The detective is dead, I did it.

Chapter 60 The Female Worker Who Died from Overwork

"That gear is a precision component discarded by the Royal Shipyard; only three remain in the world. That clock was made from parts from Big Ben during the First Demon War. And..."

Li Ang clearly hadn't expected this seemingly dilapidated pile of things to have such a powerful background, and immediately asked, "Just tell me how much it costs?"

"You can't afford it." Old Jack's answer was exactly the same as before. "What do you want to do back here this time?"

"I came here specifically to see you."

"Is it just something that happened incidentally?" Old Jack easily saw through Li Ang's lie.

Li Ang did not deny this, saying, "Isn't this to fulfill the agreement? Who knew your pile of junk was worth so much?"

Old Jack snorted, closed his eyes, and didn't reply. Seeing this, Li Ang had no choice but to speak up: "Then can I buy one, okay?"

Old Jack didn't open his eyes. "What do you want?"

"It's useful. It's useful to me."

Old Jack opened his eyes, looked at Li Ang for a few seconds, and then stood up from the rocking chair.

He walked to the iron shelf in the corner, his withered fingers slowly running over the bottles and jars, finally stopping on a dark brown glass bottle.

The bottle was small, only about the height of a finger, and the mouth was sealed with black wax without any markings.

He picked up the bottle, walked back, and handed it to Li Ang.

"What is this?" Li Ang took the bottle and asked, looking at the red liquid inside.

"Something you might find useful." Old Jack sat back down in his rocking chair, pulled the blanket up, and closed his eyes. "Figure out its specific uses yourself. You might not believe me even if I told you."

Li Ang held the bottle up to his eyes and shook it. The liquid clung to the bottle wall, thick and slow-cooking, like a medicinal decoction that had been simmering for a long time.

He activated his ability again, and a line of small silver characters appeared above the bottle.

[Unknown potion. Effect: ? ...

Another question mark. Old Jack's security clearance level is even higher than that of Vice President Lina.

"How much?"

"Add two more of those you just saw," Old Jack said calmly.

"Thirty? I'll buy just this one bottle?"

"If you think it's too expensive, then don't buy it."

After a moment of silence, Li Ang took out two more ten-pound notes from his wallet and placed them on Old Jie's counter.

This little bit of money was what he got from his thrifty sister when he left home this morning. It all came from the reward Charlotte gave him when they first met.

I never expected to buy such a bottle of stuff whose purpose I have no idea.

If it weren't for Old Jack's special status, which meant that what he was buying was definitely not ordinary stuff, Li Ang would never have bought it.

"This pile of junk," he stood up, put the bottle in his pocket, using disdain to mask his heartache, "even people would complain it takes up too much space at the garbage dump."

"You won't say that when you actually need it."

Li Ang turned and walked towards the iron gate. He paused when his hand touched the doorknob.

"Old Jack."

"Um."

"Who exactly are you?"

"Just a dying old geezer."

Emerging from Old Jack's dimly lit alley, dusk had already soaked the sky over the East End.

Instead of returning the way he came, Li Ang turned a corner and headed deeper into the slums, where a textile factory was located. It was right next to the lower reaches of the Thames River, and the factory was only a few hundred meters away from the city wall.

The river water here has lost its original color; it looks grayish-black and incredibly viscous, like a flowing asphalt.

Because it is located in the deepest part of the slum, no one will come to search it. The owner of the textile factory only needs to give the police a sum of money every month.

With just a sum of money, even if many people die from exhaustion at this textile factory, no one will care.

The factory building was a dusty red brick building, three stories high, with narrow and tall windows covered with a layer of grayish-white dust that couldn't be washed off.

Li Ang stood outside the factory's iron gate. The windows on the outer wall were covered with a thick layer of dust, making it impossible to see inside.

The iron gate was tightly closed, and a wooden sign was nailed to the wall next to the gate, which read "East District Textile Factory, Unauthorized Personnel Strictly Prohibited from Entering".

Even though he couldn't get close, Li Ang could hear the roar of the steam engine coming from inside.

Seemingly sensing his approach, the small door next to the iron gate was pushed open, and a man wearing a dirty apron poked his head out, looking him up and down.

His gaze lingered on Li Ang's neat clothes and clean leather shoes for a moment. "Sir, is there anything I can help you with?"

Perhaps seeing how well-dressed Li Ang was, the man's tone became much more respectful.

Li Ang remembered that he had once come to pick up Ketula from get off work, and the man in front of him had never looked at him with such a respectful tone and attitude.

"I'm looking for someone," he said.

"Who should I look for?"

Li Ang gave a name.

That was a former coworker of Ktura's at the factory, a sixteen-year-old girl, as thin as a bamboo pole, who could cough from morning till night.

"There is no such person." The man's answer was crisp and decisive. "Sir, it's possible she's quit, or..."

The man didn't say what he was going to say next, but Li Ang had already guessed it.

"May I come in?"

"No, sir." The man's face showed clear resistance. "Outsiders are not allowed in the factory."

Li Ang did not argue, but turned and walked along the wall towards the riverbank.

The factory's back door faces the downstream of the Thames River, and all garbage is usually dumped directly into the river, resulting in cotton wool and unidentified debris floating on the surface.

As soon as he turned the corner, he saw two men in gray overalls walk out of the back door, one in front of the other, carrying a burlap sack on a cart, heading towards the river.

The burlap sack wasn't tied tightly, revealing the grayish-white fabric inside, which looked like the coarse cloth commonly used in factories.

Li Ang then hid himself around the corner and followed the two men to the riverbank.

The two men, one on each side, lifted the sack, shook it, and then threw it forcefully, their movements appearing incredibly practiced, as if they had done it many times before.

The burlap sack fell into the water with a dull "plop," and the splash was small, quickly swallowed up by the oily film of the river.

The burlap sack was made of thin fabric, and when it got soaked, it clung tightly to the contents, outlining a huddled silhouette.

Very small. So thin that it's almost unrecognizable.

Li Ang remained silent, neither speaking nor questioning the two men about what they were doing.

Because he knows the answer.

Those were female factory workers who died from overwork.

This kind of thing happens every day in the textile factory.

Those poor people without identification, from even poorer places, whom even the slums wouldn't take in, were recruited by the foreman at extremely low prices.

They work more than sixteen hours a day, eat the worst food, and live in the dampest dormitories.

After their lungs were filled with cotton wool and they died from exhaustion due to coughing up blood, they would be stuffed into sacks, carried out through the back door, and thrown directly into the river.