'You'd better show us the d— the person who is currently vitally challenged,' he said. They were led downstairs. What was hanging from a beam there would have frightened the life out of anyone who wasn't already a zombie.

'Sorry 'bout dat,' said the troll, pulling it down and tossing it into a corner, where it coiled into a rubbery heap.

'What d'heel wazzit?' said Constable Swires.

'We had to pull der rubber off'f him,' said the troll. 'Sets quick, see? Once you get it out in der air.'

'Hey, that's a' biggest Sonky I ever saw,' chuckled Buggy. 'A whole-body Sonky! Reckon that's the way he wanted to go?'

Reg looked at the corpse. He didn't mind being sent out on murders, even messy ones. The way he saw it, dying was really just a career change. Been there, done that, worn the shroud... And then you got over it and got on with your life. Of course, he knew that many people didn't, for some reason, but he thought of them as not prepared to make the effort.

There was a ragged wound in the neck.

'Any next of kin?' he said.

'He got a brother in Uberwald. We've sent word,' the troll added. 'On der clacks. It cost twenty dollars! Dat's murder!'

'Can you think of any reason why someone would kill him?'

The troll scratched his head. 'Well, 'cos dey wanted him dead, I reckon. Dat's a good reason.'

'And why would anyone want him dead, do you think?' Reg Shoe could be very, very patient. 'Has there been any trouble?'

'Business ain't been so good, I know dat.'

'Really? I'd have thought you'd be coining money here.'

'Oh, yeah, days what you'd fink, but not everyfing people calls a Sonky is made by us, see? It's to do wid us becomin'—' the troll's face screwed up with cerebral effort—'jer-nair-rick. Lots of other buggers are jumpin' up and down on der bandwagon, and dey got better plant and new ideas like makin' 'em in cheese-and-onion flavour an' wid bells on an' stuff like dat. Mister Sonky won't have nothin' to do wid dat kind of frog and days been costin' us sales.'

'I can see this would worry him,' said Reg, in a keep-on-talking tone of voice.

'He's been locking himself in his office a lot.'

'Oh? Why's that?' said Reg.

'He's der boss. You don't ask der boss. But he did say dat dere was a special job comin' up and data put us back on our feets.'

'Really?' said Reg, making a mental note. 'What kind of job?'

'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?'

'Yes, sir. The pneumatic tube is very useful,' Visit added dutifully.

'Commander Vimes isn't very keen on it but I'm sure it will eventually save us time,' said Carrot. He unfolded the note.

Visit watched him. Carrot's lips moved slightly as he read.

'Where did the pigeon come from?' he said at last, screwing up the note.

'It looks pretty worn out, sir. Not from inside the city, I'm sure.'

'Ah. Right. Thank you.'

'Bad news, sir?' Visit angled.

'Just news, constable. Don't let me detain you.'

'Right, sir.'

When the disappointed Visit had gone, Carrot went and looked out of the window. There was a typical Ankh-Morpork street scene outside, although people were trying to separate them.

After a few minutes he went back to his table, wrote a short note, put it into one of the little carriers and sent it away with a hiss of air.

A few minutes later Sergeant Colon came panting along the corridor. Carrot was very keen on modernizing the Watch, and in some strange way sending a message via the tube was so much more modern than simply opening the door and shouting, which is what Mr Vimes did.

Carrot gave Colon a bright smile. 'Ah, Fred. Everything going well?'

'Yessir?' said Fred Colon uncertainly.

'Good. I'm off to see the Patrician, Fred. As senior sergeant you are in charge of the Watch until Mister Vimes gets back.'