Everything in Its Place

Rook rang at seven on a grey morning, in the voice of a man who has been awake since four and has had toast. The toast was audible.

“The coroner’s officer rang,” he said. “Brigstock. Very tidy man. The inquest opens on Wednesday at ten, and there’s a verdict of accidental death on his desk with the date already typed in.”

“Who asked for it?”

“Nobody asked. It was suggested to him by a number of people, one after another, in the same calm voice, over three days.” There was a pause, and the sound of a mug set down with care. “The Sentinel runs Saturday. It’s going to say Rudd is to be questioned. The Superintendent would feel more comfortable with a name by noon on Tuesday. He’s not a wicked man. He’s a tidy one. It’s very hard to tell the difference from outside.”

“And you?”

“I’m a sergeant,” said Rook. “I’m paid to be the last person in the building who asks the stupid question. I’ve asked it. It turns out to have a rather long answer.”

You put down the receiver and found Jonah already at the door with his coat on. The case had arrived at the stage where it stopped being a puzzle and started being a clock.