“I went, sir. As soon as we got the news.”

“Thank you. They took it badly?”

“They took it…solemnly, sir.”

Vimes groaned. He could imagine the expressions.

“I'll write them the official letter,” he said, pulling open his desk. “Get someone to take it round, will you? And say I'll be over later. Perhaps this isn't the time to—” No, hold on, they were dwarfs, dwarfs weren't bashful about money. “Forget that—say we'll have all the details of his pension and so on. Died on duty, too. Well, near enough. That's extra. It all adds up.” He rummaged in his cupboards. “Where's his file?”

“Here, sir,” said Carrot, handing it over smoothly. “We are due at the palace at ten, sir. Watch Committee. But I'm sure they'll understand,” he added, seeing Vimes's face. “I'll go and clean out Stronginthearm's locker, sir, and I expect the lads'll have a whip-round for flowers and everything…”

Vimes pondered over a sheet of headed paper after the captain had gone. A file, he had to refer to a damn file. But there were so many coppers these days…

A whip-round for flowers. And a coffin. You look after your own. Sergeant Dickins had said that, a long time ago…

He wasn't good with words, least of all ones written down, but after a few glances at the file to refresh his memory he wrote down the best he could think of.

And they were all good words and, more or less, they were the right ones. But in truth Stronginthearm was just a decent dwarf who'd been paid to be a copper. He'd joined up because, these days, joining the Watch was quite a good choice of career. The pay wasn't bad, there was a worthwhile pension, there was a wonderful medical scheme if you had the nerve to submit to Igor's ministrations in the cellar and, after a year or so, an Ankh-Morpork trained copper could leave the city and get a job in the Watches of the other cities on the plain with instant promotion.