Look at her. She's wearing a mask; I can see it already. It should be easy to remove.
"Mrs Monkford?" I stride towards her, hesitating in the last few steps. John is still following me, but he'll play along. He always does. I just have to make sure I don't give him too big a part.
"Yes?" The Monkford woman is red-eyed and her powdered face has tear-tracks running through it. She glances first at me, then at John, and then over her shoulder. "Sorry – I've already spoken with two policemen…"
"Er… we're not from the police, we're…er…"
I hear John's voice and throw the last of my backstory together before he can ruin the game. Be quiet, man.
"Sherlock Holmes" I interrupt him and grasp the woman's hand. "Very old friend of your husband's…" I tuck my chin in and hold back a non-existent lump in my throat. She blinks at me, clearly wracking her brains. "We, erm… we grew up together." I'm still shaking her hand. She can't think properly.
"I'm sorry, who? I don't think he ever mentioned you."
I see my cue. I've hooked her. Now is my chance to reel out the pieces. "Oh, he must have done… this… this is horrible isn't it? I just… can't believe it I only saw him the other day" I begin to blather, but mistakenly look at Watson. He's staring at me in disbelief. He's going to give me away; she's noticed his expression and suspicion is already clouding her face. She probably thinks I'm a journalist. "Same old Ian, not a care in the world," I continue, and nearly distract myself with the concept of faking a faked emotional for the sake of a memory.
Ah, the worm is turning.
"Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months…" She's firm; she's determined to wipe out any speculation from another source. "I… who are you?"
I need more. I need her to think that I'm someone close to him. I need her to justify herself. I need to do what these people do… Allowing my voice to rise an octave, I hear myself prompt her with the words 'really strange that he hired a car'… and the world roars into slow-motion.
It's 1998. I'm on the underground. It's dark. I'm following someone; they killed a man. I don't remember who – the memory has taken a more purposeful meaning. I reach Baker Street, and I pursue them off the tube. Knowing where they are heading, I stop at the payphone and call Lestrade. It was to be his first call from me, and it was be the first time Scotland Yard pays attention to my thoughts.
It also saves my life.
I walk away from the payphone, and take a shortcut through some staff exits to head off the wanted man. I round a corner, exchange a few words, and there is a peculiar noise. The bullet lodged between my ribs feels like it's tearing me apart, and I cannot move. What I can only assume is agony rages through my chest; I grit my teeth and my eyes water ceaselessly…
I let the trigger push my reactions.
"Why would he do that… bit suspicious, isn't it?" Two tears roll down my face, one after the other, and Mrs Monkford follows them with her eyes. I feel a small sense of pride; it took me months to teach my body this response.
She looks me up and down, grimacing. "No it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all." Her stories are becoming angry statements. She is desperate for her truth to be the only one out there.
One last push – I roll my eyes up and let my voice crack.
"Oh, well… that was Ian… Ian all over… ha."
"No it WASN'T."
"Wasn't it. Interesting."
I eye her with satisfaction, and know that I'm now the only one with the real answers. The mask is gone. I turn away from her, wipe my face, and leave.