"Thank you for seeing me, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock waves Inspector Dimmock in and tips his head towards the kitchen, giving John his permission to fetch coffee. John nods back, pleased to see the spontaneous display of compassion. Sherlock seems less impatient and more willing to endure the frailties of others since his return.
Dimmock looks like hell. Four days and a ticking clock have aged him enormously. There's a two day growth of scraggly beard peppering his cheeks. His shirt collar is soiled and crumpled, and the knot of his tie is askew. It's obvious from the way he glances at the sofa cushions and then perches on the edge of them that he knows he needs a wash.
Although he had shaved and put on a fresh shirt, an hour earlier during a public appeal, Lestrade hadn't looked much better. Drops and makeup could only do so much to hide eyes that were bloodshot from lack of sleep and conceal the lines that drew a man's face down when he was frustrated and worried. One girl was dead, and her little sister missing. A family was frantic. And once again the police were grasping at straws. They must be, John thinks as he busies himself in the kitchen. Sherlock is still persona non grata around the Yard and yet Inspector Dimmock has come to call.
"Get that down you." John hands Dimmock a cheese sandwich and a cup of strong, sweet, white coffee. The inspector's colour is even paler than usual and it wouldn't do to have him pass out from hypoglycaemia in the middle of what was likely be a strenuous interview.
Dimmock looks at Sherlock, as if for permission, but Sherlock is busy composing himself; eyes closed and fingers templed in front of him, doing whatever it is he does inside his head so that he can discern the important information from the sea of minutia he demands his clients recount. The inspector takes an over-large bite of his sandwich and follows it with a swallow of coffee to keep from choking.
"I'm supposed to be headed home for a few hours kip," he explains, and then shakes his head. "But I couldn't. Not in good conscience. That's why I came to you, Mr Holmes. If there's any chance at all of saving her – "
"Tell me everything." The old brusqueness is back. Sherlock isn't a completely reformed man and his patience only goes so far. "Start at the beginning and when you run out of facts, stop."
Dimmock crams the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, chews rapidly, and then sets the plate aside. He cradles the coffee mug in his hands, as if he needs the warmth, and draws a breath. "We got the call at seven o'clock Tuesday. Uniform officers went to the house and took the initial report at eight. The two sisters, Amy and Mischa – Amy is, was, fourteen, and Mischa is five – were supposed to have gone to the rec centre and then been home for tea. When they didn't turn up by half past, the mum got worried and rang the centre, but the girls had left. It wasn't far, just a few minutes walk. They traced the route, rang the neighbours, nothing. So they rang the police. Uniform did it all again, and when it started to look serious, all the friends called and possible places they could have diverted to – high street arcade and so on – checked, the search was turned over to CID."
Dimmock continues to walk them through the case. He has to pause from time to time, backing up and switching tenses between present and past. Amy's death is still too new and he hasn't had time to come to terms with it. A look of defeat crosses his face every time he corrects himself.
Amy was a typical teen, half the time fourteen going on thirty and the other half naïve as a newborn babe in the woods. She was loved by her family and doted on her little sister, treating her like a princess. The class at the rec centre was a mother/daughter thing – arts and crafts with a little dance and exercise thrown in. Usually, Sheila would have gone along, but she'd had to attend a doctor's appointment.
When he gets to this morning's discovery of Amy's body, Dimmock's thin shoulders bow causing his jacket to look as if it belongs on a much bigger man and he stares at the empty mug in his hands. "The killer repeatedly interfered with her sexually. He killed her when he was done, and then washed her and dressed her in fresh clothes. He did up her hair and painted her nails. Really took his time. He was just as meticulous at the dump sight. He laid her out carefully in the middle of the park's rose garden."
Sherlock nods once at the significance of the staging. The killer had cared about Amy Rayburn. The kidnap/murder hadn't been a random event. "Cause of death?"
A pained look passes over Dimmock's pinched features. "The pathologist said it was a weird one. She was choked. An ice lolly was shoved down her throat and left to melt. There were traces in her stomach contents. It was strawberry."
A surge of cold anger rolls over John. He glances at Sherlock, but his face remains placid. "Did you bring me photos?" he asks as if they are discussing Dimmock's trip to the seaside.
Dimmock nods and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. "And the preliminary post-mortem." He thumbs a few buttons and then hands it over.
Sherlock scrolls through the photos rapidly, assessing the information they contain, and then he begins to pick through them. It's obvious that he'll be awhile. John uses the opportunity to find Dimmock some clean clothes and a disposable razor and points him towards the shower. He receives a tired smile of gratitude in return. Left to his own devices, and knowing Sherlock's habits, he makes more coffee and switches on the radio in the kitchen to listen for additional updates about the Rayburn murder/kidnapping.
Dimmock comes out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later looking considerably refreshed. The sweat shirt and too short joggers are at odds with his sombre dress shoes, but fashion isn't anything at times like these, and John knows from experience that a pair of clean socks can really affect one's general outlook. He hands Dimmock a carrier bag for his soiled clothing and then after they've been dealt with, a fresh coffee. Together they go back into the living room to check on Sherlock's progress.
"The video tours of the house and park are especially useful," Sherlock says as if there's been no interruption in the conversation. "Tell me more about the family?"
"They're gutted," Dimmock replies, and then he realises that Sherlock needs details from which to build a picture of the family. "Parents are Robbie, aged thirty-five, and Sheila, aged thirty. Second marriage for them both. Amy is Sheila's daughter, although Robbie has adopted her legally, and by all accounts treats her as his own. The natural father is dead. Not much extended family nearby. Everyone says they're model neighbours, always willing to pitch in and help out. They've practically adopted the elderly couple over the road, having them to Sunday lunch and Christmas and the like, so that the girls would know what it's like to have grandparents. Robbie has a brother, Andy. Seems a good bloke. He's really been a rock for the pair of them, even though he's gutted himself."
"He was at the appeal this morning," Sherlock notes. Most of his attention is still on the mobile.
"Yeah. The Rayburn's insisted." Dimmock frowns for a moment, as if something is just out of his mental grasp. "It's a bit funny that. There's a whiff of co-dependency between the three of them that I can't quite make sense of."
Sherlock hums non-committally, storing the information away without additional comment. He's building his own version of events and it's clear that whilst Dimmock's observation may be useful, he's thinking about something other than complicated inter-familial dynamics.
John watches as Sherlock's hands move rapidly over the mobile's display, shifting between the files of pictures, enlarging and comparing various crime scene shots. "Have they run down the dress yet?"
"It was old," Dimmock replies. "Vintage. Edwardian. Could have come from someone's loft or a market stall. No way to know for certain. The nail varnish and lipstick are common. Sold all over London. Sheila said they might have even been Amy's. They were colours that she favoured."
John glances over Sherlock's shoulder. He's studying the death scene. The corpse has been laid out carefully on a stone picnic table. Despite the gruesome things that had been done to her, Amy's face is placid. She looks very young, and he's reminded of the sculpted crypt of a noblewoman he once saw in a cathedral up north. "The girl was an object of conflict for the killer," Sherlock comments. "According to the pathologist, there was a considerable amount of vaginal tearing and bruising. She was a virgin and he wasn't gentle. But look at the positioning of her body! The rose placed at her breast. The care with which she was laid out."
"She was unattainable, but he took her anyway, and then hated himself for it," John says. He can't reconcile the killer's brutality with his treatment of the corpse any other way.
"Exactly, John!" Sherlock replies with an emphatic nod. "Dimmock. What do you really know about the brother-in-law?"
Dimmock frowns. It's obvious he wants to reject placing suspicion on any of the family members. John watches as the inspector mentally divorces himself from personal association and tries to view Andy Rayburn objectively. "He got on well with the girls. They wouldn't think twice if he turned up and offered them a lift. It was raining on and off the day they disappeared. He lives over his shop, household goods and electronics. He's got one of those kind, but otherwise unremarkable faces. The sort no one can pick out of a line up because they're just so average." His frown got deeper and his expression grew more troubled. "Even now, even though I've spent time with him, I'm having difficulty bringing him clearly to mind."
"And if his delivery van was picked up on CCTV it would be unremarkable as well, because he's a fixture in the neighbourhood?" Sherlock suggests.
Dimmock nods in reply. "Plus he was doing his own door to door. The family liaison officer said he felt frustrated doing nothing more than making tea and sandwiches while his brother and sister-in-law were going through hell."
"Using the opportunity to lay out that poor girl's body?" John feels ill as he makes the suggestion. He's seen some sick things since he's taken up with Sherlock, but he still finds himself shocked at the duplicity of some people's minds. It's horrible to think that this Andy could have kidnapped, raped, and murdered his niece while playing the grieving uncle. It didn't bode well for little Mischa's safe recovery.
"Lions kill the cubs of their rivals," Sherlock says. He shows John a photograph of a photograph and then he hands Dimmock back his mobile.
It's a family shot. Andy has a proprietary arm over Amy and Sheila. His girls, his body language seems to say. Robbie holds Mischa in his arms, slightly separated from the trio, and they all beam for the camera.
Dimmock closes his eyes for a moment, trying the scenario on the available facts. "I think we need to take a closer look at Andy's comings and goings," he says softly. He draws a tight breath. What needs to be done is extremely delicate work. The investigators need to probe into Andy Rayburn's life without alerting him to their suspicions, and they need to do it quickly. Mischa Rayburn's life depends on it. "But I wish we had something more concrete to go on."
"Consider this." Sherlock reaches for his mobile and punches buttons. He smiles as if confirming something he'd already suspected. "And perhaps it will give you something to take to your superiors; Andy Rayburn lives above his shop, but he owns his brother and sister-in-law's house. He also owns a third property on Sally Lane, which is, if I'm not mistaken, also the location of the St James church which holds a weekend market once a fortnight. It's known for its especially good selection of vintage clothes and household goods."
Dimmock's expression brightens visibly. "That's good, Mr Holmes. Very good indeed. And the market is tomorrow?"
Sherlock nods again and Dimmock's hopeful expression grows exponentially.
"Maybe one of the vendors will remember a man buying a pretty dress for a young girl," John suggests.
"Perhaps," Sherlock replies. Having offered up the clue, he's now attempting to temper Dimmock's optimism. But the real estate holdings are news to the inspector, and it's clear he's now wondering what else Andy Rayburn has omitted telling to the police.
"Is there anything we can do?" John asks. The police are bound by so many procedures and regulations. Even with a little girl depending on them, they can't afford to bend the rules. If Andy Rayburn is to stand in the dock for his crimes, the police need to get him there on facts and evidence. As much as he wishes Dimmock will give them a wink and a nudge, John knows that housebreaking will not be on the evening's agenda.
Ruefully, Dimmock shakes his head. He pockets the phone and holds out his hand to Sherlock. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. I'm seeing this case in a whole new light."
Sherlock takes Dimmock's hand. He fixes his gaze for a moment, offering the inspector silent encouragement. No doubt there will be resistance back at the Yard from higher up the command chain. Accusing a member of the family could be construed by the public as lazy, given the police's failure to turn up the stereotypical nonce that lurks in their tabloid-fed imaginations, and the Yard's public relations corps are leery of bad press. "Good luck."
Dimmock nods his thanks one last time and lets himself out of the flat.
"How long have you suspected the brother-in-law?" John asks.
Sherlock stretches a kink out of his neck and then crosses the room. He shoves his arms into the sleeves of his coat and reaches for his scarf before replying. "I was watching him during the appeal this morning. There was a moment when he looked over at Mrs Rayburn, and then at his brother, and he couldn't quite contain the envy in his expression. Why, I wondered, would he envy a man who'd just lost his beloved child and feared for the life of another? Unless it was because he knew the loss would make the wife cleave to her husband in her time of need, and he wanted her to cleave to him instead." He hands John his jacket. "Are you coming?"
John's a bit perplexed. They'd just been told in a less than explicit manner that they can be of no further use to the investigation. "Where are we going?"
"Out. You fed Dimmock the last of the bread and cheese. The case is, for all intents and purposes, solved, and I'm hungry. I'm going to Angelo's. Unless you've got a better suggestion."
John shakes his head, marvelling at Sherlock's display of pragmatism. At a time when the life of a little girl hangs in the balance, his concern is for his stomach.
'And were you any different when you were a soldier?'
The thought hits him unbidden, and John is forced to concede to his own ruthless logic. There's no telling when some other person will come knocking at their door and lay out a case before Sherlock. And maybe the next time he'll need to see events though to their bitter end, rejecting sleep and food in his relentless search for the truth.
John gives Sherlock a conciliatory smile and makes sure he's got his mobile handy, just in case the police want to get in touch. "No. Angelo's sounds good," he replies as he tries not to think about frightened little girls and their twisted uncles, or how much he wishes that he and Sherlock could be present when Dimmock and his team closed in for the arrest.