The Inspector had just gotten back from the Chief Inspector’s office. The Chief Inspector had briefed him on the meeting with the Superintendent and the deputy-minister.

The Inspector had a problem - the confidential informant. The rest was easy. Find known associates at his workplace, and find C Ellis. All in a day's work. But the confidential informant was a problem. There was no confidential informant - which was a major part of the problem. But even if he could conjure one up - once the secret service had them in a room, it wouldn’t take them long to work out that they didn’t have anything to inform on.

He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed three digits.

‘My office - now!’

He hung up. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of Victory whiskey. He pulled the top off, and took a slug from the bottle. He put the top back on and placed the bottle back in the drawer, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He waited.

There was a knock at his door.

‘Come…’

The smoking man opened the door and walked in - ‘Alright guv - how did it go with the Chief?’

‘It went well - sit down.’

Unlike the Chief Inspector’s office or the Superintendent’s office - there was no lounge in the Inspector’s office. It was a room, a desk, a filing cabinet, a waste paper basket, a phone, a coat stand, and three chairs. The floor was linoleum, and there were no paintings, photos, or rich wallpaper. There was a cork board on one wall - which had departmental notices pinned to it. There were no books, no window, and the desk was made of reconstituted saw dust.

‘The Super is convening a meeting between operations and the secret service...’ - the Inspector began.

‘What the fuck are those clowns being brought in for? This is operations business’ - the smoking man fumed.

‘Shut up and listen’ - the Inspector moved behind his desk and sat down - ‘Operations will be responsible for the following; 1. Make contact with the supervisor of the deceased at his place of work - and identify and detain associates of the deceased. 2. Identify, locate, and detain a certain C Ellis. And 3. Make available the confidential informant to the secret service.’

‘1 and 2 seem easy enough, but I think we might have a problem with number 3’ - the smoking man said, as he took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

‘NO FUCKING SHIT - You’re a regular Sherlock fucking Holmes!’ - the Inspector boomed.

The smoking man shifted in his seat, puffed on his cigarette and tried to avoid eye contact with the Inspector.

‘So what’s the plan guv? Fit up some prole and send him over for a chat with the SS, then have him shipped to the farm?’

‘No, that is not the plan. The SS can never meet the confidential informant, because when they invite the bloody sod over for a chat, they’ll very quickly work out that they are not a confidential informant but some prole we’ve fitted up, and then we’ll be invited over for a chat, and we will be going on a one-way trip to the farm that ends with us being fed through an fucking industrial wood chipper. I’m not sure about you, but I imagined this week turning out a bit different than that.’

‘So what’s the plan, guv?’ - Asked the smoking man.

‘We have about 24 hours - the Super is planning the meeting for tomorrow. They will get together and talk, and then agree on next steps. Our problem is going to be a key priority for the secret service - as they can start work on that right away, without waiting for operations to get underway. We can buy a bit of time, as we can say we communicate with the informant via a dead letterbox and we cannot make contact immediately. That time is vital for us.’

‘Who’s going to be at the meeting guv?’ - Asked the smoking man.

‘The super and the chief, and the usual suspects from the SS. I expect that cunt will be there as well’ - said the Inspector.

‘Which cunt?’ - The smoking man asked.

‘That assistant deputy-minister cunt’ - said the inspector.

‘Oh, that cunt.’

‘Yes, that cunt. I have never liked that cunt’ - the Inspector said irritatedly.

The smoking man lit another cigarette.

‘You get down to the docks straight away - and make contact with the deceased’s supervisor and get a list of his mates. Check that list out - and find anyone who has a criminal background or has been brought in for questioning before by our unit. Whoever you find has to live alone, as that will make our job much easier. Send Parker over to the flop house the deceased was living at, and start asking questions about him; where is he? Has he been seen? Has he been in any trouble? No badges and plain clothes - just an old friend looking for his mate.’

‘Alright guv - what you got in mind?’

‘Once we have our candidate - we will use “the thing we don’t talk about”, but we have to move fast. Time is working against us!’

‘Gotcha guv - nice and clean.’

‘Now get down to the docks, nice and discreet. Have a word with the foreman and get a list to work against. Call me later once we have a name or names, and we will discuss bringing “the thing we don’t talk about” into play, and when.’

‘Yes guv.’

‘Tick tock - time to get to work!’

The smoking man put his cigarette out, stood up and opened the office door. He left the office, closing the door behind him. The Inspector opened the desk drawer and pulled out the Victory whiskey, pulling the top off and taking a big slug out of the bottle. He put the top back on the bottle and placed it back in the drawer.

The smoking man drove down the road to the docks and pulled up to the security gates.

A security guard walked from the security hut and walked up to the smoking man’s car.

‘Sorry comrade - the car park is over there’ - the security guard said.

The smoking man pulled out his badge and flashed it at the security guard - ‘Sorry comrade, I didn’t realize. Apologies comrade’ - the security guard hurried back to the security hut and the gates to the docks opened wide. The smoking man drove through and parked outside the dock’s offices. He climbed out of his car, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. A sign in the car park said “ALL VISITORS MUST REPORT TO RECEPTION”. He walked into the office reception.

“Sorry comrade - but there’s no smoking in the offices’ - a young lady sitting at reception said to the smoking man as he wandered in. The smoking man walked up to the reception desk, and flashed his badge at the receptionist.

‘Whose in charge here…?’ - He asked.

‘I...I...I’m sorry comrade...I didn’t realize...I didn’t realize…’

‘Whose in charge...?’ - The smoking man asked again.

The smoking man loved this bit of the job. The power. The fear from the proles. Their terror. Being able to do whatever he wanted. Being able to detain. Being able to beat. To kill. All without question - and sometimes with a certificate of recognition and a pat on the back. He represented the full weight and power of the People’s Republic. He embodied all the force that the People’s Republic could bring down on the people. No one would or could question him - he could do whatever he wanted and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. This prole woman, he could beat her - break her jaw - and there would be no consequences for him. If anyone confronted him - he could have them detained, interrogated, beaten. If someone looked at him the wrong way, or wasn’t subservient enough he could set in motion a series of events that ended their life. Everything else about working in operations was shit. The paperwork was shit. The yes sir, no sir with the party wankers was shit. Lunch in the cafeteria was shit. But on the street was where the smoking man loved his job.

The receptionist picked up the phone at her desk and dialed a number - ‘Hello sir...there is a man...a policeman...yes sir...he wants to speak with you...yes sir...in reception...yes sir’ - she hung the phone up.

‘The manager will be down straight away comrade, sir’ - the receptionist said.

The smoking man didn’t say anything. He finished his cigarette and dropped it on the floor, and stood on the smoldering butt.

A man in a blue suit came hurrying down the stairs to the reception. He walked over to the smoking man and put out a hand to shake hands. The smoking man did not react.

‘I Comrade Morr…’ - the man in the blue suit began to say.

‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’ - The smoking man interrupted.

‘Er...yes, yes there is - follow me’ - the man in the blue suit smiled a nervous smile at the receptionist, and he led the smoking man away and up the stairs.

The man in the blue suit led the smoking man to his office - and opened the door, allowing the smoking man to enter the office first.

‘Would you like any tea, comrade sir?’ - The man in the blue suit offered as he entered the office and closed the door.

‘You have an employee here called Anthony Wilkes, or Tony Wilkes’ - the smoking man said, lighting another cigarette and standing in the middle of the room - ‘I want to speak to his supervisor.’

‘Wilkes - yes, we have a Wilkes. A Tony Wilkes - yes, the night shift I think - longshoreman.’

‘I want to speak to his supervisor - now!’ - the smoking man said.

‘Erm...the night shift isn’t in yet comrade sir, the supervisor - Comrade Blake - will be in at about 10:30 this evening sir’ - the man in the blue suit looked devastated to deliver this news.

‘When I said I want to speak to the supervisor now, I did mean now comrade - not at 10:30 this evening’ - the smoking man stepped closer to the man in the blue suit - ‘or perhaps you want to take care of this back at the Ministry comrade?’

‘No comrade sir - that won’t be necessary, or course not - no, absolutely no need - ha ha!’ - The man in the blue suit said, trying to stifle his fear. He raced over to the other side of his desk and went through the roll-a-desk sitting next to the phone until he found Comrade Blake’s number. He picked up the phone and dialed the number - glancing at the smoking man and smiling.

The phone connected and started ringing - ‘Hello...yes...Comrade Blake...yes, this is...yes...I am well, yes...thank you...you too comrade...Comrade Blake, we have a bit of a situation here...no...no...SHUT UP COMRADE...there is a policeman here...yes...he needs to speak to you...I don’t know…’ - the smoking man walked over and took the phone from the man in the blue suit.

‘Are you Tony Wilkes supervisor?...I need the names of all of the people he associates with at work, all of his mates - do not leave anyone out. This is a matter of state security’ - the smoking man said.

The smoking man took down the names Comrade Blake gave him - ‘Anyone else?’ - There wasn’t.

‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, comrade’ - the smoking man said - ‘that if you have concealed anything from me there will be significant consequences for you.’ He hung up the phone.

‘Get me the personnel files for these people - and some tea’ - the smoking man held out the paper with the names on them.

The man in the blue suit took the paper - ‘Yes comrade sir’ - and he hurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Thirty minutes later, the smoking man was walking down the stairs back to the reception with 12 personnel files under his arm. The man in the blue suit walked behind him.

The smoking man stopped by the reception desk and turned to the man in the blue suit.

‘I wasn’t here - and unless you want to see me again, I would remember that. Tell Comrade whatever-his-name-was the same.’ - the smoking man turned and walked out of the building.

The receptionist began to cry. The man in the blue suit leaned against the reception desk and held his head in his hands.

The smoking man got in his car and headed back to the Ministry.