked around the little hornet's nest I had uncovered I couldn't help but grin. It got even funnier when I realised that I'd caught them in the act of drawing lots for who got to climb out the window first! (If the general public only knew the mental capacity of you average Parisian crim!) Needless to say, they were rather surprised to see me. Myself, I was in the mood for a bid of theatre and decided to play up to the gallery. It was all rather fun – even being shot at and pelted with paving stones couldn't wipe the smile off my mug. Classic example of pride before a fall that was (I believe the literary term is 'hubris'). I sat down to write the preliminary sentences of my report, called forward the victim only to find that he had climbed out the window when no one was looking! Well, I think I can be forgiven for not seeing that one coming. I mean, what's the logic behind that? Who does such a thing? I'll tell you who does such a thing Javert, mon gaillaird! Someone with something to hide, that's who. It occurred to me that the chap who'd just shimmied out the window was probably worth more than all the sorry lot I had cuffed inside the Gorbeau property put together.

So far, so irritating, but this was not to be the last of my misfortunes. Somewhere between the tenement and La Force we managed to mislay Claquesous. Or, rather, Claquesous managed to be mislaid, for I am perfectly convinced that the man is a double agent. I wager he's up at Judee now, cosying up to old Coco and laughing at me over tea and toast! But I'm not even going to allow myself to get started on that subject – it's enough to give an honest agent a fit of apoplexy! A most provoking end to a provoking evening.

Although, perhaps, I am overreacting somewhat. After all, there's nothing entirely unusual in not arresting the victim and if Pretty Boy and The Invisible Man managed to slip their moorings at least the rest of the crew are safely stowed in La Force.

I finish writing my preliminary report, sign and blot it and set it to one side. Then I trim the candle, which is starting to spit, and write this note for my own private reference.

Azelma – apprehended, Madelonettes

Babet - apprehended, La force

Bigrenaille – apprehended, La Force, to be accorded tobacco in solitary (I must be going soft in my old age)

Boulatruelle – apprehended, La Force

Brujon – apprehended, La Force, Strongly advise he be deloused.

Claquesous, Apprehended, escaped whilst being conveyed to prison. Suspect was aided – most odd (? Coco-Lacour)

Deux-Millards – apprehended, La Force.

Eponine – not found, search later.

Guelemer – apprehended, La Force

Jondrette – apprehended, La Force

Mme Jondrette – apprehended, Madelonettes

Montparnesse – not found, will doubtless turn up.

Victim – escaped, fisher than a pot of bouillabaisse, search vigorously.

Lawyer (name? Nonmercy? Bonpercy? Montmorency?) - Call on tomorrow

Sergeant Rougemont is trying to creep into the office without my noticing. Why does he bother? My desk is directly opposite the door – how can I not notice him? He must have been sent in for a dossier (despite the fact that my office is the size of a generously proportioned hatbox it still seems to serve as I kind of paperwork graveyard). I'll bet Jolivet sent him in – Minot's too kind and Pontellier would just come himself. I decide to have a bit of fun with the boy so I pretend not to notice him until he has come far enough into the room to make tactical retreat impossible, then look up and fix him with my most baleful of baleful stares.

"What exactly are you doing, Sergeant?"

"L – l – looking for the Molly Baker dossier, Inspector. L-Lieutenant Jolivet wants it."

I let him look for the thing under 'b' for a while before rolling my eyes and telling him; "Molly Baker is filed under 'Miss'; Sergeant."

"Of course, Sir."

He goes to 'm', which means getting right in behind my chair. Next thing I know he's managed to knock about seven files off the shelf and onto my head.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at, boy?" I shout, no longer in jest.

Rougemont cowers and I relent somewhat. After all, it probable wouldn't have happened if I hadn't wound him up so much. And this, my children, is why we must beware of guilty pleasures. And yet life offers me so few – I don't get drunk or smoke, I'm not a gourmand, I don't gamble, I haven't been to the theatre these past two years, men don't interest me and I avoid women (In that context – it's not as if I jump into a cupboard every time I see a woman, which would perhaps be a little odd). I have few friends and those I do have I hardly ever see, partly because I'm always at work, partly because they always seem bust – Charles is either abroad or hiding from a suspicious husband and, now Nana's married, I don't even get the satisfaction of a good argument.

Ah, and now I'm getting maudlin – that's always a sign that I'm overtired. Stifling a yawn I step out from behind the desk and pick up my hat.

"You going out, Monsieur L'inspecteur?"

"Indeed, I am going home – to sleep. Goodnight, Sergeant"

The poor boy (on a double shift) gives me a look of the profoundest envy as I slip out the door.

Oddly, however, I do not go home. I get halfway and then, on impulse, turn and head for the Barriere des Goblelins and the Gorbeau property. I still have the lawyer's key in my pocket and so am able to let myself in. I go up to the room at the end of the corridor and sit in the dark, unsure as to quite why I'm there or what I'm looking for. Still, I trust my instinct, which assures me that this is an entirely reasonable and profitable course of action.

A/N I have removed the repeated usage of the word 'crap'. In my head Javert was using the French word 'Chier' which does translate, literally, as 'crap'. I have made the change because a) On reflection it does sound just that bit too anachronistic in English and b) Chier has a bit more shock value in French so I though to myself (as someone - was it AmZ? – has Javert remark to Fantine) 'Don't be coy you silly tart' just say 'shit' and have done. I don't feel this to be quite so anachronistic since I'm sure 'Le mot de Cambronne' would be one near and dear to Javert's heart