February

In February the walls would sweat. Everyone dripped and stank of rot a little. The ground grew damp, the city thickened, swelled, fed by dark cloud.
What do you know about murder?
You know nothing.
The city understands.

The Finger

Coaldrake only has three fingers on his right hand. The middle one is missing.

Have you ever lost a finger?

It isn't pleasant,particularly when a dog is involved. He is self conscious about it: terribly. In a way, that if it had been a congenital birth defect he might not have been. He catches glances towards his hand, and always feels a little guilty, as though it is somehow his fault, that his lack has caused someone to feel uncomfortable.

His clenched fist always looks peculiar. It hurts when he punches people, the middle knuckle often cracks and bleeds. He uses his fist a little less, perhaps, than most garden variety detectives, well, he would like to think so, at any rate. He credits his success to that approach.

The dog is still alive. Maybe that says something about Coaldrake: that he never lobbied for it's destruction, that it's still getting about. He'd like to think that it does. He'd like to think that he does not bear it any bitterness and that makes him somehow a better more considerate person.

The loss of a finger can define you. It's interesting how an absence can define you.

Try not to look at his hand. You've read the file.

There were fiddles lined in a row.

Mention shivered at the sight of them. Eight fiddles. And in front of each, in a small puddle of blood, was a tooth.

Mention rubbed at the knots in his neck. The drive here had been hell. The traffic worse than he had ever experienced, and then, well, half an hour before he could find a park. Could have walked over from the office. Couldah, shouldah, wouldah.

"Mr Coaldrake," the voice startled him from his knotted reverie, and the rough pressure of his fingers. He winced. The speaker, dressed in a Fiddler's white suit frowned. Mention recognised him at once, Audi Pax, senior Administrative Officer of the Collective.

"I was expecting you earlier," Audi said.

Mention smiled thinly at that. "What happened here?"

"We were hoping you could tell us."

"What were their names?"

Audi pulled a note from his pocket. "It's all here," he said. "As you would understand, we don't want the police involved."

"I understand alright," Mention said. He was hating this more than ever. Someone was killing Fiddlers. Who could be that insane?

He rather suspected he would find out soon.

Sometimes he forgot.

Sometimes he forgot.
He just forgot. And the days would slide by.
And they would become months.
Just because he forgot.
I could never forgive him for that. Leaving me hanging, between two banks. Have you ever been left hanging? The third bridge, is often congested. But does it really take months to cross it?

There were fiddles lined in a row.

Whistle

Listen

He crossed the third bridge into Perjure at 5.15 pm.

The Bridges of Perjure

There are only two bridges leading into Perjure. The first of these, should one stick to a strict chronology is so old that it can scarcely be regarded as anything more than a museum piece, should a museum ever be constructed large enough to house such an edifice. It is called variously The Old Bridge, the Clamour, or the Petecross. It has never been modified for modern traffic, some blame the various councils for this, others the populace's apathy. It is worth noting that the Collective of Fiddlers' Grand Meeting Hall is built on the Southern side of the Old Bridge.

The second bridge is a single span steel structure, built in 1972, it is simply called The Bridge.