"It's a kidnap," said Gregson as he led them through the security barrier of an expensive apartment block. Sherlock was looking all round and up at the brick faced modern building. Joan looked too. There was an underground car park, and some neat landscaping, but nothing remarkable.
"A fifteen year old girl taken from her bedroom last night. Tall, slim, pretty, blonde hair, last seen in jeans and a pink t shirt.". Sherlock caught Gregson's eye aa they waited for the lift. "I heard it on the scanner."
"No witnesses, nobody saw anything. The whole family were in the house when it happened. They hear a scream from upstairs, rush up and find the door wedged shut from the inside. When they break it down, she's gone."
"Clever," said Sherlock. "How long to break into the room? A few minutes?" Gregson shrugged.
"The room has windows which only open an inch or two. Not enough for someone to get in. The only people seen leaving the building were residents. The family has searched the whole block and the girl, name of Cara Bissell, is gone."
They ride the lift to the fifth floor. Gregson turned to Sherlock. "I called you in because I hoped you would figure out how the girl was snatched from a locked room. But I have to warn you - go easy on the parents. They're freaking out "
"That's understandable," said Joan as they exited the elevator into a carpeted foyer.
"Sure. But these people are specially freaking out because they, ah, kind of superstitious." He knocked on the apartment door - the only door in the foyer, Joan noticed - and gave Sherlock a hard stare. "Go easy, right?"
The door opened and they went inside.
They entered a luxurious double height living room with pale carpets, lots of greenery, and large windows. Curtains were drawn across, but brass lamps kept the room bright.
Mrs Bissell was a mature woman in her mid to late fifties. She wore a cream blouse and cardigan which Joan instantly identified as designer - Jil Sanders, she guessed - and slacks of the same fluid cut. Her face was pale and her make up a little blurred from tears, but she received them calmly and introduced herself.
Sherlock was already hunting through the apartment as Joan and Gregson sat on a white leather couch.
"My husband is in his study. He'll be out in a moment." Mrs Bissell gave a weak smile. "Can I offer you coffee, or tea?" Everyone declined.
After introductions, Gregson asked Mrs Bissell to go through the events of the previous night.
"We were down here - I was tidying up the dinner things, my husband was working - and Cara was upstairs doing homework."
"Ha," said Sherlock, and was hushed by Joan's glare.
"We heard a scream and rushed up."
"It's the penthouse," said a man, Joan presumed Mr Bissell, comng in. He was a tall, good looking man in his early thirties. He wore a grey suit of a cut Joan thought she had seen before, but couldn't place.
"When we got up there the door was jammed. She - or someone - had wedged it from the inside. The inside!" Mr Bissell stared from Sherlock to Joan. His voice had an edge of panic. "We hammered down the door but by the time we got in, she was gone. Our daughter, my only child, gone." His face crumpled and he put his hands over his eyes.
Mrs Bissell reached across to comfort him. "Have faith," she said. "Cara is one of the chosen."
Bissell just shook his head. "Someone got in here," he said. "They got in and took her and now you have to find her!"
"Can we see the room where she disappeared?" Sherlock asked. They all made their way to the corner of the living room, where a brass balustraded spiral staircase rose from a collection of nearly ceiling-height potted palms.
Aa they ascended the stairs Sherlock leaned over to peer down into the foliage. "Hmn," was all he said.
"How long had your daughter been upstairs before you heard the scream?" Sherlock asked as they made their way along a heavy carpeted passage to Cara's bedroom.
"An hour," suggested Mrs Bissell. "Maybe more. I was busy clearing up after dinner, and my husband was working."
"So you had not actually seen her for an hour or more when ypu realised she was gone. Hmmm " Sherlock said again.
The bedroom was pleasant but plain. Joan thought back to her own teenage room, and noticed the absence of pop posters, sports paraphernalia, or cosmetics. There was a notebook on the desk, some school books, and that was about it.
Sherlock got the nod from Gregson to look at the notebook. He put on gloves and scrolled through system files, frowning. "Does your daughter enjoy music, Mrs Bissell?"
Mrs Bissell shrugged. "We aren't really a musical family. We don't watch a lot of TV, don't keep up with popular culture. We spend a lot of time with people from our church."
Sherlock had already abandoned the notebook. He examined the windows. Each swung out just a few inches before being stopped by a bolt.
"It's not been tampered with," Gregson said.
"It is the work of devils," said Bissell. "Cursed demons have entered and spirited away my beautiful daughter!" Again he seemed on the point of collapse.
"Michael. Be still. This man will find our daughter." Mrs Bissell turned to Sherlock. "Won't you, Mr Holmes?"
"I will do my best," Sherlock said. He wandered out into the passage and looked over the bannister into the living room.
"You are unlucky with palms, yes?"
"What?" Mrs Bissell said.
"This plant pot is empty. Yet from its size it must have held a venerable plant. Did you lose one to blight, or overwatering?"
"A tropical disease, common in this type of palm." Mr Bissell spoke. "Our plant contractor took it out last week, and the replacement will be here soon."
"I see."
He turned back to the bedroom.
Joan was watching him. This was Sherlock at his best. The intent, the focus, the passion...
She blinked, and became aware that she had been gazing fixedly at Sherlock. As she looked around, she saw Gregson watching her in turn.
He gave her a slight smile, nothing to offend the Bissells. Joan inclined her head and looked back at Sherlock.
Now Sherlock was crouched down. He held up a chunk of wood. "Is this what was used to wedge the door?"
Gregson nodded.
"It's had a nail put in the end," Sherlock said. He showed them the small hole. "And..." He spent a few moments scratching at it. "Yes, here: a thread from a bit of string."
Gregson pounced on it. "So the door was pulled shut from the outside."
"Exactly." Sherlock turned to the parents, who were looking shocked. "So tell me, Mr and Mrs Bissell, what reason would your daughter have had to run away?"
