## Chapter 114: The Complicated Real World
**Chapter 114: The Complicated Real World**
The headquarters of the Metropolitan Police of London was located at 4 Whitehall Street, Westminster, London.
Colonel Charles Rowan, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, leaned back on his leather chair, his right hand resting on the table, a few letters and some archival documents newly retrieved from the archives lying beneath his palm.
Sitting opposite him at his large desk was Inspector Tyler Clemens, who was sweating on his forehead but still maintaining a calm demeanor.
Rowan, the Commissioner, picked up the pipe on the table, put it in his mouth, lit it, and took a few puffs. The smoke instantly obscured his face.
All that could be heard in the office was Rowan’s voice, monotonous to the point of being terrifying: “Clemens.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Go open the window for me.”
Clemens got up and walked towards the window with steady steps. He reached out to open the window when he heard a whistling sound behind him.
With a clang, a flying knife landed perfectly on the wall beside his hand.
Clemens’s movement paused slightly, but he still didn’t turn around. Instead, he opened the window and stood at attention by the window.
Behind him, he heard Rowan tapping his knuckles on the table: “Do I need to introduce you to what’s on my table?”
Clemens remained silent. In fact, he had already sensed something was amiss.
But people, before a bad thing is officially confirmed, will always harbor some unrealistic hopes in their hearts.
Rowan, the Commissioner, pushed back his chair and slowly got up from it.
“Not speaking? Not speaking, you think I’ll pretend you don’t know?
To tell you the truth, on my left is the report Fred sent to Scotland Yard and the evidence of your corruption over the past six months.
And on my right, these are the formal protests raised by the Hesketh-Pearson faction of MPs to the Metropolitan Police, and the internal documents from Sir Peel demanding a serious investigation into the dereliction of duty.”
Rowan walked slowly towards Clemens, his back to him. He put his arm around his subordinate’s shoulder and said, “Tell me, if you were in my position, how do you think I should handle receiving these things?”
Clemens’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly, and he replied in a loud voice, “Reporting! Deal with it according to internal regulations!”
“Internal regulations?” Rowan, the Commissioner, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed: “You’re talking about those regulations written in the duty manual, or those unspoken rules we all agree on?”
Rowan’s eyes, sharp as a vulture’s, fixed on Clemens. He saw a bead of sweat slowly sliding down Clemens’s temple.
Rowan’s eyes widened slightly, and he asked word by word: “You, don’t, know? You don’t know how to handle it, and you dare to do such a thing?”
Clemens stood straight, like a marble statue, but he still didn’t answer.
Looking at him like this, Rowan didn’t reprimand him any further. He suddenly exerted force on his back, got up from the wall, and then spoke.
“I’m giving you two choices now. First, jump off from here, right now, immediately! If you don’t die after jumping, then bite your tongue and kill yourself. I swear on my honor that your family will receive a pension.”
Rowan, the Commissioner, raised his arm to look at his watch, patted Clemens on the shoulder.
“I’ll give you one minute, you can think carefully.”
He returned to his desk, sat down, and pulled out a document from the thick stack and started reading, as if he were working as usual.
It seemed that in his eyes, there was no such thing as Clemens, the person standing by the window was just a blob of air.
Rowan, the Commissioner, finished reading the special document from the Home Office and looked up at the title.
“Regarding the proposed recommendation to promote Arthur Hastings, the District Superintendent in charge of the Greenwich District of the East London District of the Metropolitan Police of London, to the position of Chief Superintendent of the East London District of the Metropolitan Police of London.”
Rowan, the Commissioner, let out a soft sigh. He looked up at Clemens, who was standing by the window without moving a muscle, snorted slightly through his nose, and then, with a practiced hand, picked up the quill pen stuck in the inkwell and wrote a line of words below the document in a flowing script.
——Charles Rowan, Colonel of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Acting Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police, seconded.
After signing, Rowan threw the quill pen on the table, crossed his arms and placed them on his knees, leaned back in his chair and said coldly.
“It seems you want to handle it internally? Okay, since you choose this way, then so be it. Pack up the stolen goods and money you have to return these two days, I’ll send someone to collect them back to the station, Fred’s matter is over, no one will mention it again.
Also, for Mr. Hesketh-Pearson, and for the reputation of the Home Office and Scotland Yard, I need to see your resignation letter on my desk tomorrow morning, our Inspector positions are not so abundant.”
Clemens turned around and saluted Rowan, the Commissioner.
When Rowan saw this, he suddenly twitched at the corner of his mouth. He suddenly jumped up, picked up the white porcelain teacup beside him and smashed it towards Clemens’s face.
“Get out, you idiot!”
Clemens’s face was covered with a string of blood droplets, the broken porcelain shards cut open his eye corner, but it didn’t change his expression.
He stood at attention and roared: “Goodbye, sir!”
He walked out of the office with heavy steps, only to hear a click as the door of the office was gently closed behind him.
Rowan, the Commissioner, looked at the door, his anger still not subsided: “Damn it! All the people from the Life Guards are all these damn idiots!”
……
At the same time, in the Greenwich District Police Station.
In the dim and gloomy confinement room, Sergeant Jones stared blankly at the black ceiling.
Since coming to London, his mind had never been as peaceful as it was now.
It was quiet all around. There was no flattery or flattery from street vendors, nor did he have to grovel in front of his superiors.
Even if he shouted, no one would respond.
It was like being separated from the human world.
Lonely, without companions, and without having to play against the enemy.
Although it was dark here and he couldn’t see the light, staying here made Jones feel at ease.
Suddenly, he heard a dripping sound. Jones gently pressed his ear against the cold wall tiles.
He listened quietly for a while, and a smile suddenly appeared on his face. It was raining in London.
It was like the day he and his wife first arrived in London, London was raining again.
That day, he and his wife couldn’t even afford an umbrella, and they didn’t rent a suitable house. They couldn’t afford to stay in an inn, so they spent the night under the bridge of London Bridge.
He remembered that night. There were many mosquitoes under the bridge, and they had to be constantly wary of thieves and vagrants lurking in the darkness.
So, that night, he didn’t sleep very well.
But his wife and children slept soundly.
Thinking of this, Jones felt as if his heart was suddenly seized by someone. He remembered what happened later.
Joining Scotland Yard by chance, the day and night of patrolling on the front line, and then being noticed by Inspector Clemens and transferred to the headquarters to be his personal assistant.
In the past six months, he had met many people and handled many things.
He knew that many things he did were not good. He could lie to his wife, but he couldn’t lie to his conscience.
Clemens wasn’t a good person, he knew that, but he had to rely on this unscrupulous big shot to survive.
Jones, for the first time in his life, sincerely prayed for Clemens in his heart, even though he didn’t believe that God would heed a blessing for an evil person.
Just as Jones was kneeling on the ground muttering a prayer, he heard a second sound besides the sound of the rain.
That sound, it sounded like the sound of wet boots stepping on the floor.
The speed of the march was neither too fast nor too slow, so it was impossible to tell what the owner of the boots was feeling at the moment.
The door of the confinement room was flung open, revealing a tall and broad figure in front of the light.
Jones couldn’t help raising his hand to shield his eyes. After getting used to the darkness, he couldn’t stand such strong light anymore.
He couldn’t see the person’s face, only a faint red dot flickering beside his mouth.
As a puff of white fog rose, Jones heard the voice he never wanted to hear again.
“Most of the police in Scotland Yard, including me, are destined for hell. Jones, even if you want to go to heaven in an extraordinary way, but now you pray to God, isn’t it, a little too late?”
(End of Chapter)