"Maria Alexanders, 34 years old, killed with three bullets in her chest and one in her vagina." The man pointed at the picture of a young woman with blonde hair, bright green eyes, and blood in her hair. She was on every picture pinned on the wall, her whole body, close ups of each and every wound. Only one picture showed the crime scene, the backyard of an asylum. "She worked for a whorehouse in London, the 'Dancing Moon'. Her sister said she was forced to work there, her superior claimed she wanted to. None of the prostitutes have been able to tell us which one is lying."
Greg lent back and entwined his fingers. The other detectives examined the black board carefully, some frowning, others uninterested. He didn't know what to say or feel. This was the second prostitute that had been found dead, both of them killed with a gun and each time one bullet in the vagina. Some believed it was a coincidence, others thought that there was a new Jack the Ripper on the streets.
"Maybe they had the same punter?" one of the DIs asked and cleared his throat. "Do we have the files?"
Their boss shook his head and pulled a cigarette out. "No, we're still waiting for the permission of the judge. He's on vacation, could take him a few days or even weeks to sign the papers."
"Do they have any enemies? Punters they didn't want to fuck anymore, a freak with a sick obsession, someone who thought they were in love?"
"No," he pointed at the picture of their first victim, a young woman in her early twenties. "None, their boss said they didn't have the same customers. There are no witnesses, no friends or family members who could tell us anything about their lives. The workers at the whorehouse are staying quiet."
The boss blew out a cloud of smoke and titled his head until all of them heard a crack. He did the same thing with his fingers and sat down on his chair.
"We need someone to go in there, to find something out."
"One of our female detectives could work undercover there, I was told the prostitutes are allowed to pick their own customers," one of the detectives said and smirked at one of the women. "We could go undercover there, and act like we're the customers."
Some of the men laughed and the women snorted. Greg's boss silenced them with a wave of his hand and breathed out heavily.
"No, they would notice it," he sighed, "of course we need someone to go in there, but I don't know how. Our only solution would be to send some of us in as punters, but the prostitutes wouldn't tell us anything."
"You're sure? They don't earn much money," the DI sitting next to Greg said. "Give them money and they'll tell you what you want."
A person snorted and threw a paper at his head. "That might work in the US, Summers, but not here! They earn more money than some of us do, they won't betray their boss."
Suddenly everyone started to talk and yell, all wanting to be the one who gave the best suggestion. Greg stayed quiet and tried not to get angry. Everyone was nervous because of the murders, he was too and his wife would go crazy if he continued like this. Smoking at the balcony, drinking a beer in the evening before looking at the files until midnight. He barely slept and got on her nerves with his bad mood.
"I've heard they got an escort service," he mumbled, causing everyone to suddenly look at him. He blinked surprised and cleared his throat. "I was on their website and there was an advertisement for their service. There are men and women who can be booked for one evening or more."
His boss stared at him and began to grin. "And why am I hearing this for the first time now?" He glared at the detectives responsible for the research. Some of them glared angrily at Greg, others continued to chat quietly with each other. "That's a way in, we can book one and try to find out something about the prostitutes and the murders. Any volunteers?"
"Some of us have already been there, they would notice us." A female detective said and tried to hide her yawn with the back of her hand. "Only five, maybe fewer, haven't been there. Lestrade, Summers, Whitlock, Swanson and… who else?"
"Michaels," the woman next to her added quietly and the other nodded in agreement. "Only those five haven't been in the area around the whorehouse, one of them would have to do it."
Greg stared at them with his jaw dropped. Crap, he thought and tried to hide his anger, he knew he shouldn't have stayed at the Yard when the first victim had been found. He hoped they would pick Swanson or Michaels, Swanson was able to debauch everyone with her charm - the man or women they hired for an evening would tell her everything - and Michaels was a dick. He deserved it.
"Well, Lestrade, Summers, Whitlock, Swanson, Michaels, who wants to do it?"
Everyone stared at them. Some grinned, others didn't care. Greg clutched his hands into fists and silently prayed that they wouldn't pick him. He wasn't the right one to go undercover, his boss knew that. His last cover had been blown and he had had to spend three days in the hospital. Swanson or Michaels, he silently begged, anyone but me.
"Lestrade," his boss said and Greg sighed loudly. "You'll do it. Come to my office, we'll talk about the details."
The boss left, the smoke of his cigarette still floating through the air, making it smelly and disgusting. Greg's fingers twitched, he definitely needed a cigarette of his own. Too much stress, not enough sleep and now this. Undercover work with an escort service.
"Should have kept your mouth shut, Lestrade," Summers grinned and patted his shoulder. "Hey, at least the boss will allow you to pick a man or woman, we don't want your wife to get jealous."
Greg stood up and ran his fingers through his hair. He shouldn't have mentioned the escort service, they would have found it out without his help. But now, he had to find an event for this… . His boss would have mercy on him, maybe Greg could convince him that he was the wrong person for this. His strengths were in paper work and crime scenes, not undercover work or interrogations.
He knocked at the door to his boss's office and entered. The older man was already waiting and laid some papers on the table in front of Greg who slowly sat down.
"Boss, you know I'm not the right person for this," he said desperately, there was no way he wouldn't fight against that decision. His wife would kill him within seconds if she found out that he had to go out with… a prostitute.
"Don't try to change my mind, Lestrade," his boss said and pointed at a few pictures of well-dressed men and women. "Pick one. I'm sure we'll find an event for you. And you're allowed to tell your wife that you have to go out with someone. Maybe she'll be more comfortable with it if you pick a man."
It would upset her even more, he thought while he gritted his teeth, she was still angry at him for staring at the ass of a bloke on their first anniversary. A man would make her even more angry, but he couldn't tell that to his superior. He lent down and looked at each picture.
The people all wore suits or dresses. He'd read that most of the people booking them were rich, managers or politicians. They had to be smart, they needed the knowledge of society and other things people talked about at expensive dinners or parties.
None of them interested him. Mostly women, all small and tiny, blonde, black-haired or ginger ones with beautiful faces and bodies, but he couldn't pick one of them - his wife would get jealous within seconds, she always complained about her body and the, non-existent fat - he would have to pick a man. There were black and pale ones, small and tall, but one immediately caught his attention.
He wasn't the youngest in the pictures, but he still looked younger than Greg, maybe forty or perhaps even younger. He had dark ginger hair, bright blue-grey eyes colder than any Greg has ever seen; he was pale and incredibly tall and skinny. He wore a three-piece suit with a shirt in the colour slightly darker than that of his eyes. In his right hand was an umbrella, the other one was hidden in the pocket of his pants. He smiled, but it was faked - even Greg noticed that.
He was handsome, Greg had to admit that, and had the presence of someone who normally would work in politics, maybe a politician or someone who worked in the government - not a prostitute or an employee of an escort service. He fascinated Greg, his eyes were hypnotising. In the right corner stood a name - Mark. Not his real name, he assumed.
His superior waited patiently until Greg took the picture of the ginger man. "I'll take him."
"Good," his boss said and typped something on his computer. "There are several events this evening. Let's see, an exhibition in the museum of modern art, a dinner with managers… ah, there. This evening there's a famous opera singer in town and she'll perform in the theatre. My superior will be there and some other high-ranked people I know, I can get you an invitation."
Greg nodded. Opera? He had never listened to the high-pitched sounds of women or men standing on the stage, the disproportionate gestures and the play. He just hoped there wouldn't be someone his wife knew or someone he might know, but if his boss's superior was going be there, then he would definitely know someone. His hands shook and he quickly entwined them. He had no chance to get out of this.
"There will be politicians, managers, you know, the rich and posh society. Do you know anything about opera?"
Greg shook his head and his boss sighed. "Well, I'm sure your companion will know something about it. He's quite expensive, I'm sure he'll be able to help you. Now, all you need to do is phone them, tell them the event and book this Mark."
His boss seemed to be an expert in such things, Greg thought amused and picked up the phone his boss gave him. He was nervous, even if there was no need for it. He would visit the performance, talk a bit with the man and try to elicit from him a few secrets about the people running the whorehouse and escort agency. There was no need to be nervous. Absolutely no reason at all.
"Dancing Moon escort service, how may I help you?" a voice greeted him after a few seconds of waiting.
Greg cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly in his chair. "Yes, erm… I need a company for today's opera performance of Claire Duval," he said and gulped. "Just for a few hours until the show is over."
There were some noises like the woman was tipping. "Do you have any wishes about the person?"
"Yes," he quickly said before she could start listing off names. "I would prefer Mark if he's free."
The woman told him to wait. He looked at his boss who just stared at the phone, his fingers twitching and a cigarette in his mouth. Greg waited and waited, he could hear some noises, people talking and someone walking away. The woman cleared her throat and caught Greg's attention again.
"Sir, Mark is free for today's evening. When and where do you want to meet him?"
His boss mouthed the time and the place quietly. Greg nodded. "At seven o'clock in front of the bus station near the theatre."
"Anything else, do you have a preference on what kind of suit or cologne he should wear?"
They asked a lot of things. He couldn't imagine that they did it with everyone, far too much work and stress for a single booking. But maybe they did and that was the reason why they were so famous and in such high demand. He could imagine that some people needed everything to be perfect, even the smell or make-up of the escort. It didn't matter to him, but he had to play along.
"An expensive looking suit, fit for an opera. And he should bring his umbrella with him." He just liked the thing on the man; it completed his appearance and gave him the look of a posh, rich man.
"Everything will be arranged, Sir. May I know who you are and how you are going to pay?"
"She wants to know my name," he mouthed silently and frowned. His boss wrote something down and showed him a paper with a name. "My name is Rupert Gabert, can I pay cash after the event?"
The women asked someone before she answered. "Of course you can, Mister Gabert. Mark will be there at seven o'clock. I wish you a good evening, Sir."
He hung up and sighed in relief. His boss just nodded and wrote something down before he took the phone. "I'm going to call my superior and arrange everything. No one is going to say your real name, we'll make sure no one knows about you. You may go now, Lestrade, better prepare yourself."
Greg knew he wanted to add "And your wife" but his boss didn't say it. He stood up and left the room, ignoring his colleagues who had been listening the whole time with their ears to the door. He didn't stop walking until he reached his car and drove home. His wife was going to kill him.
xxxxXXXXxxxx
"You need to do what?" his wife screamed at him, her face red and her eyes shooting daggers at him.
He sighed and sat down, a bottle of beer in his hand. He knew he shouldn't drink, but it calmed him down and he was fucking nervous. His cover could easily be blown and then? He couldn't risk his job or position, neither his rank nor the trust his boss had in him. No, he needed to be sober, careful and prepared. And for that, he didn't need his wife screaming at him like an insane maniac.
"It wasn't my idea," he told her. Actually it had been his idea, he had been the one mentioning the escort service, but no one told him that he had to do the dirty work. "It's just an opera, I have to talk to this Mark and nothing more. He'll leave, I'll leave, the end."
"You're aware that most of the people in the need of the service of such a thing are sleeping with the men or women after the event?" she hissed angrily and stood there with arms akimbo, "Why a man? Couldn't you have booked a woman?"
"Why? It doesn't matter, I won't see him again and I definitely won't sleep with this guy!"
She took away the bottle and threw it at the wall, the glass shattered and the shards fell on the ground in front of their wedding photos.
"You're always looking at some blokes, in every show or movie we watch! Oh, don't give me that look like I'm insane, I see the way you look at blokes! Did you ever look at me like that? Mmh? Not once in your life!"
He stood up and grabbed her hands. "I never look at anyone like that and you know it. Please, this is just a little event, imagine it's John, would you be angry if I went with him?"
She pushed him away and turned around to go in their bedroom. He tried to follow her, but she locked the door before he could enter. He sighed and let his forehead rest against the wood.
"Have fun with this man, I'm going to visit Amelia," she told him. Greg could hear her packing things into a case. He knew she wasn't visiting Amelia, they had had an argument yesterday and weren't talking with each other now. She was going to her lover and he let her because he wanted to save this marriage. He was a fool.
She angrily opened the door and pushed him away again, rushing out of the door before he could say anything. She was gone. Greg sighed again and punched the door, his knuckles hurting, but he didn't care. She had been cheating on him for five months now and, although he knew it, he didn't do anything. He would loose everything with a divorce, money, the flat.
He cleaned the room and the wall, the wallpaper was soaked with the beer and so was the carpet. Only five hours until he had to go to the bus station and meet with Mark. He just wanted to go to bed, and drink until he passed out. He was angry, sad, nervous, a wreck. Maybe the opera would help him forget this argument, maybe he would have enough time to think about his next step. He already knew that she was going to break up with him for her younger boy-toy, but - much to his surprise - he didn't care.
He sat on the couch for almost five hours before he looked at the clock and stood up quickly, swearing. He only had ten minutes left to get ready and five more until he had to be at the bus station. He ran into the bathroom, dressing himself in the most expensive suit he had and using some cologne he once had been given as a present by his brother-in-law. It smelled awful in his opinion, but it hadn't been cheap, that was all that mattered.
Greg ran to his car, fighting against the buttons on his jacket while entering and turning the engine on. His boss had phoned him a few hours ago, and told him what he had to ask and how to act without being noticed or uncovered.
As he parked his car behind the bus station, he was able to see someone standing there. He could see ginger hair, an umbrella and a suit, his companion for the evening, Mark. Before he walked over to him, he checked his hair and suit. Everything was perfect, or at least okay. There was no reason to feel like he was on a date, he told himself while walking to the man, no reason to become nervous.
"Good evening, Mr Gabert," the man greeted him and lowered his head a bit before smiling at him. "It's a pleasure."
Greg nodded and cleared his throat, nervously shifting his weight on his right foot. "Good evening… Mark," he said and tried to smile. "The pleasure is all mine."
Mark swung his umbrella once and titled his head. "The event is an opera performance of Claire Duval, if I'm not mistaken?" Greg nodded again and wanted to take the money out, but Mark shook his head. "The payment is after the event, Mr Gabert."
"Of course," Greg said and ran his fingers through his hair. "Do you have any questions about the evening?"
Mark smiled. He seemed to know it was the first time that Greg was in the need of an escort service, he seemed to look directly into Greg's soul. The DI gulped and tried to stop his hands from shaking, but he failed.
"In which relation are we?" Mark asked him, "Fiancé, husband, friend, colleague?"
"Friend. I got two tickets and my wife couldn't come, so I asked you and you agreed to accompany me."
Mark nodded and propped himself on his umbrella. "Anything you would prefer me to talk about?"
"Excuse me?" Greg asked confused and blinked surprised.
"Should I talk about art, politics, music, opera or anything else if we have to hold a conversation?"
Greg resisted the feeling to punch himself. He was too nervous, too hypnotised by the man's eyes. This wasn't right, he told himself and chewed on his lower lip, he was bi, yes, but he was married and he loved his wife – a bit, at least. Even if their relationship couldn't be described as a happy marriage, she cheated on him, they didn't talk with each other without one of them screaming.
"To be honest, I'm not good at talking about such things," he admitted and smiled nervously. "Normally I wouldn't be here."
"That won't be a problem, Mr Gabert," Mark said and smiled, a performance studied until perfection. "I assure you I can help you if there is any need and you want me to."
"Erm.. yes, thank you. You probably should call me Rupert, it's a bit odd for friends to call each other with the last name… speaking of names, do you want to be called Mark or anything else?"
Mark didn't react, but Greg could see something shining in his eyes. He still smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Faked, acted. He was a fabulous actor, Greg had to admit that. But his detective skills were good enough to know when someone faked a smile or not.
"Whatever you please, Rupert," Mark said and the way he said the name, slowly and stretched with his accent, made a shiver run over Greg's spine.
Greg shrugged and turned around to look at the big theatre. "I guess Mark is fine…" he said before he shyly asked, "Erm… do you know anything about this Claire Duval? Because I don't know her or her music."
Mark smiled at him and chuckled silently. "She's from France, her father was the famous Pierre Duval - a pianist who played in the biggest theatre in France - and her mother was the singer Michelle Duval, born Mierrè. She has been singing since her childhood and started an opera career when she was fifteen, quickly becoming famous because of her clear and high voice. She prefers to sing the "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen," part of the famous composition of Mozart. She lives in Ireland with her fiancé Dr. Gerald Bühler, a German scientist."
Greg stared at him with his jaw dropped. "How… how do you know that?"
Mark smiled and swung his umbrella. "I make it my business to be prepared, Rupert."
Greg nodded and cleared his throat. "I think we should go, don't you?"
Mark nodded and walked right next to him, neither said a word, Greg because he was nervous and Mark probably because he would only talk if Greg did. He was a polite conversation partner, Greg thought and eyed the taller man secretly, more enjoyable than his wife who could never shut up when they were out together. The last time they went out to eat in a restaurant had been a year after their wedding, never again after that. He was busy with his work, she was busy fucking her lover.
"Some people might know me here," he whispered to Mark as he saw his boss's superior talking to his much younger wife, "from my work."
Mark nodded and looked at Greg for a few seconds, smiling at him. Greg imagined he wanted to tell him 'Everything is okay, this isn't the first time I have to accompany someone to an event like this' and he suddenly felt like a fool because he was nervous and Mark was calm. Absolutely calm, smiling and watching everyone to find out what they might want to talk about.
They left their coats in the atrium, Mark left his umbrella because he was forced to, and they quickly sat down in front of the stage. People chatted quietly with each other, talking about business and their private lives, he could hear questions about the well-being of someone's wife and children, some talked about politics or shared information about the artist. Greg entwined his fingers and sat down nervously. Mark next to him crossed his legs and let his entwined fingers rest on his stomach. He fit perfectly in this theatre, he seemed rich and posh, not like Greg who felt like he was in the wrong movie.
"Have you heard about the homicides of those prostitutes?" he asked Mark casually and leaning back, carefully watching the other man.
Mark nodded and turned his head to look at him. Greg felt like he was deducing him, he examined every single inch of Greg's body within seconds before he looked him in the eyes and answered. "Indeed, I have. Two women, if I remember correctly. Some people suggest someone is trying to copy Jack the Ripper."
"What do you think about that?" Greg asked and tried to hide his shaking hands. He had to be careful, Mark shouldn't get suspicious. "Jack the Ripper? I haven't heard that theory before."
"Well, I've read that some detectives of the Yard think that someone is trying to copy the murders of Jack the Ripper. A silly theory, if you ask me." Small talk, nothing more, better than sitting silently next to each other when people should think they were friends.
"As much as I know, they were killed by bullets, not with a knife. Jack the Ripper cut his victims open…" he tapped his chin and looked at Mark. "That's the only thing I remember from my history lessons."
"That's correct," Mark said and smiled, an honest one which made Greg's heart beat faster. "But I don't think that we should worry about that. If the killer continues to murder prostitutes, we're in no danger, right?"
Greg nodded and watched a couple sitting down right next to him. His boss's superior, as he realised after a few seconds, now he had to react quickly.
"Mr Crawford, what a surprise to see you here!" he said and shook the hand of the man next to him.
"Gabert, what a surprise indeed!" the older man said - Greg mentally sighed in relief, his boss had informed Mr Crawford - and smiled at him. "May I introduce you my lovely wife, Sarah?"
"A pleasure, Mrs Crawford," he said and shook the woman's hand.
"And who's your companion, Gabert?"
Mark waited patiently for Greg to introduce him. Greg turned his head to look at him for a moment before he looked away again. "This is a friend of mine, Mark, he came with me because my wife has business out of London."
"It's a pleasure, Mrs and Mr Crawford," Mark said and shook the hand of Mrs Crawford before he shook the one of Greg's superior.
"I never thought that you're a fan of classic music, Gabert," Mr Crawford said and drank a sip of the wine standing in front of every seat. "May I ask what brought you here?"
"My wife's birthday was five days ago and her brother bought her two tickets. Unfortunately, she has to work today, so she gave me both tickets and I asked Mark to accompany me."
"And are you a fan of the opera, Mr-"the older man asked Mark with a raised eyebrow.
"Gautier," Mark quickly said and smiled, "indeed, I am. I've always been a fan of Michelle Duval's voice and I'm sure her daughter is as good as she is."
Mr Crawford nodded and crossed his arms in front of his gigantic belly. "I prefer Claire's voice, her interpretation of the f''' is purer than her mother's."
"That may be true, but to Michelle Duval's defence I have to add that Claire had the privilege to enjoy academic studies in the art of opera, contrary to her mother who studied modern music."
Greg was surprised how easily Mark talked about this subject. Greg would embarrass himself immediately; he didn't know anything about opera, about the studies of modern music and what the difference between that and the study of opera was. But Mark fit perfectly here. It wasn't the first time Greg asked himself why someone with his brilliance and charm worked for an escort service.
"I see I'm talking with an aficionado," Mr Crawford laughed and smiled at Greg. "What do you think?"
"Pardon?" Greg asked taken off-guard and tried to hide his nervousness.
"Is Michelle Duval the better singer or is her daughter Claire?"
He nervously looked at Mark whose eyes looked directly into Greg's. For a short moment, he frowned, but then he smiled again and patted Greg's shoulder like good friends did. His long fingers rested on Greg's shoulder for a few seconds and he chuckled quietly.
"I'm afraid Rupert has never had the pleasure to hear Michelle or Claire. That's why I insisted he come here, he didn't want to go without his wife."
Greg made a mental note to give Mark more money than needed. He just saved him from an awkward moment and Greg was glad. It wasn't the first time he had talked to Mr Crawford and he was sure his superior would have continued to ask question if he'd lied.
"What a shame, Gabert, then it's a good thing you have the chance to listen to her today!"
Mrs Crawford looked up from her cell phone and whispered something in her husband's ear.
"I'm afraid I have to leave for a moment," Mr Crawford said and quickly stood up, his face hard and serious. "There has been another murder and I have to take care of the next steps."
"Another murder?" Greg asked surprised and clutched his fist. "Another prostitute?"
Mr Crawford shook his head. "No, if I remember correctly, she was one of the escort ladies, Miriam or something like that. If you'll excuse me?"
His wife went with him out of the concert room. Greg watched them until they disappeared behind the carpets. Another murder and he had to sit in the theatre, he wasn't sure whether to be happy about that or angry.
He saw worry shining in Mark's eyes. Maybe he'd known the woman; she had been one of his colleagues after all.
"Did you know her?" Greg quietly asked and lent in Mark's direction.
Mark hesitated before he gave a nod only visible to Greg. "I'm afraid I did, yes."
Greg squeezed his shoulder without thinking about the action. As he realised it, he blushed and quickly removed his hand, mumbling an apology. Mark just smiled and turned his head to the stage where sounds came from the orchestra hidden underneath.
"It should start in a few minutes," Mark told him and drank a little sip of wine, he clenched the glass, tried to stop his hands from shaking. Greg watched him worried and Mark seemed to notice. "I assure you I am fine, Rupert."
Greg didn't believe him, but it was none of his business. He was here to find something about the prostitutes' boss, not about Mark's relationships to the victims. But he couldn't banish the feeling that Mark wasn't telling him something. He had to find out what and why. He needed more time and a better relationship with this man, he had to find out more about him, he had to gain his trust. Even if it could be dangerous, he had to meet this man more often, he was sure his superior would understand that.
"I know," he said and smiled coevally with Mark. "Is this Claire really that good?"
Mark laughed loudly and tried to fight off tears, tears of laughter - Greg realised and had to smile because of that. "She's horrible," he told Greg and chuckled. "Absolutely incapable."
Greg frowned and raised his eyebrow. "How can she be terrible when she's famous?"
"Money, Rupert, people are here because rich and important people meet here. Business deals, illegal and unethical deals, Rupert." He winked at Greg and smiled. "It's only an excuse for meetings."
"How do you know that? I mean, you're…" Greg started, but shut his mouth and looked down. Mark looked at him, his expression blank.
"Even if I'm just an escort boy, I'm educated enough to know how high society works."
Mark sounded hurt, insulted. Greg grabbed his glass and starred in it, suddenly not able to look at his companion anymore. He would feel hurt when someone told him he didn't know something just because of his work. Mark was smarter than he was, more polite and posh, something Greg would never be, regardless how hard he would work and how many promotions he would get.
"I'm… I'm sorry, Mark," he whispered and felt Mark's gaze on his skin. "I just… I don't know, that was rude. Please accept my apology."
Mark just nodded and drank one sip, raising his glass to toast with Greg. "I'm accepting your apology, Rupert." He lent in Greg's direction until he almost touched Greg's ear with his mouth. "Or should I rather say Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?"
Greg almost let his glass fall. He went pale and began to sweat, paralysed, and unable to do something. He starred at Mark who lent back and drank his wine, smiling at him with the expression of a predator waiting for his prey to run away. How… how had he been able to blow Greg's cover up? How had this man been able to know who he is? It was the first time they had seen each other, he was sure - he would remember such a good looking man - but still…
"How…?" he started, but the sound of music stopped him.
Mark winked at him and looked at a tiny, fat woman coming out on the stage, her long hair was curly and brown, her face full of make-up. This was Claire Duval and from the first moment she began to sing, he knew that Mark had been right: She was horrible.
Mr Crawford didn't come back until the break. He apologised and, after Mark had left to go to the toilet, he told him that the victim had been murdered by the same man or woman who killed the two prostitutes. Greg stood up and followed Mark, but he didn't find him in the toilet. He was outside, smoking, leaning against the cold wall of the theatre. He didn't stand near the other smokers. Greg joined him.
"May I have one?" he asked and thanked as Mark gave him one and lit it up, "How did you know that my name isn't Rupert Graves?"
"It was quite obvious, you're a bad actor, Detective Inspector," Mark said and blew smoke out into the air, watching it floating in the sky. "You were nervous, but not because that was your first time with someone from an escort service and not because you're afraid that your wife might think you are cheating on her, you were afraid that I might find out who you really are. You were looking at each member from your work, Mr Crawford is the head of Scotland Yard, and you silently begged that they were informed about your undercover identity. You have several scars on your arm, one at your wrist and two hidden under your shirt collar, but when you turn your head too fast, they are visible. So you're someone who has a dangerous job and knows members of the yard, either you're an officer or criminal, criminal was highly unlikely because Mr. Crawford reacted rather positively to you and he is a fighter for justice and law, so an officer. Your hair is grey, some might call it silver and there is a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard who is called 'The Silver Fox' because of his hair. It took me five seconds to realise that you are Gregory Lestrade and not Rupert Graves." He chuckled. "And why would Mr. Crawford share information about a murder with someone who doesn't work for the police on the same case?"
Mark ended his conclusion and looked at him, his eyes shining triumphantly and brighter than usual. Greg stared at him with his jaw dropped and eyes wide-open. Mark had deduced him and he was correct about everything. This man couldn't be just someone who escorts rich people and stands next to them with a polite smile, there was no way someone as intelligent as Mark would waste his talent with… that.
He must be a genius, maybe this was something all geniuses have in common: The ability of deduction. There was no way someone like Mark was related to Sherlock, he was charming and polite while Sherlock was… the completely opposite type of man. A genius thing, then. Great.
"That was…" he coughed and quickly smoked to calm himself down. "How did you do that?"
Mark just smiled and ground his cigarette. "As I already said, it was obvious."
"You…", he started, absolutely shocked. "Why didn't you let my cover be blown earlier?"
"I'm paid to escort you, not to deduce you, Rupert," he pronounced the name in the same way as he had before, there was no evidence that he was using a wrong name. "I would propose that we go in again, she will continue soon and we don't want to miss her lovely voice, do we?"
He turned around to walk to the entrance, but Greg stopped him and grabbed him by his arm. A shiver ran through Greg's body as he was able to feel Mark's body heat close to his own. He gulped quietly, but Mark must have seen it because he smirked a bit.
"I have a few question I would like you to answer later after the performance," he said and let Mark go. "You'll come with me to my home and you'll answer my questions, okay?"
Mark chuckled and nodded. "I don't think this is a good idea, Gregory," he lowered his head until their noses almost touched. "You can't think clearly in my vicinity."
Greg blushed and quickly went back into the theatre, followed by a smiling Mark. The rest of the performance was over fast, at the end everyone was clapping and cheering and Claire bowed, thanking them for coming. Mark stood up as soon as she disappeared behind the curtain. He lay one hand on Greg's shoulder and lent down do whisper in his ear.
"We should go, the main act will begin soon and neither of us belong here," he said and fetched their coats. He seemed to be glad that he had his umbrella back, he swung it and clutched it like it was his most precious treasure. Greg thought it completed him.
"Here's your payment," Greg said and gave Mark the money while he opened the car door for his companion. "Get in, I have questions."
Mark just smiled and sat down, he didn't count the money, one little glance was enough for him to notice it was more than needed. They silently drove to Greg's flat, his wife wasn't here. He walked behind Mark to make sure he would enter and not flee, he was paid, there was no need for him to stay here. But he did and sat down on the couch, crossing his legs and entwining his fingers.
"Well, ask your questions, Detective Inspector."
Greg sat on the chair in front of Mark and took out a paper to take notes on. He cleared his throat and looked at Mark who was smiling at him, perfectly calm. Like a politician in front of a reporter. "Did you know the victims?"
"I knew Maria Alexanders and Samarah Braddon," Mark said. Greg raised his eyebrow. Who was Samarah Braddon? Mark seemed to notice his confusion, because he smiled and titled his head. "Miriam's real name was Samarah Braddon. We all use false names."
"So…" Greg asked and ran his fingers through his hair. "What's your real name?"
Mark chuckled and shook his head. "I won't tell you, Gregory. You have to find out on your own."
Greg snorted and pouted. "O-okay… how did you know them?"
"Samarah worked for the same escort service as I do and I once worked in the same establishment as Maria."
"Hold on, you worked in the whorehouse 'Dancing Moon'?"
Mark smiled sadly and nodded. "Everyone has to work hard to reach a higher position, Gregory. Some were lucky to get a job with paper work, others not."
Greg cleared his throat and avoided Mark's glance. "You've been a prostitute?" he asked, afraid of the answer.
"No, I've never been a prostitute," Mark said and Greg sighed in relief. "I was a dancer and sometimes did the final payments for the salaries and the bills."
Greg lowered the pen and chewed on his lower lip. He wanted to find out more about this man, not about the crimes and murderer. There was enough time later to ask him about potential killers.
"May I ask you something private?" Mark nodded and lent back to examine him better. "Why did you become… a dancer in a whorehouse? I mean… you're smart, charming and handsome, why didn't you study or start a career in politics?"
Mark sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. There was something dark sparkling in his eyes, the bright shining was gone. "I needed the money to take care of my brother. When our parents died, they left us more debts than money. We had to sell our house and everything we had. I was seventeen, but my brother only eight and I couldn't finish school. So I started to dance in the… whorehouse as you said and soon became a worker for the escort service"
"You have a brother?" Greg asked curiously and lent in Mark's direction. "Where is he now?"
Mark smirked and winked at him. "I think you'll soon find out who he is, Gregory. Sooner than you might believe."
Greg asked him a few questions about his association with Maria and Samarah, about their bosses and people who might want to kill the staff of the whorehouse, but Mark didn't know anyone. He left after an hour of talking about nonsense, laughing together and telling each other about their lives. Greg didn't want him to go, he honestly enjoyed his company, but his wife would come back soon and Mark had to check himself out at work. He stopped in the doorframe and pulled out a piece of paper, writing his number on it and gave it Greg.
"If you need my company for an event again, call me," he told Greg before he turned around and left, walking down the street until Greg wasn't able to see him anymore.
xxxxXXXXxxxx
"And?" Sherlock asked him as soon as Greg entered the Yard at the next day. Everyone was staring at him and he quickly went into the meeting room, stopping in front of the black board. "Why can't I just see the corpses? You're obviously too silly to solve a crime without my help!"
John just grabbed his arm and pulled him away from Greg and his superior who silenced the other detectives with one loud yell. Greg looked at each and sighed.
"What did you find out?"
"Well," he said and pointed at the picture of their newest victim, "Her real name was Samarah Braddon. Mark told me he had no idea who the killer is, he would have noticed something like that, I'm sure. He told me both Samarah and Maria had arguments with a certain Johnny a few days before she died. The first victim sometimes ate breakfast with him before work. Mark said that he sometimes acts strange, but never in a suspicious way."
"And this Mark is a second freak or what?" Sally snorted and rolled her eyes. "Why do you believe him anyway?"
Greg glared at her and couldn't fight off his grin when Sherlock stormed out of the room John quickly followed him but shrugged and apologised silently before he closed the door. Greg's superior nodded and sat down in front of the others.
"There's a serial killer running free in London and we have no clue who he could be," he sighed and looked at Greg, "Let Holmes see the next corpse if there is one and show him the three victims."
Sally let out a frustrated sound and mumbled some affronts while she left. Greg quickly got out and went home. Maybe he could talk to his wife, they could find a solution, some way to save their marriage. But when he got home, her clothes and her stuff was gone. He found a letter on the table where their TV once stood. She had left him for her lover, he would get the papers for the divorce soon.
He suddenly had the urge to punch something, to scream and shout until he was hoarse and couldn't talk anymore. But he just stared at the paper, felt his legs begin to shake and tears run down his cheeks. Within seconds he pulled out his phone and called Mark. It was foolish to believe that the man would come, they weren't friends and they had only just met, maybe he had work to do and was at a party with someone who needed a companion, but five minutes later there was a knock on his door and seconds later someone carefully carried him to his couch and helped him lay down.
Mark stood there, dressed in a suit like the one he had worn yesterday and with worry shining in his eyes. He pulled the letter out of Greg's hands and brought him some beer he found in the kitchen. Greg calmed himself down, feeling embarrassed to break down like this because of a woman he didn't love anymore.
"I'm sorry if I interrupted something," he whispered and wiped the tears away. "I… thank you that you came."
"I told you that you could call me when you need company for anything," Mark said and stroked Greg's hair softly. "And this is an event which should be celebrated." Greg raised his eyebrow confused and titled his head. An event to celebrate? "You're finally free of your cheating wife, I'd say that is an incidence which is worth a little happiness."
Greg lent into the touch and closed his eyes. He knew he should be happy, if she wanted the divorce he was allowed to keep the house and most of his money, but he was sad, not glad.
"Maybe she was right," he said and continued as he felt Mark's look. "She always said I'm gay, not bi."
"And what do you think you are, Gregory?"
Mark lent down until their lips almost touched. Greg's heart started to beat faster, he felt heat rushing into his cheeks and… an area below the waist. He stared at Mark's lips, they seemed soft, made to be kissed.
"I honestly have no idea," he whispered, stretched, and gulped, "I think you have to show me."
Mark lent completely down and pressed his lips to Greg's. They were soft, smoother than anything he'd ever felt, warm and inviting. Greg wrapped his arms around Mark and pulled him closer, their bodies pressing against each others, hips touching. Mark moaned and stroked Greg's hair, turning them around until he lay over Greg, his knee pressing against Greg's crotch. They stopped kissing and grinned, Mark lowering his head to chew on Greg's ear.
"You really don't want to tell me your name?" Greg asked breathless and tried to stay focused, "I don't want to scream Mark."
Mark just smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek. "You'll find out soon. Until then" he let his fingers run over Greg's body until he touched his crotch. "Call me whatever you please."
xxxxXXXXxxxx
Greg stood in front of the tape and sighed. Another murder, this time the lady who arranged his and Mark's first meeting in front of the bus station, and no clues. Sherlock wasn't here yet, something about a traffic jam. He lent against the wall and lit up a cigarette, so much for his intention to quit. He could do that after they found the murderer, Mark didn't seem to mind that he smelled like smoke and nicotine - maybe he would quit too, when Greg finally did.
"May I have one?" asked a familiar voice and Greg turned around only to be greeted with a kiss. Mark wrapped one arm around his waist and took a cigarette, inhaling the scent of his boyfriend.
"How are you?" he asked.
Mark had stopped working for the 'Dancing Moon', and was trying to work in politics. He was a natural, but most of the politicians knew him from his work and didn't want him to work with them. He was tired of all the meetings and of all the talking with lying and corrupted people, but he never complained. He never told Greg he just wanted some time alone with him and some crappy TV.
"I'm perfectly fine," Mark lied and placed a kiss on his forehead.
Greg knew he was lying, but he didn't tell his boyfriend that he knew. They stood next to each other and smoked, not talking but enjoying the time together when suddenly someone screamed. Sherlock got out of the cab and ran in Greg's direction. He suddenly stopped and stared at Mark.
"What do you want here?" he hissed angrily and shot daggers at Greg's boyfriend.
"I'm visiting my boyfriend, is there something wrong with that?" Mark answered.
John and Greg looked at each other, both confused. They knew each other? How… why…?
"You know each other?" Greg asked and looked up to see Mark's face.
Both of the tall men stared at one another, Sherlock angrily, Mark calm and smiling. But then, Mark turned his head to look at Greg and entwined their fingers.
"May I introduce you to my brother, Sherlock," he said and chuckled. "I told you you would find out sooner or later."
"Shut up Mycroft!"
Sherlock ran away to the corpse, John following him quickly. Greg gasped at Mark… Mycroft… whatever… and tilted his head. Sherlock was his brother, the reason why he started to work as a dancer and then in an escort service. Should he be angry? No, he felt thankful, without that he may have never met Mycroft.
But… his brother? Did he have any strange or creepy hobbies like his brother, was he a maniac, lunatic, insomniac, didn't he eat properly or did he have experiments like him?
"So," Greg grinned and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist. "Your name is Mycroft Holmes?"
Mycroft lowered his head and kissed him softly. "Yes, it is."
"It suits you better than your fake name."
"What's wrong with Mark?" Mycroft asked him chuckling and laughed silently. "I liked it."
Greg shut him up with a wild kiss. Now he had a name to scream at night.
Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading this