(no subject)
He had found the cigars sitting outside his cabin that morning. There had been a big, ridiculous red bow pinned to them, but underneath had been miraculously, thankfully, unbelievably a box of Pantweed's Slim Panatellas.
At least this damned island didn’t seem to hate him entirely. Vimes didn’t waste any time piecing together the whys and wherefores of the gift (if you could call it that), but merely slotted them into the cigar case he still carried with him everywhere and trudged towards the Compound.
He was sitting at the desk of the IPD office now with one of them, and it almost felt like home. In his free hand was the crime scene report from the - what was it they called themselves? - squints, which largely confirmed his initial suspicions. Here they had a brutal, premeditated murder by a man who had been wrong in the head to begin with and who had perhaps done something like this before - before the island, Vimes hoped from his very soul, if there was any mercy in the world. It wasn’t so very strange that no one had realized what Koscuisko was capable of, but why Faramir?
Why Faramir?
Was the disgraced captain just a convenient, trusting victim, or was there something more? He couldn’t dismiss the niggling feeling that Faramir’s own record couldn’t be ignored, that at the very least this might be a case of a madman with enough forethought to imagine that there might be some perverted sense of justice-
What was the phrase? A mystery wrapped up in an enigma.
Damn it all. Vimes instinctively kicked the bottom desk drawer in frustration, a reflex brought from home.
The Faramir business had been buggered up from the very beginning, he’d known that already, but now there was no escaping the fact. If he was right, this was their fault. This was their chickens coming home to roost.
Some bloody damned chickens.
[Good time to approach him about any IPD or council business. Just bothering him is fine, too!]
At least this damned island didn’t seem to hate him entirely. Vimes didn’t waste any time piecing together the whys and wherefores of the gift (if you could call it that), but merely slotted them into the cigar case he still carried with him everywhere and trudged towards the Compound.
He was sitting at the desk of the IPD office now with one of them, and it almost felt like home. In his free hand was the crime scene report from the - what was it they called themselves? - squints, which largely confirmed his initial suspicions. Here they had a brutal, premeditated murder by a man who had been wrong in the head to begin with and who had perhaps done something like this before - before the island, Vimes hoped from his very soul, if there was any mercy in the world. It wasn’t so very strange that no one had realized what Koscuisko was capable of, but why Faramir?
Why Faramir?
Was the disgraced captain just a convenient, trusting victim, or was there something more? He couldn’t dismiss the niggling feeling that Faramir’s own record couldn’t be ignored, that at the very least this might be a case of a madman with enough forethought to imagine that there might be some perverted sense of justice-
What was the phrase? A mystery wrapped up in an enigma.
Damn it all. Vimes instinctively kicked the bottom desk drawer in frustration, a reflex brought from home.
The Faramir business had been buggered up from the very beginning, he’d known that already, but now there was no escaping the fact. If he was right, this was their fault. This was their chickens coming home to roost.
Some bloody damned chickens.
[Good time to approach him about any IPD or council business. Just bothering him is fine, too!]