Fingertips

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My Card

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'Can I help you?' Lestrade stood his ground. As did the man blocking his way.

'You spoke with a young man today,' began the other man.

'I spoke with a lot of people today,' Lestrade replied, 'it's part of my job. It's also part of my job to see to it that any witnesses to a criminal act are protected, so if this is about…'

'I am not referring to the witnesses to this…' the man frowned to himself. 'Oh, what's that ghastly Americanised term everybody uses for it these days… "Drive-By Shooting" of yours. I was referring to the young man who spoke to you afterwards – who tried to help you.'

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. 'The loony, you mean? The coke fiend?'

'We all have our vices, Detective Inspector,' replied the man, levelly. 'He's working on his.'

'He broke into my office and started gibbering at me about a second car.'

'He used his initiative to get your attention, and then gave you vital information that could see you wrap this investigation up in days, as opposed to months,' the other man calmly informed him. 'He does tend to speak rather too quickly, though, I did warn him that people may have difficulty understanding him, but still he does rattle on. I got him to write the details down for you, instead.'

The man pulled out a reporter's notepad and handed it to Lestrade. Lestrade flicked through it – there were around a dozen pages of notes and diagrams scrawled out in biro. These were the loony's notes, all right – he wrote the way he talked, with long, excited run-on sentences, peppered with needless insults and key words fully capitalised and underlined – sometimes threefold – the loony even shouted when he wrote. Get past that, though, Lestrade thought as he stared at the first page of notes, and this made sense. This made a lot of sense. The loony was pointing out things he hadn't picked up on, but were obvious once he put his mind to it.

He looked up at the man. 'I shouldn't have turned him away.'

'You most certainly should not have.'

'Why is he coming to me now? What does he want to gain from informing?'

'All he wants is to be a detective.' The man sighed. 'This month, anyway. He was dead set on being spy at Christmas, and an investigative journalist at New Year. I think this is rather more appropriate though, don't you?'

'If he wants to join the Force, he needs to get off the coke.'

'Nobody said anything about him becoming a Policeman,' replied the man, haughtily. 'Good heavens, can you imagine?'

'I'm trying not to.'

'Just read the notes, Detective Inspector,' the man told him. 'His contact details are at the end. If you are sufficiently impressed – and, you will be – you may contact him this evening and he will assist in the matter.'

'And your details?' asked Lestrade. 'I take it you're his lawyer, or…'

The man laughed, lightly. 'Hardly. I'm his brother. Mycroft Holmes. My card.'

He produced a business card and extended it to Lestrade. Lestrade took it, looked at it, frowned and turned it over. Mycroft Holmes had just given him a business card that had absolutely nothing but 'Mycroft Holmes' written on it.

'This is just your name.'

'Everything else is classified, I'm afraid,' smiled Mycroft Holmes.

'So, how do I contact you?'

'You misunderstand, Detective Inspector. I contact you.' He turned to go.

'Your brother,' Lestrade added. He held the notepad up. 'He could get into trouble for this, you know.'

'I believe he's counting on that.'

'We can offer him protection, if he needs it.'

'Thank you, Detective Inspector,' replied Mycroft Holmes, pausing in the doorway, 'but I already have that under control.'