A quick little (and lethal) interlude. Disclaimers in earlier chapters.
6
Sergeant Crossley ducked into a back lane and hurried along the cobblestone street toward a specific door down the way. Of all the nights to be stuck late at the station. A drunk bloke clocked him as Crossley had shoved him into the cell to sleep off his bender. He'd tried to convince his DI to forget the write-up, that he was perfectly fine despite the shiner swelling his left eye. But oh no, the blowhard had to take down every detail, and then run his mouth about how Crossley should've ducked. It had taken every ounce in him not to deck the DI himself after that rot.
Besides he couldn't tell his boss the real reason he wanted to get out of the station, now could he? So he'd stood there, repeating his report and taking the ribbing. Sometimes he wished he hadn't transferred to Hawthorne. Then he'd remember the cock up that made him leave, and he was pleased enough that he'd had the opportunity.
A rat scurried across the cobblestones, joining his mates in a nest of old straw nearby. Crossley spat toward him, then kicked the straw aside. The whole clutch of them scattered, sending him laughing at their panic. Dumb animals.
His destination grew closer and the lights in the lane, dimmer. He should've changed out of his uniform before coming—the patrons of this establishment weren't fond of the constabulary. But most already knew him. He'd been there often enough, enjoying himself with a little off-limits fun while picking up a few extra florins.
A few feet from the door, a figure stepped out of the shadows and into his path.
"Here, now. What's this?" Crossley asked, sliding to a stop.
"Your time to pay the piper." The voice was low, but distinct. There was an odd tilt to the words, not really like a toff's but definitely not some gutter trash. The figure stepped closer. Light from one of the building's upper windows played across his face, highlighting and shading his features in equal parts.
Crossley stood tall. The blighter was not only costing him time but money blocking his way. "Get outta here. Go pawn off some other sop."
The man gripped Crossley's shoulder hard, holding him in place. His tone turned menacing. "You should've taken better care with your investigations, Sergeant Crossley."
Crossley's jaw dropped. "How do you know me? Never seen the likes of you a'fore."
The man's lips parted around a feral grin. "No, you haven't. But I know what you didn't do. And that's what matters."
Something silvery flashed in the feeble light. A heartbeat later, pain seared through Crossley's chest. "Help, someone!" His cry pitifully weak, Crossley stumbled toward his destination. He tried to knock, but the pounding he intended was nothing more than a slight bump. It would barely make a dent in the noise inside. His legs gave out and he slid down the wall, eyes locked on his attacker.
"Three down. One to go. Then justice will truly have been served."
As the man disappeared into the darkness, Crossley tried to call out once again. But the breath he used was his last.