The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 118 - 118 78 The Complex Real World

118: Chapter 78: The Complex Real World 118: Chapter 78: The Complex Real World Westminster, London, Whitehall No.

4, headquarters of the London Metropolitan Police.

Colonel Charles Rowan, the head of the Greater London Police Department, leaned back in his leather chair, his right hand pressing down on the desk, under which were several letters and some files that had just been retrieved from the archives.

Sitting across from him at his large desk was Police Superintendent Taylor Clements, sweat beading on his forehead but still maintaining a composed demeanor.

Colonel Rowan picked up the pipe on his desk and put it in his mouth.

After lighting it, he took a few puffs, and the smoke momentarily obscured his face.

The only sound in the office was Colonel Rowan’s unchanging, terrifying voice, “Clements.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Go and open the window for me.”

Upon hearing this, Clements stood up and walked steadily to the window.

Just as he was about to open it, he heard a whistling sound behind him.

A throwing knife embedded itself in the wall beside his hand with a thud.

Clements paused slightly but still didn’t turn around; instead, he opened the window and then stood at attention beside it.

Behind him, there was the sound of Colonel Rowan tapping on the desk with his knuckles, “Do you need me to explain what these things on my desk are?”

Clements remained silent, already sensing that something was amiss.

But before bad news is officially confirmed, people always harbor some unrealistic hopes.

Colonel Rowan pushed back his chair and slowly rose from his seat.

“Not talking?

Do you think I’ll believe you don’t know if you don’t speak?

I’ll tell you the truth, my left hand side holds the complaints sent to Scotland Yard by Fred and evidence of your embezzlement and corruption over the past months.

And on my right, there are formal protests filed by members of the Hesketh faction to the Greater London Police Department and internal documents requesting a serious investigation into misconduct by Sir Peel.”

Colonel Rowan slowly walked behind Clements, lifting his arm to rest it on his subordinate’s shoulder, and spoke, “Tell me, if you were in my position, how do you think I should handle these items?”

Clements’ Adam’s apple bobbed slightly, and he responded loudly, “Sir!

Handle according to internal regulations!”

“Internal regulations?” Colonel Rowan stood with his arms crossed against the wall, “Are you referring to the ones written in the duty manual, or the unwritten rules we’ve established over time?”

Colonel Rowan’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, focused intensely on Clements, noticing a bead of sweat tracing a path down his cheek.

Colonel Rowan’s eyes widened bit by bit as he asked deliberately, “You, don’t, know?

You don’t know how to handle this, yet you dare to engage in such activities?”

Clements stood rigidly, like a marble statue, but still did not answer.

Colonel Rowan looked at him, not wishing to scold any further.

His back tensed as he rose from leaning against the wall and then said,

“I’m now giving you two options.

First, jump right now, immediately, from here!

If you survive the fall, then bite your tongue and kill yourself.

I swear on my honor, your family will receive a pension.”

Colonel Rowan raised his arm to check his watch, then patted Clements on the shoulder.

“I’ll give you a minute to think it over.”

He returned to his desk and sat down, pulling out a thick file from the stack and started reading as if it were a regular day at the office.

In his eyes, Clements might as well not have existed; the person standing by the window was just a puff of air.

Colonel Rowan finished reading a special document from the Home Office, then looked up at the title again.

“Regarding the proposal to promote Arthur Hastings from Superintendent of the Greenwich Police District, East London Division, to Chief Police Superintendent of the East London Division, Metropolitan Police.”

Colonel Rowan sighed softly, looked up at the motionless Clements by the window, snorted gently through his nose, and then proficiently picked up the feather quill from the inkpot, flourishingly writing a line beneath the document.

— Colonel of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Army, Acting Head of the Greater London Police Department, Police Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police, Charles Rowan, concurring.

After signing, Colonel Rowan threw the quill onto the desk, crossed his hands on his knees, leaned back in his chair, and said coldly,

“It seems you prefer to handle it internally?

Well, since you chose this, that’s also fine.

Organize the items and money obtained corruptly over the next few days; I’ll have someone collect them back at the station.

Fred’s matter will be put to rest, with no further discussions.

Additionally, for Mr.

Hesketh’s sake, as well as the reputation of the Home Office and Scotland Yard, I expect your letter of resignation on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.

We’re always short on police superintendent positions.”

Clements turned around and saluted Colonel Rowan.

Upon seeing this, Director Charles Rowan’s mouth twitched, and he suddenly erupted in anger, hurling the white porcelain teacup beside him at Clements’ face.

“Get the fuck out of here, you idiot!”

Blood dripped from the corner of Clements’ face, where shattered porcelain had scraped past his eye, yet it did nothing to alter his expression.

He stood at attention and bellowed, “Goodbye, sir!”

Dragging heavy steps, he walked out of the office, and there was a soft click as the door gently closed behind him.

Director Rowan stared at the door, his face still seething with anger, “Motherfuckers!

Everyone from the Guard Cavalry is a goddamn idiot!”

…

Meanwhile, at the Greenwich Police District station,

In the grim, lightless confinement cell, Superintendent Jones stared blankly at the pitch-black ceiling.

Since coming to London, his mind had never been as peaceful as it was now.

All around was silent.

He could not hear the flattering praises of street vendors, nor did he need to grovel before his superiors.

Even if he shouted, no one would respond.

It was as if this place was cut off from the world of humans.

All alone, without companions, not having to play a part against adversaries.

Although it was dark and he could see no light, staying here felt reassuring to Jones.

Suddenly, he heard a dripping sound.

Jones pressed his ear gently against the cold wall tiles.

He quietly listened for a while, then a smile suddenly spread across his face— it had started to rain in London.

Just like the day he and his wife first arrived in London, it was raining again.

That day, they could not even afford an umbrella nor find a suitable apartment to rent.

Unwilling to spend on a hotel, they had to spend the night under a bridge at London Bridge.

He remembered that night, the bridge was infested with mosquitoes, and they had to constantly guard against thieves and vagrants lurking in the darkness.

So, that night, he had not slept well.

But his wife and child slept very peacefully.

Thinking of this, Jones felt as if his heart was being tightly clenched by someone, and he remembered the events that unfolded later.

He joined Scotland Yard by a stroke of fate, through the days and nights of patrolling, until when Clements, the inspector, took notice of him and assigned him as his personal assistant at headquarters.

In the past six months, he had met many people and handled many affairs.

He knew many things he did were wrong; he could deceive his wife, but he could not fool his own conscience.

Clements was no good, he knew that, but he had to rely on this unscrupulous big shot to survive.

For the first time in his life, Jones sincerely prayed for Clements in his heart, even though he himself did not believe God would heed a blessing requested for a wicked man.

As Jones knelt on the ground, reciting his prayer, a second sound mingled with the noise of the rain reached his ears.

The sound seemed like water-soaked boots stepping on the floor.

The pace was neither too fast nor too slow, so it was hard to discern the mood of the boots’ wearer.

The door to the confinement room swung open with a whoosh, and blocking the light was a broad, imposing figure.

Jones instinctively raised his hands to block his eyes, unaccustomed to the intense light after getting used to the darkness.

He couldn’t see the newcomer’s face clearly, only the flickering red spot by his mouth.

As a mist rose, a voice Jones never wanted to hear again resounded by his ear.

“Most of us police officers from Scotland Yard, including myself, are destined for Hell.

Jones, even if you aspire to reach Heaven on your own, isn’t it, perhaps, a bit too late to pray to God now?”