THE TRIPLE BLUFF
By Sarah Knight
Thanks so much to my beta reader TeaLogic. She has written some great fics, you should check them out after you've read this one. Blame me for anything you don't like ;) Please review, I would love to know what you think :)
-Bang Bang Bang-
Three loud knocks, evenly paced. Urgent, or angry, then. And extremely inconvenient. Blast this infernal condominium, there were so many people everywhere. Sherlock ignored the door and continued to sit crossed legged on the bed, plucking the strings of the violin on his lap. Somewhere in his brain was a clue that he hadn't fully figured out yet. There had to be. Something that would lead him to...
"Mr. Holmes?" the muffled voice came through the bedroom door.
Landlord. Angry then. Reason? Too many possibilities to narrow down without more data. Something recently discovered or disclosed, obviously. He continued to pluck the violin strings:
-plink plink plink-
-BANG BANG BANG-
"Mr. Holmes!"
Something that he deems to be important. Likelihood of it actually being important: low. Likelihood of being left in peace if ignored: lower.
Sherlock sighed, rose, and answered the door. The old landlord's hand was poised ready to bang the door again with the base of his fist.
"Mr. Holmes..."
"Mr. Phillips," Sherlock cut him off. "Is my playing bothering you?"
"I... What?"
"Something is bothering you," Sherlock said, feigning patience. "Is it my playing?"
He tapped the violin to draw attention to the illustrative instrument. Mr. Phillips looked at it and then back at his tenant, puzzled. "Oh no... that's not it... it's..."
"Of course not," Sherlock said, as if suddenly realising something. "The volume is far too low to disturb a person of your limited hearing range."
"How did you...?" the old man spluttered.
"Excellent, I shall continue. Good bye."
Sherlock shut the door in the landlord's face, turned around sharply and paced the small room, plucking and thinking, plucking and thinking. He thought back to this morning. It had all started, as it often did, with a text from Lestrade...
-BANG BANG BANG-
"Mr. Phillips!" Sherlock shouted sternly, "What now?"
The door opened, and Sherlock turned away from it sullenly to look out of the window, plucking a discordant range of notes in defiance of any conventional timing.
The landlord was angrier now, and more determined. "I've had a complaint," he stuttered to his tenant's back. "Several, actually. About the state of the kitchen. What is that equipment? I've half a mind to call the police."
Ah, that. "It's an experiment, not a meth lab," he said irritably.
-plink plink plink-
"It's not a lab at all, Mr. Holmes, it's a shared kitchen. The other tenants are worried they're going to poison themselves having a cup of tea."
"If it's shared, then why am I not to use it?"
-plink plink plinkety plink-
"By all means use it. For cooking, washing up, making a cup of tea. But no science equipment, no chemicals and certainly no smoke. Emily from room 2 has asthma."
-plink plunk-
"I don't recall such a detail being specified in the rent agreement."
"It's common sense Mr. Holmes!"
"Hmmm."
-plink plink plink-
The landlord tutted and readjusted his glasses. "Well?"
Sherlock finally turned to face him. "Yes, yes, I'll get rid of it. I'll tell Mr. and Mrs. Jules that I was unable to solve the case of their son's disappearance, because my neighbours' need for tea and biscuits was a far more pressing priority. Now kindly shut up and go away, I need to THINK."
He shut the door in the Phillips' face again and locked it, before the idiot could think of a retort.
Honestly! Where was he supposed to conduct his experiments? In his room? There was barely enough room for a bed. Not for the first time, he reflected that London's rental rates were diabolical. In some parts of the country he could have a whole house to himself for the cost of his room in Phillips' condominium on Montague st. Unfortunately the most expensive place in the country was also the richest source of crimes and puzzles. He could not contemplate living anywhere else and therefore he was forced to tolerate...
Dammit, and now, thanks to his bloody toleration, he was distracted by irrelevant trains of thought. It was as if stupidity was catching.
Focus, focus, focus.
He dropped the violin onto the bed, wrapped the duvet around himself and lit a cigarette, pushing up the window and leaning out just far enough onto the balcony to avoid the smoke drifting into the hallway.
He inhaled calmly, in and out, in and out. Focused.
Right. There was a pertinent clue somewhere in his mind. He had noticed everything, but evidently he had not deduced everything. Not yet, otherwise young Leo Jules would be safe at home and the abductor in custody.
Now, what was he missing? He cast his mind back to that morning for the fourth time.
It had started with a text from Lestrade, a location and a request. Bored out of his mind, Sherlock had been out the door and into a taxi within minutes.
The crime scene was in an upper class area with extremely expensive detached houses and likely a pleasant lack of meddling landlords. Not the most obvious location for a street killing. The rich tended to commit their safer crimes in the privacy of their own homes, and their more dangerous ones as far afield as they thought to be anonymous.
There was no gathering point, such as a park, shop or corner, near the scene. Tarmac condition and direct experience on driving to the scene showed that the road saw little traffic; a quiet area.
Conclusion 1: the victim was walking to or from one of the nearby houses, on foot, most likely a local resident or somebody's guest.
As he stepped out of the cab, Lestrade jogged over to meet him. Sherlock took in the Inspector and said, in place of a greeting. "You're going on holiday with the wife on Tuesday. That's why you called me."
"How did you... never mind," Lestrade laughed. "Yes, I admit it. I want to solve this before I go. Sunbathing just isn't the same when your evidence trail is going cold back home. Three days to solve a murder is pushing it a bit though, so I was hoping you could help."
"It's not my job to ease your conscience Inspector. Interesting cases only."
Lestrade sighed. "Let's hope you find Samuel Rowland fascinating then."
"Who's on forensics?"
"Don't worry, it's Gomez."
"Any witnesses?" Sherlock asked.
"If there were I wouldn't need you," Lestrade quipped.
Sherlock shot him a look, "Unlikely. Did the neighbours hear anything?"
"No," Lestrade confirmed. "The body was found by a dog walker, this morning."
Conclusion 2: Possibly a professional or experienced killer. Quick and quiet enough that the murder didn't wake anyone.
Lestrade escorted him through the onlookers and under the police tape to where Gomez was still combing the scene. She looked up and nodded in greeting, then continued with her examination. Sherlock snapped on a pair of latex gloves, glad that he at least wouldn't have to suffer Anderson.
"Right, this is Samuel Rowland," Lestrade indicated the body. "What do you think?"
The victim was male, aged about seventeen, well-built, bleached hair. Expensive clothing, fashionable, up-market, no visible brand names or garish displays of wealth. The outfit was a few months old, but had only been washed a handful of times. Possible special occasion; more likely he was accustomed to expensive clothes and didn't need to wear them till they wore out. Too young to be earning that kind of money himself, particularly as most teenagers, especially of his social class, attend college and if they do work, do so part-time.
Conclusion: generous pocket money from parents, in-keeping with the theory that he lives near the crime scene.
The body was sprawled across the path, dropped or fallen. The hunched position suggested he was conscious when he fell, reacting to the pain of a beating. A quick lift of the boy's shirt confirmed this. No tearing or damage to the clothing. Cause of death most likely the slashed throat. Blood pool showed he was killed there, whilst lying on the ground, not dumped.
Conclusion: evidence suggests for the second time that this was a professional or experienced killer.
Mobile phone shattered nearby. Ah...
So far, so obvious. Even the police had figured out that much. Probably.
"Gomez," he said to forensic investigator. "What's your diagnosis?"
Gomez looked up. "Beaten up first, multiple blows to abdomen. Blood and slash pattern show the throat was cut whilst he recovered on the ground. Cause of death asphyxiation, although blood loss would have done it shortly afterwards. ETD, 3am."
"What can you tell me about the killers?" Sherlock asked.
"Killers?" Gomez asked.
"Yes. Well, technically one killer, one accomplice."
Lestrade looked around carefully at the scene, then sighed when he couldn't figure out what about it had led the consulting detective to his deduction. "Alright, how can you tell?"
Sherlock's lip twitched into a half smile.
"The phone."
"The smashed phone? Dropped by Rowland," Lestrade said.
Sherlock looked at him in apparent surprise. He stepped towards Sam Rowland's body and slid a phone out of his inside jacket pocket. "This is Samuel Rowland's phone. That is his friend's phone. Possibly a date, more likely a friend; clearly a young person, gender indeterminable until..."
Gomez tutted. "I hadn't finished looking him over," she said defensively to Lestrade.
"I know, it's fine," Lestrade assured her.
Sherlock unlocked the phone in his hand, no password, and scrolled through the recent texts.
5.03pm: Mum totally bought it.
Me
5.05pm: Excellent. Mine too.
Leo J
5.05pm: Game on, see you at 8. Sensations is gonna be sensational! Sam.
Me
1.55am: Wherre u? x
Me
2.00am: JULES! WTF, where u?
Me
2.10am: Vomit. Bogs :(((
Leo J
2.30am: outgoing call to London taxi company, 60 seconds.
He held out the phone and dropped it into Gomez's waiting evidence bag.
"Leonard Jules is the name of our kidnap victim," Sherlock announced.
"Kidnap?" said Lestrade and Gomez together.
Sherlock sighed deeply, "However did you manage before you met me? It's a wonder half of London isn't dead by now."
Lestrade frowned and rubbed his lip.
Sergeant Donovan ducked under the tape and started over towards them with the air of someone who had just discovered something important. "Sir, I..."
"Just a moment, Donovan," Lestrade stopped her. "Out with it, Sherlock."
"It's obvious. The dropped phone isn't the victim's..."
"Maybe we'll get lucky and it's the killer's," Donovan cut in.
"Keep up, Sgt," mocked Sherlock. "The killer was too experienced to leave such an obvious and traceable piece of evidence."
Donovan pursed her lips, irritated.
Sherlock continued: "This is the most likely sequence of events: Samuel Rowland and his friend Leo Jules lied to their parents about their whereabouts and went to Sensations nightclub, where they got drunk and did whatever else teenagers do for fun. At around 2.45, they caught a taxi, but got dropped off a short way from home, probably to avoid waking up the whole street with a conspicuous motor, alternatively because Leo was being sick and the driver threw them out.
Either way, they staggered down the street. Leonard was distracted by his phone, probably sexting somebody whose number he got at the club."
"Sexting?" said Lestrade.
"Flirtatious text messages," Donovan clarified.
"It pays to keep up with language developments, Lestrade," said Sherlock with reproach. "It was late, it's more likely he was texting someone he knew would be awake. Someone from the club then. He's a teenage boy who just met someone at a club. Therefore, sexting.
The pair were startled by two men and Leo dropped his phone. Samuel started to run, but was caught, beaten and killed. Clearly, Leo was restrained during all this, possibly drugged, as Samuel's wound patterns suggest his killer wasn't thrown off guard by an intervention and..."
"Maybe Leo was frightened," suggested Donovan. "Most people like to avoid murderers."
"The killer had his hands full with Samuel. If Leo wasn't restrained, he would have run and screamed or shouted for help."
"How do you..." Lestrade started. "Ah, because in this quiet street, someone would've heard a scream and called the police."
"Well done, Detective Inspector," said Sherlock. "Samuel was punched in the stomach repeatedly to subdue and wind him. The beating was methodical, not passionate; the hits are in the same area and no clothing is torn, showing a lack of emotion. The man was doing a job, calmly. A professional. But why? Why? That is the question."
"I'm more interested in 'who?'" said Donovan.
"That too," agreed Sherlock.
Sherlock pulled out his own mobile and put "Leo Jules" into Google.
"Leo Jules" = Facebook, US White Pages, Youtube...
"Leonard Jules" London = Facebook, Yellow Pages, nothing, nothing, nothing.
"Leonard Jules" London = ... Damian Jules and his son, Leonard Jules...
Ah ha.
"Samuel Rowland" London = Facebook, Yellow Pages, nothing, nothing, nothing.
"Ah ha."
Sherlock was getting excited.
"Leonard Jules, son of government official Damian Jules. A rich government official. Conclusion: Leo was kidnapped for blackmail or revenge, monetary or political. But which?"
Sherlock drank in their gaping amazement, then exclaimed, "Ohhh, a murder disguising a political kidnapping. Yes, you heard me. Disguising. Samuel was likely collateral. Not as good as a serial killer, but a cut above the average rubbish. Brilliant. Thank you, Lestrade!"
Lestrade looked a little uncomfortable. Donovan looked horrified, and gestured to the gathered crowd. "His friends and family could be standing over there!"
Sherlock scoffed. "Then I'm sure they'll be relieved to hear that the case is half-solved."
"A little compassion wouldn't hurt," Donovan spat.
"Nor would it help," Sherlock retorted.
Donovan glared at him in disgust. "How can you just…"
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Sergeant. Get Damian Jules's address, see if his son Leo is missing."
"Five minutes at their house," Sherlock asked fervently.
Donovan tutted, "I am not having that freak tagging along."
Lestrade nodded and looked at the consulting detective apologetically. "Sherlock, thanks for the..." He gestured at the crime scene. "...this. It's appreciated. But I don't think interviews are really your area."
Sherlock frowned and paused as if he expected Lestrade to say, "But..."
Lestrade just looked him in the eye, resolved.
"Fine," Sherlock huffed. "I'll be in touch when I've solved the case."
"Sherlock, don't..."
But he was gone, in a whirl of his long black coat.
Sherlock had read all of Lestrade's texts since walking off earlier that day, but he hadn't bothered to respond.
Don't go off on your own! GL
Sherlock, I'm serious. GL
You were right. Kidnapping. Parents distraught, Leo's thought he was at Sam's and vice versa. GL
No ransom note. GL
Come on, let's work together on this. I could do with your advice! GL
Sherlock stubbed the cigarette out on the window ledge and flicked it onto his small balcony with the rest. The collection of stubs was beginning to look quite disgusting. Or perhaps like a piece of contemporary art, reflecting the state of society. One or the other, or both.
He pulled his legs up to his chest and peered over his knees at the skull on the bookshelf.
"The key is to ask the right question," he said aloud. "Question one. Why do people prefer useless declarations of sympathy to useful and effective investigation techniques?"
He paused, as if to allow the skull to respond.
"Oh yes, because they're stupid.
Question two: What do the kidnappers want from Damian Jules?"
He pushed his palms together and held them in front of his face, then sat very still, channeling his thoughts. He had, of course, already researched government official Damian Jules's recent activity as far as he could without asking Mycroft for higher level access. Bugger it if he was going to give his brother that satisfaction.
Jules had his finger in many pies, of course, many of them in some way controversial to somebody. The one that stood out was a recent green paper that the tabloids had nicknamed the "Jack Bauer law", apparently after a popular TV character who tortured terrorists for the good of national security. Like the character it was named for, Jules's green paper proposed increasing the government's right to interrogate suspected criminals and terrorists without trial or police involvement.
However, a high profile kidnapping like this would, if anything, encourage support for the Jack Bauer law - an unlikely motive for professional criminals. And if the kidnappers wanted to prevent the law from passing, they were being very, very stupid. He doubted that. If they were stupid, he would have them by now.
Dammit, he needed more data. He needed to speak to Damian Jules and figure out what the kidnappers could want from him. Sod Lestrade and Donovan, he wasn't that bad at doing compassion, and his interview techniques were bound to be more effective than theirs. The police probably couldn't even tell when someone was lying.
Idiots, the lot of them.