The Sherlock Holmes Case

Prologue

"To a new life, with less stress, right?"

"We-ell, I'll certainly be keeping a lower profile. Can't have trouble with the law now, not after they've been so contrite!"

Irene grinned, "You're lucky really, that police driver should have been sacked!"

"But he did save my life, poor boy, anyway, I've an appointment for the op in two weeks' time with the delightful Dr Morton," Scarlet replied and sipped her champagne thoughtfully.

"Mm, I saw him as you came out, quite a sweetie, eh?"

"Yes, a dishy old silver fox, and no ring or photos, so single or divorced!" Scarlet trilled, leaning forward, "And definitely doesn't bat for the other side!"

"Ooh! What? Wandering hands?" asked Irene as she too leaned across her kitchen table in a conspiratorial manner.

"Oh no, he's far too sweet for that. But I saw it, in his eyes, as he examined my neck, they were growing wider and his hands were trembling. Oh those eyes, lovely and blue! And, he smirked! I made a flirty comment and he beamed at me like he was a naughty schoolboy who'd seen a girl's knickers! I think I could have fun with Dr Morton if I wanted!"

Irene patted her friend's arm, "Scarlet, you're priceless! You get rear-ended by a police car, nearly bleed to death, and here, you're back, looking like an A-lister and getting the glad eye from your plastic surgeon! Well done, my dear, very well done!"

"Oh why not? Life would be boring if I suddenly decided to behave. Dr Morton's probably happily married. He's certainly minted. Fabulous private clinic which looks more like a Swiss spa, a car park full of Jags, Mercs and muscle cars, oh yes, Irene, sweetheart, I wouldn't be surprised if you and he had some clients in common!" The women laughed uproariously, and downed more champagne.

"Good girl! At least I can tell you he's never been here before!" Irene added.

"Glad to know that. I might not be strictly plain vanilla myself, but I do love an old-fashioned man now and again," Scarlet observed.

Chapter 1

"Dr Morton, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Scarlet asked, opening the main door to her Holland Park residence.

"I just had a few questions, I hoped you'd be able to answer them before the procedure, would you mind?" Dr Michael Morton stood on her doorstep, dressed in a steel grey cashmere overcoat, black suit, and sporting a retro patterned shirt in magenta and white candy stripes. His manner was disarmingly pleasant; his eyes sparkled with boyish mischief.

Scarlet gave him a mock frown, "Hmm, how do I know you're not a closet serial killer looking for his next victim?"

Dr Morton laughed. She could hear the tell-tale nervous tone of a man who does not know what he is about to do. Silly fool, what does he really want? Might as well find out. "Come in, Doctor, the longer you stand there, the more draught you're letting in, we might be in London, but it's still January!"

Five minutes later they were in the rear reception room which had a view out onto a pristine lawn surrounded by mature fir trees. Scarlet had sunk confidently into her favourite armchair, positioned just by the French doors and diagonally opposite the large plasma screen television fixed above the fireplace. Dr Morton, minus jacket and coat, was standing around nervously, a glass of orange juice in his hand which Scarlet had poured for him.

"I wanted to check… after your accident, which drugs did they give you in hospital? I mean, just to make sure… that you don't have any allergies, you know?" he said, avoiding her gaze.

"I guess I had morphine, but nothing else, it was a flesh wound really, once they'd made sure they'd plugged up the vein, they couldn't really give me much more than paracetamol. But surely, the operation is nothing more than a skin graft? It's not like those plastic princesses that choose to have their faces pumped full of botulin!" Scarlet giggled.

"We-ell, no, not that you'd ever… I mean, you have perfect natural beauty, you're a very lucky lady…" he stopped, bit his lip and finally levelled his gaze with hers. "Look, there's something I must show you, it's important that you understand… here, it's in my bag." He placed the glass on the sideboard and ducked down by her chair where he'd deposited his bag on the floor, a traditional leather doctor's receptacle.

Scarlet felt a strange sensation creep down her spine. This is it, whatever he's plotting, he's going to do it now. She sat forward on the edge of the chair. Suddenly, everything happened at once. Dr Morton jumped to his feet wielding a full syringe and dived at her. Scarlet stuck her knee up and stopped him in mid-leap, at the same time, grabbing his right wrist and twisting it back sharply. He howled as there was a distinct cracking noise, and he dropped the syringe on the carpet. Kicking out with her other foot, she sent him sprawling onto her sheepskin rug in front of the fire, narrowly missing the sharp edge of the glass coffee table. Snatching up the syringe, Scarlet threw her full weight on top of him and held the needle directly over his external jugular vein. The little bit of medical knowledge she'd acquired while hospital now made it easy for her to judge that she was in control of the present situation.

"Now," she began, her tone decidedly icy, "my dear doctor, I think you ought to tell me exactly who you are and what you want before I squeeze this plunger and fill you full of whatever nasty drug is in here!"

"I am who I say!" he gasped, breathlessly, "I am Dr Michael Morton, plastic surgeon, that's the truth! And please, don't touch the plunger, there's a high dose of Ketamine in that syringe, and dangerous as it is anyway, I think you might kill me, as I'm an asthmatic and it would probably knock out my lung function very quickly," he explained, his chest rising and falling rapidly in tune with his rasping breath.

"You still haven't told me what you want. I take it you know me… and I don't mean as Jenny Summers, your patient, and if so, what on earth made you think you could get the better of me?" Scarlet hissed, her face close to his, her left hand clutching his chin.

"I want… I want you! I want a slice of your pie, you're Scarlet Ribbon, and your friend who picked you up in the black Jaguar XK was the infamous brothel madam, Irene Adler! When I saw you together I guessed you were a bit more than a stable owner from Cornwall! So, I did a little research into your 'accident', the reason the police car crashed into your Porsche was that they were in pursuit of you for suspected theft! The police driver was a young man, newly through his competency test, he got over-excited and smashed into your sports car. Your windscreen smashed because you hit the dry stane dyke by the roadside; a fragment of glass lodged in your neck, and you would have bled to death had that same petrolhead bobby not known enough basic first aid to staunch the bleed! So when I discovered that my latest patient is really Scarlet Ribbon, elusive professional thief and con-artist, darling of the online criminal community, I thought, how interesting, and how fortuitous!"

"Michael Morton, what the hell are you on about?" Scarlet snapped, so close he could feel her breath on his face.

"Believe it or not, Miss Moneybags, we're in a recession right now, and have been for the last four years. Many of my clients cannot afford the standard prices I charge, so I've been forced to cut back, now I can't pay my staff, or my utility bills. Then just last week, a young man turned up at the clinic, asked to see me, and dropped a padded envelope full of fifty pound notes on my desk. He was probably about twenty, skinny, dark skinned, heavy black brows and hair. There were the tell-tale signs of cocaine abuse around his nostrils. He said, "Man, I wanna be a white kid, I gotta get out of London, can you fix me, doc?" It turns out this little oik was a petty criminal, a car thief, he'd stolen a vehicle belonging to a very high-powered lawyer in the city and now he was terrified he would be caught and put away. I saw the money, I saw his modified Range Rover outside in the car park, and I was sorely tempted. I said no, then, but my senior nurse, when I told her, she said I was stupid to have turned the boy down. Then you turned up today and left with Miss Adler. I thought I might be able to have your help on my terms. Look, I'm not a crook, at least, I wasn't until I tried that stupid stunt just now, I'm just a desperate man who is about to lose his business, the one trade he loves, and the world's best thief walks into his life, what would you do?" he sighed, and lay back, as Scarlet let go his chin, but kept the needle hovering over him.

For once in her life she was speechless. Yes there were honourable criminals in her game, but never had an ordinary man come looking for her and challenged her so intensely. She could kill him right now. Irene would be happy to help her dispose of this foolish doctor, and concoct a story for the police, but something stopped her. Practicalities, darling, you need him to get rid of your scar, and he will have family, people will miss him and ask questions.

"You're a very silly man, Dr Morton, I really don't think you know me very well. So, do I take it you wish to use my talents to generate some much needed income for you? You have no leverage, nothing, yet you naively think you can come into my house, subdue me and demand your own terms? Don't you know that they call me every man's nightmare? A woman in charge!" Scarlet began to laugh at the ridiculousness of the scene. She was wearing a floaty, floral house coat over a white sleeveless t-shirt and pale green Chinos; on her feet were a pair of £500 gold Jimmy Choo sandals which she had bought from the designer's store in Westfield Mall with Irene two days previously, and here she was, lying on top of a plastic surgeon, wielding the very syringe he'd tried to attack her with, moments before. "Ha, does your wife know you're here?"

"I'm single!" he shot back.

"Lucky for you then. No girlfriends, boyfriends?"

Dr Morton hissed derisively and shook his head, "And I'm straight."

"Oh dear, oh dear, what are we going to do with you? I think I've had enough gymnastics for the day, considering I've only been out of hospital for a week. I think you need to calm down," she cooed in her characteristic seductive tone. Scarlet dug the needle into the prominent vein and pushed the plunger down a fraction.

A look of horror crossed the doctor's face, and she pushed a fraction more before pulling the needle out and pressing her finger against the blood spot which appeared. She bent the needle off the syringe against the carpet and threw it left-handed straight into the wicker waste bin by the fire. "I don't think you're going to die, sweetheart, just slip into a lovely sleep for a few hours till I decide what to do with you. I'll be checking your diary, and if you're supposed to be anywhere else, I'll be calling them to say you're delayed with your financial adviser!"

Dr Morton stared at her from his position on the rug. He could feel the drug sweep into his veins. He estimated she'd probably given him about 2 or 3mg which meant he certainly would be unconscious very soon, but not enough to trigger an asthma attack. Damn, she's clever, he thought.

"Wh-what are you going to do?" he asked, sleepily.

"Oh, probably strip you, take a few piccies of you in your birthday suit and keep them for blackmail purposes. Then we would need a proper business meeting. I have a few tame accountants at my disposal via Irene's client list. Now, it wouldn't go down well with the BMA if images of you at Miss Adler's residence were to be circulated. This room is very like one in her house, a bit of Photoshopping and it could just be Irene's pleasure palace! So, keep that in mind as you drift off," Scarlet leaned over him again, the scent of her perfume wafting into his mind.

"And Dr Morton, I do think you're quite cute really, if you're a really good boy, we might have some fun too," she whispered, sensing that he was so drowsy he would soon be incapacitated. "You see, I've always been in charge. It comes of my father having died the very year I was born. He was a sergeant in the British Army. Shot by some Papist scumbag in Belfast. My brother joined up as soon as he could, so it was just me, my sister and my mother. All women together, the power of three. Nobody crosses me, especially not a man. You're an innocent fool, if I'd thought for one minute you were like me, I'd have stuck the needle straight into your heart and rammed that plunger down as far as it would go. You're lucky that I'm a sucker for an innocent, but you've let money be your master, which has led you here. You're very … very lucky…" she trailed off, watching his eyelids flicker as the drug took hold.

"Oh yes, you're lucky," she whispered again, bending the ultimate degree and kissing his lips. He could feel her touch, but no longer respond. The last words in his mind before the black shroud of unconsciousness fell were… dark angel.

"Irene, you have to see what's just come up on your phone!" Kate, Irene's assistant trilled as she scuttled into the vast drawing room in Irene's Belgravia residence. She was lying on the floor in a fluffy white dressing gown in front of a log fire, before her were several daily newspapers which she had been consulting as Kate entered.

"Ooh, scandal? Let me see," Irene exclaimed, and pulled herself up onto her knees. Looking at the smartphone's screen she guffawed at the image. "Oh dear, poor Dr Morton, he's in Scarlet's bad books!"

"The Dr Morton? What, the Kensington plastic surgeon?" Kate asked.

"Yes, dear, it seems he's being a very naughty boy," Irene laughed. The image showed the doctor's naked body stretched out on what Irene presumed was one of Scarlet's spare beds; his eyes were closed, and his hands were secured to the wrought iron bedframe by a pair of handcuffs. Irene recognised them as the ones she'd given her friend as a sort of naughty birthday present a few years back. "Mm, what do you think, Kate? Rather nice set of credentials, eh?" she added.

Kate looked at the picture again, "Wouldn't mind playing doctors and nurses with him! But he's a nice guy I thought, there was an article in the Daily Express a few weeks ago about him. Treated an Indian girl who'd had acid thrown over her by her brother, you know the type, poor kid wants to have a white boyfriend, and her family basically issue a fatois! Her face was half gone, but Dr Morton fixed it and didn't ask any payment. Next day his Aston Martin had the tires slashed, but the local constabulary managed to catch the brother in the act and had him arrested for the assault on his sister too," she explained.

"Well done the Met, I wonder if Detective Inspector Lestrade was involved in that one? Anyway, I can't wait to hear what Scarlet is planning, I'll just give her a ring, when's my next client?" Irene asked.

"Not till 3pm, the government minister, the one who likes rubber," Kate grinned.

"Fine, just check that the CCTV is working, we can't afford any threats ourselves," Irene told her.

Scarlet Ribbon was standing on her doorstep, pointing the automatic key at the navy blue Aston Martin Vanquish which was parked across the road. To her satisfaction, the lights flicked on and off, so, there's the good doctor's car. She glanced quickly up and down and then ran across to the car. Once inside, she was just about to open the glove box when her mobile rang. She fished it out of her pocket and saw Irene's number displayed on screen. Smirking, she answered, "Hello, sweetheart, I take it you've seen the photo?"

"Yes I have, you naughty little witch! What happened?" Irene sounded intrigued.

"Oh well, what a story!" Scarlet began and quickly outlined the events of the last hour. "I am still not sure if he's telling the truth, so I'm in his car to do some nosing. Do you think you could find out whether or not he is an innocent, rather than a potential blackmailer playing stupid?"

"Of course, Kate and I have a large database of the doings of the rich, famous, perverted and greedy. Although, looking at the image and hearing what you've said, I don't know anyone in this game who would allow that to happen to him knowingly. Hmm, apart from one… and that was a means to an end. How long has he been out?" Irene replied.

"About half an hour, but I've had a look online, Ketamine's anaesthetic effects wear off quickly, so I'm just going to check as soon as I go back in. It's a party drug, I hadn't realised that, not just for sedating horses and zoo cats! But then, he's a doctor, he'll have access to such things legally," Scarlet told her.

"Oh yes, works like LSD in small doses, your doctor might be visited by the pink elephants on parade very soon. So what do you plan to do if he is exactly who he says he is? Are you going to help him?"

"I'm not a debt counsellor, if his business is going under that's not my problem, but having access to a tame plastic surgeon could be very, very useful indeed. I think it will be more a case of quid pro quo. I'm just curious as to why… wait a minute, I've found some paperwork in the car," Scarlet had opened the glove box and pulled out a sheaf of papers, including glaring red utility bills, invoices from medical instrument suppliers, all months out of date, and an appointment card for the haematology unit at the Royal London Hospital. "Oh dear, someone is in trouble, final demands, and health issues. I suppose a cancer scare would make some people do insane things. Anyway, don't worry, I think we need to find out if anyone else is behind the good doctor's temporary lunacy."

"Ah ha, I wonder, very well, I'll let you get back to him, you lucky bunny!" Irene said brightly.

Scarlet looked closely at the paperwork. The Carisbrooke Clinic was not in a good way, that much was obvious. She reached her hand back into the glove box and felt the edge of an envelope. Pulling it out, she saw the address was handwritten to Dr Morton. Inside was a letter, in a strong italic hand. The author was a Richard Brook, who gave his profession as an investigative journalist. He was clearly aware of the car thief's visit, and was challenging the doctor as to the nature of his clients. The tone of the letter was professional but had an underlying current of venom, sounding less like a journalist and more like a criminal. 'I'm sure the public would be very concerned to learn that the kindly doctor who saved the face of the Indian teenager after an assault by her brother, actually helps criminals escape the penalty of the law, pocketing the proceeds from their activities. You could be leaving yourself open to all sorts of trouble,' Uh huh, whoever Richard Brook is, he has a fine line in intimidation! Been watching the Krays too many times, Mr Brook, have we? We'll see about that."

Michael Morton was awake. He felt like his body did not belong to him. Staring at the ceiling rose above him it appeared as if there were little flies crawling out of the cracks in the plaster. First two, then three, they multiplied with frightening regularity and began to spread over the ceiling and march down the walls. He gasped in horror and tried to move. It was then he discovered his wrists were secured above him with handcuffs. Looking up again, he saw the ceiling was completely clear. Help, it's the Ketamine, I'm hallucinating. He felt his breath rasping in his lungs, as if it was a struggle to get them moving. No, no, I can't have an asthma attack now, no, please don't.

He heard footsteps and remembered where he was. Scarlet Ribbon appeared in the doorway. "Ah, back with us, I see, Doctor, now, you and I have some talking to do," she began and stalked across to the bed. Sitting by him, she could then see his agitated expression.

"Let me go, please, I'm scared… my breathing isn't good, I really need my inhaler, look, I am no threat to you, just let me go and forget I was ever here," Michael gasped.

The fearful expression in his eyes was enough to convince her he was being truthful. She ran into the back room and quickly found a Ventolin inhaler in the top of his bag. Soon, she had unlocked the cuffs, flicked the bedcover over him to cover his modesty, and given him the inhaler. Michael gratefully sucked hard on the inhaler, coughing and spluttering in between breaths.

Scarlet picked up his spectacles from the bedside table and handed them to him. He put them on his face and pulled the eiderdown up to his chest. "Who's Richard Brook?" she asked, gazing intently at him.

"A troublemaker. Somehow he found out about the lad with the wad of cash. I just thought if I could get you on side, I could defeat him… I'm not like them, really, not like you, I mean, I am not a criminal!" Michael groaned.

"I don't know of him, but Irene is about to find out. You silly, silly man, I can see now you were practically cornered. I don't do the guardian angel thing, I'm in it for myself, you know that, but I remember reading about the Indian girl now. I hate violence against women, I told you, no man crosses me, or my sisters, so I applaud you for that. You can't be rotten if you would do that. Unfortunately this is a wicked world, and you're in it now, like it or not. However, if you do as I say, I will ensure this Brook doesn't ruin your reputation, and your business will improve. Your clothes are here, get dressed and come through to the lounge."

He stared at her, his breathing was rapid and shallow. She stretched her hand out to his cheek and stroked gently, "My dear doctor, I've decided I like you. Do remember what you said before you fell asleep?" Michael shook his head. "You said 'dark angel'. Now, that might be an appropriate soubriquet for me, as I wouldn't call myself an angel in the traditional sense, but my great aunt always said that sin should be tempered with the occasional saintly deed. You helped a girl who had experienced entirely unmerited cruelty from a brainwashed man, that deserves one good deed in return. Take it easy, Dr Morton, I'm not about to bite, I've had my fun."

Michael shivered at her touch, but he believed that there was truth behind her curious violet eyes. "I've got to get back to the clinic," he said.

By the time Michael was able to get his clothes on and walk unsteadily through to the back lounge, Scarlet had texted Irene with the name of the supposed journalist. She texted back immediately with a link to a web site. "I think I know your Mr Brook after all," Scarlet said, as Michael eased himself down into the sofa and took another dose of Ventolin.

"Really?"

"Yes, he's not who he says he is. He's actually an extremely psychotic Irishman who has an ego the size of a house and enjoys playing cat and mouse games with anyone he thinks he can bully. Irene has had dealings with him in the past. Trouble is, he's supposed to be dead," she explained.

"Eh? Brook or his alter ego?"

"Both."

Michael shook his head, "This is more than I can bear, what have I done?"

"Oh now, stop worrying. We need to ensure that little toerag who Brook probably sent to you deliberately is dealt with, and considering the Sun ran his obituary while I was in hospital and missed all the fun, I don't think Mr Brook will take the risk of coming out of hiding, if one of Irene's tame hacks prints a story to refute any connection with your clinic," Scarlet assured.

"But who is he?"

"James Moriarty, or Jim as he likes to be known. He acts like he's a Bond villain, a regular megalomaniac, but he does have fingers in a lot of pies. Someone recently tried to stop him, and we believed that he had met his match. Jim Moriarty reportedly blew his brains out on the roof of St Bart's Hospital on the same day Richard Brook supposedly died. But Irene and I know him better than that. If there is a way to fake even that, he will have found it, or else his minions will be carrying on the business. The spider is dead, the spiderlets have no power to protect them any more if that is the case. A man called Sherlock Holmes committed suicide that day too. He was getting a name for himself as a detective, damn clever lad, almost supernaturally clever, but Brook tried to prove he was a fake. Moriarty and Brook are one. The story on the grapevine is that Holmes and Moriarty entered a pact – a life for a life, if Moriarty shot himself, Holmes would take a flyer off the roof. Now, this Holmes character has a brother, high up in the government, so I very much doubt he would have let his sibling take his own life just to bring down a nasty piece of work like Moriarty. But then, no one else has been able to prove otherwise. If neither are dead then we're back to square one," Scarlet told him.

"It sounds like a novel," Michael observed. "The type where you can choose your own ending. So if there's no Brook, then I'm partly in the clear?"

"I wouldn't take anything for granted. I also have no idea why Moriarty would take a spite against you. Anyway, you look like hell, you should go home to bed!" Scarlet exclaimed, getting to her feet. "Oh, and should you feel the need to talk to too many people, just remember, both Irene and I have a copy of this!" She showed him the phone.

"Oh no!"

"Promised you, didn't I?"

Michael got to his feet and somehow struggled into his jacket and coat. Scarlet could see he was in a bad way. She took his arm and helped him down the steps to the Aston Martin. Just before he closed the door, Scarlet said, "A car like this on finance? You silly man!"