All conditions were optimal. Time to move forwards.
Armed with much information and several Enforcer units, Grock strolled to the slick black cab waiting for him. Now the pathway was straightened. Blight's target was secure. Sigerson was located. All that was left to do was deliver the final blow, the last strike to erase both of his enemies at the same time. Sure, it had been a rough time, fending off the rebels and pressuring Revalty in the war, but it was nearly completed. After catching both Blight and Sigerson, he'd be able to refocus his efforts on the other tasks, which demanded much attention.
The plan was fairly simple; the few Enforcers free from searching the factories were to be split up into equal groups and placed strategically around the city's boundaries to maximise the communication speed via informants and telegram systems. Since Sigerson had never been spotted even once after his week-long return to Sodor, Grock suspected him of working with the criminals in the underworld and not the rebels. This theory was further strengthened by the testimony of their newest prisoner, Mr Patrick Hartland, who had conveniently been sent to him by Sigerson.
Hartland's description of the shabby man coincided with one of the most infamous criminals in the country, Clande Turner, which was later confirmed by a photo.
How then was he supposed to track the detective down if he worked with a group of people whose existence was practically untraceable? The criminal ring was notoriously difficult to infiltrate, which Grock had discovered years before, so approaching them directly was not an option.
What if instead, he could manipulate his movements enough for a quick reorganisation of his Enforcers, who were scattered around the country?
After a quick skim through Sigerson's history, Grock discovered a curious trait— or more accurately, pattern, as he flipped through the countless detailed case reports Sigerson had worked on.
Unyielding perseverance and a rigid mindset required him to need solid evidence before believing. There was the one strength that could now be considered a weak flaw. If the news of Hartland's arrest came out on a delayed date, surely Sigerson would hurry and find any source of reliable news to confirm the capture of his target.
So after successfully buying enough time to assemble his Enforcers, which of course relied on forcing Sigerson to travel to Eden for news, a ripe opportunity presented itself to Grock.
The next few steps were much more important. With the few precious hours bought with the subtle change of information flow he had set up, many more Enforcers were now available to be used; the moment they were all gathered, Grock sent them out to barricade Sodor and Eden, making sure to do so right before releasing the news to ensure Sigerson was trapped in either of the two cities.
The final blow, if the factory bombing hadn't taken place, would have been a gradual tightening of the trap set around the two cities; nobody, criminal or not, would be able to sneak around undetected as the crowds on the streets would surely expose them, since restricting the moving space would surely bring about some interactions between the regular people and the criminals.
This was everything Grock had worked out so far. The only problem was, as usual, life was unpredictable.
Times had changed. Plans rewritten. Now if all went well, Sigerson and Blight would be in his hands by the end of the day. Grock, still clad in his rough coat, was being driven down to the location the accomplice, who had blabbed out theatrically after the threat of instant death was placed on his head, had indicated. If it were some kind of trap or diversion… Well, his officers were positioned already, so there was nothing to worry about there. Only one thing puzzled him…
Just before they were sent off and about to leave, a scruffy old man, who claimed to be the culprit behind the bombs, sent a chilling, brief message to Grock personally.
"Ha…" he croaked raspily, showing his few decaying teeth. "You will see the death of the world… My master gives you his greetings…"
Then he rushed at Grock like an impulsive beast, his unkempt hair flying about, and was instantly gunned down by one of the Enforcers standing on guard.
What did those words mean? Who was he talking about?
Realistically, Blight's power was declining to the point of collapse, but deep inside of him, Grock greatly feared the mysterious mastermind shrouded in a mist of uncertainty. Blight had been nearly completely hidden for decades— it was only through Sigerson that he was able to suspect Blight and even so, there was currently zero tangible evidence against him, nothing that could put him down for good.
Coming to a shaky stop, the driver announced that they had finally arrived at Grock's designated location. He lowered himself down onto the rocky road beneath him— his body was still unaccustomed to riding in these shaky cabs. Groaning and breathing out harsh complaints to no one in particular, Grock hobbled over to the four Enforcers waiting for him at the entrance of the most broken-down shack he'd ever seen before.
Standing sorrowfully on the side of the deserted muddy street, the decaying shack showed no signs of life. Its very foundations were laid bare for all to see; the paint stripped off the walls, rust invaded the once shining window frames, and the wooden furniture in the abysmally cramped room rotted along with the oak frames that heaved the ceiling off the ground. Stale scents of damp timber and the chalky taste of thick dust lingered in his senses while he was searching around for any signs of human activity, careful not to breathe in the polluted air. The officers assigned to the task of guarding the entrance inched away from the shack little by little but never was there a moment of distance between them and their superior; they simply wanted to escape the punished grasp of the ancient building.
Inside of the room was a collection of furniture Grock stared intently for at least a minute. There were signs of everything being moved quite recently. The crusty stove was also, in fact, still warm, assuring him of human presence.
So the informant was right about the location, but there was still no evidence of Sigerson's association found yet. Or so he thought.
"Sir!" called one of the Enforcers loudly to catch Grock's attention since he had disappeared from their sight. "We've found a footprint here!"
A footprint? Would Sigerson really leave a footprint where he knows we'll be searching? He's already left traces behind at the factory…
Upon arriving at the scene in question, Grock instantly recognised the distinguishable print on the ground. It was unmistakable Sigerson's; every line, every curve matched the one in his memory. Even the uniquely odd marks around the edges that showed signs of constant wearing down weren't able to escape his beady eyes.
With a curt nod at the Enforcer who had brought his attention to this footprint, Grock whirled around, his coat flying like a cape, and resumed his search like a keen hound. Only this time, another clue popped into sight after a surprisingly short amount of time had passed.
A crumpled up slip of paper buried beneath a pile of junk caught his attention. Grock carefully spread it out onto the moldy table. On the page was a list of steamship departure dates; some were crossed out, others left alone, and a single one circled. It was… the ship departing in an hour.
Summoning his unwilling Enforcers at once, he asked urgently without peeling his attention away from the timetable, "Is the last train for the day leaving any time soon?"
"Yes, sir," replied one of the informed officers automatically. "It's set to leave in about ten minutes. None of the other officers there have noticed anything yet, sir."
"Nothing? Are you certain of this?"
After being reassured countless times, Grock was about to give up on the idea of Sigerson escaping by train when a sudden punch of sharp, acrid fumes hit him from the tiny closet behind him. Inside was a stained towel along with a rough hairbrush with the same acrid odor. Bending down and extracting a single strand of blonde hair, Grock inspected it with great care, almost like a doctor checking his patient thoroughly.
Brittle. This strand of hair is slightly brittle and discoloured near the black root; adding the sharp odor in, it's almost certain that Sigerson's attempted a disguise. A simple check with the guards at the stations will clear everything up.
The same Enforcer who answered Grock's question a minute ago sneezed violently. Grock immediately turned to him as if asking whether or not he had something to say.
Slightly embarrassed with pink ears, the officer looked away but when he realised Grock's demanding gaze was still focused on him, he cleared his throat and made up a question on the spot, hoping it was enough to cast away the unwanted attention.
"Sir, don't you think there's a strong possibility of Sigerson escaping by sea?"
Grock, to the officer's surprise, relented and gave a curt answer.
"No, I find that idea near impossible. If he is, there is a unit approaching the port at this very moment, so I doubt there's anything to worry about. Besides, every ship and every train is being constantly monitored by a few rotating officers so at most, Sigerson would theoretically only make it into the port when the Enforcers guarding there were called into the factories. The officers switch ships every time one arrives and departs without stopping, meaning it would be near impossible for Sigerson to sneak into a ship and stay undetectable. This also applies to the trains, which leads to one conclusion: either Sigerson hasn't left yet or he left through a way that makes him invisible. Since his presence at the factory's been confirmed, the former option is the only one that works; he's still lurking with our grasp…"
No reply. Having no idea of what to say, the young officer just nodded naively, deciding that the best response would be silence. Certainly, excuses could be made as he longer stood there waiting for Grock, the more his body shrunk back in fear unintentionally. Grock eventually rose but when he did, he didn't seem to be acting like a human being. His cold dark eyes narrowed and whizzed around constantly, appearing as if glancing at every detail could somehow bring him to the solution, while his fingers, flexible and spider-like, twitched endlessly.
"Send a telegram to the train stations in Sodor and Eden; those are the only places left where he can catch a train in the country. Tell them to look out for a man with bleached blonde hair in his early twenties," ordered Grock all of a sudden, prompting the Enforcers with him. It seemed like Grock had finally decided to make his move.
"There should also be a few visible clues," he added, noticing several more minute strands of half black, half blonde hair, evidently from the same source. "Tell them that in addition to the description earlier, the target should also be in a state of discomfort such as scratching or touching their hair frequently."
The orders were given and everything, even a contingency plan in case the bleached hair was a diversion to turn their attention away from the port, was set but as Grock and the rest of the Enforcers found out later that day, Sigerson was not just a target. He was like the wind, whose influence would be easily felt but never be captured or tamed. Even though his disguised blonde accomplice had been caught, the trail stopped there.
Just like the wind, the case was solved through Sigerson but he himself was nowhere to be found.
And as the last train, the last ship, the last wagon and cab left for their destinations without a hint of the detective being involved with them at all, the entire Enforcers headquarters were left with only one question.
What had they been chasing after this entire time?