Free The Darkest Hour by Tony Schumacher

as soon as Rossett entered and charged around the desk past Rossett to the door.
    “What the hell do you think you are doing, Sergeant?”
    “Sir?” Rossett watched as Brewer stuck his head out and checked the corridor before slamming the door shut and turning to face him.
    “You know what.” He pointed at Jacob. “This! What do you think you are playing at? Bringing a bloody Jew here?”
    “I wasn’t sure what else to do with him.”
    “Do what you always do, man! Stick him on the bloody train and wash your hands of him! Christ al-bloody-mighty, Rossett, this job is already sensitive enough without you bringing bloody Jews here!”
    “The train had gone, sir.” Rossett was uncomfortable with Jacob holding his hand; he gestured for the boy to take a seat in the corner on a small wooden chair.
    “Don’t make him bloody comfortable, man! Get him in the bloody cells! You’ve already fed and watered him from what I’ve heard.”
    “I need to arrange a cell for him, sir. I was going to call down to speak to the jail first, as a courtesy.”
    “A jail?” It was Jacob, his eyes confused, looking up at Rossett. “Are you putting me into prison? I haven’t been naughty.” The bottom lip trembled again.
    “No—well, yes, but not like you think, it’s just somewhere to sleep until—”
    “I don’t want to go to prison.” Jacob’s words tailed off, like feathers falling to the floor. Rossett put his hand onto the boy’s shoulder and knelt in front of him.
    “It will be okay. It’s not really a prison, it’s—”
    “For Christ’s sake, Rossett!” Brewer exploded. “Just bang him up and get on with your job!”
    A shadow appeared through the frosted glass of the office door, followed by a polite tap. All in the room fell silent and looked nervously at the shadow, like three conspirators caught in a trap.
    Eventually, Rossett stood and opened the door to find PC Baker. Rossett stared at the bobby, who stared back, notebook in hand.
    “Sorry to bother you, Sarge.” He glanced over Rossett’s shoulder at Brewer, who was standing red-faced behind him. “I can come back later if needs be.”
    “No, erm . . .” Rossett searched for his name.
    “Baker, Sarge.”
    “Of course, of course, Baker, what do you want?”
    “My notebook, Sarge. You wanted to sign it, so as to confirm what we found when we searched—”
    “Of course. Yes, give it here.” Rossett spoke quickly, panicked, and snatched Baker’s notebook out of his hand.
    “Sergeant, can’t this wait?” Brewer sputtered, barely able to contain himself, but anxious not to have a bobby gossiping about him and Rossett.
    “I can come back, Sarge, if it suits?”
    Rossett ignored them both, scanning the pages of densely written copperplate. He inwardly cursed Baker’s thoroughness when he reached the part about the coins.
    I witnessed Det Sgt Rossett remove some gold colored coins from a green pouch and let them fall into the case, the DS then collected the fallen money and placed it back into the pouch, which he then put in his coat. I do not know the exact amount of coins, which looked like golden sovereigns, but I would estimate that the pouch was five inches long and it appeared to be almost full. I did not see the coins again after the Sergeant took them.
    Rossett read the notes again. On paper it looked as if he had pocketed the pouch. Had he been alone with Baker he would have taken some time to explain that this made him look bad and that maybe another paragraph should be added explaining that he’d asked Baker to make a detailed pocket notebook entry. He dared not mention this while Brewer was there; those coins were quickly becoming a curse, and he was aware that it was now three people he’d hidden them from.
    It would have been easier to split them with Baker at the scene, thought Rossett as he fumbled for a pen.
    It appeared being a bent copper was easier than being a straight one.
    “That’s fine, Baker.” Rossett signed