CHAPTER 2: THE PUPPET

FEBRUARY, 2007

Lestrade carried the last sagging cardboard box down to his new flat. While it was far lighter than many basement flats he had seen, it was chilly and grubby, an impression heightened by the Seventies wallpaper, dingy, chipped paintwork, fraying, stained carpets and a kitchen and bathroom which must have been all the rage when installed forty years ago. The central heating boiler wasn't much younger. There wouldn't be many improvements until his finances had recovered from the battering they'd taken; even amicable divorces had hidden financial costs and this mortgage was stretching his budget to the limit. While he and Julia had got a good price for the house, they'd had to split the equity and property prices were appalling. He could have looked for a place farther out but he'd had enough of commuting for hour and a quarter at each end of the day. Besides, the only reason he'd been able to afford this was because it hadn't been modernised.

He went to take a pee and grimaced when he was reminded of the horror of the bathroom suite. No doubt he'd get used to avocado. In time. But he wasn't using the bath or shower until they'd had an industrial level clean.

At least the water and electricity were on, though the gasman wouldn't be here until tomorrow, so no heat. No hot water for a shower.

No marriage.

Thought stopped him cold. The divorce would take a while to run its course but there was no turning back. He and Julia had been drifting apart for years, the gap widening so slowly that he had barely noticed it until he found himself staring across the chasm at the woman he had once loved.

Stubble rasped as he rubbed a hand over his chin. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't pick over the bones any more. Julia had her P.E. teacher and he...he had his job.

He started to unpack the stack of boxes and black plastic sacks, trying to remember where essentials like the kettle might be. He had meant to mark everything but work had been brutal and he'd barely had time to shove things in sacks before snatching a few hours sleep and starting all over again.

It was only when he headed into his bedroom that Lestrade remembered he had no furniture, only a sleeping bag. He had told Julia to keep their furniture; she had chosen it and frankly he didn't want reminders of a time when he had been happy.

Happy... There was a thought.

Before self-pity could swamp him again, he grabbed the car keys and went off to do some shopping while he still had wheels - Julia needed a car more than he did and the cash she'd given him would pay for some second-hand furniture to keep him going. Familiar with the area, he knew where the various shops were to be found. The Heart Foundation had a charity shop specialising in furniture and household goods; he ordered a battered pine table, two chairs, two bookcases, a wooden bedframe and a sofa which looked - and smelt - almost new. They cost more than he had anticipated but they were better quality than he had expected. He arranged for delivery the following morning, which would tie in nicely with the gasman and delivery of the new mattress.

Several hours of furious activity later, with the old carpets ripped up and taken down the tip and everywhere scrubbed to within an inch of its life, the place looked even bigger and smelt clean and fresh. Of course, it was a pity he had forgotten to buy light bulbs but you couldn't have everything.

The light was going, and with it the unseasonable warmth - it had been a beautiful day for the time of year. Despite the chill he left the old French doors open on to his very own garden. In London. Only thirty feet of it, true and currently covered in broken concrete, but his, with high brick walls for privacy. He sat on the step to eat a bowl of porridge in lieu of an evening meal, listening as neighbours got on with their lives, absorbing the sound of silence on his side of the wall.

Ripping off the nicotine patch he wore, he lit up. This was it, his new life, listening to other people get on with theirs while he... He wondered if there was much demand for a single, well-used workaholic.

His sense of isolation increasing, it felt uncomfortably reminiscent of the childhood spent in the Care Home that hadn't, the uncertainty of life stretching out in a remorseless grey void.

Which was fucking pathetic.

He was not going to become the cliché of a middle-aged copper, burying himself in the bottle. Besides, thirty-seven...he was in the prime of life.

He gave a soft snort of sardonic amusement. That would be right.

Still, no point moping. Surprised to discover it was already gone nine, he locked up, checked he had his wallet, phone and keys and drove the car - Julia's now - back to Barnes, where she was staying with her sister until she completed on the purchase of her new place.

It was a relief to see that Julia looked about as shell-shocked as he felt; like him she was putting a brave face on it.

"How will you get back?" she asked. "The buses aren't up to much this time of night and the nearest tube station is on the other side of the river."

Lestrade gave a faint smile. She always forgot he was a Londoner born and bred and that he knew the city better than any taxi driver.

"No worries. I'm in a mood for a walk and as I've got the rest of the week off I can indulge myself. Look after yourself."

"You, too," she murmured, kissing his cheek.

First physical intimacy they'd shared for...

New beginnings, he reminded himself briskly, before he turned away from his old life.

Fifteen minutes later Lestrade was crossing Hammersmith Bridge, humming 'Clever Trevor'. It was late enough for the traffic to have finally thinned out and mid-week there weren't many late night revellers.

As he neared the Hammersmith end of the bridge he noticed a figure down on the shoreline, lurching around in the mud. High as a kite by the look of him. He seemed to be searching for something - probably dropped his stash.

So much for his day off. With a sigh of resignation, Lestrade headed down the steps. He wouldn't leave anyone playing in the mud while the tide was coming in; it didn't do to take the Thames for granted.

He tried calling to the man but the wind blew away the sound of his voice.

It was like watching a particularly leggy version of Gollum squishing around in the mud. The bloke was rake-thin, which exaggerated the length of leg and arm, and his trousers and feet were liberally weighed down with mud.

Glad he was still wearing the clothes in which he'd been cleaning the flat, Lestrade picked his way over to the man, his expression hardening as he drew close enough to hear that the seemingly demented mutterings were about rates of decomposition.

Then he saw the severed leg.

It took most of the night to sort out the mess.

While his 'Gollum' had fresh track marks, he wasn't high, or carrying. Lestrade still wasn't sure what to make of Sherlock. He was in better physical condition than the majority of those who lived on the streets; his clothes and shoes looked designer label quality, even if the names didn't mean anything to him, and they fitted too well to be second-hand. No watch, jewellery or ID,

intelligent, articulate and with an accent that screamed public school. Even this short acquaintance had been enough to demonstrate that Sherlock was arrogant, impatient and insulting in that casual throwaway style he'd last heard while dating Baltazar, his very own Sloane Ranger - and that had been pre-Julia. So...fifteen years ago? Must be. A lifetime.

But he'd forgotten how entertaining it could be. And Sherlock was bright, intimidatingly bright, offering leaps of logic amidst the streams of conjecture and information, so that you were at least two sentences behind him all the time.

"Do try to keep up, Inspector," Sherlock had said impatiently at one point.

Lestrade had just grinned, enjoying his cheek. Then he'd realised he wasn't joking.

"Perhaps if you were to speak slower," he suggested dryly.

"At least you were listening. Can I have a cigarette?"

"How - ?" Lestrade grimaced. He been chain-smoking all evening. "Sure."

Sherlock bent to the flame, inhaled deeply. "Currently under some stress, recently divorced - no, in the process. Been using cleaning products, so just moved. Something in need of renovation but - "

"That's enough!" said Lestrade, grateful that none of his team were within earshot. "I like my private life to be just that, OK?"

"Intriguing."

"Not really. But I'm their boss - and I see more than enough of them at work."

"Boring."

"Just smoke the damn cigarette. In fact you can have the rest of the packet."

"How many times have you given up?" asked Sherlock slyly, but he pocketed the cigarettes quickly enough.

"Too many. How about you?"

"What are we talking about here?"

"Cigarettes. And...heroin would be my guess."

"Not bad," allowed Sherlock, with the faintest of smiles. "If you're giving up, you won't need your lighter either."

Lestrade laughed. "Here you go. Why don't I just empty out my wallet and let you pick through it. Not that you'll find much. Come on, into the car with you. I have the feeling you'll be able to help with our enquiries."

"Oh, I can."

Sherlock had been right. For a detective wannabe he had come up with some shrewd observations about the likely age and nationality of the owner of the leg, what had been used to sever it and the whereabouts of the rest of the corpse. There were ferociously strong currents in the Thames, about which Sherlock knew far too much.

He had also linked the corpse with his claim that homeless people were vanishing from the streets. Which was a no-brainer. The attrition rate was appalling. Between drugs, alcohol, hypothermia in winter, poor, if any, medical treatment and attacks...

But it couldn't hurt to look into it after his leave.

More interestingly, given the track marks old and new, Sherlock wasn't in the system. Nor had he called up any big guns. Usually someone from his background couldn't wait to invoke the power of money, or family influence and Lestrade would stake his new flat on Sherlock having access to at least one of the two. His kind of arrogance needed firm roots and there was nothing like old money for giving a sense of stability.

A new nicotine patch in place, Lestrade finished off the last of the necessary paperwork. He sipped without enthusiasm at the lukewarm tea from the vending machine and wished he had chosen coffee. Not that it made much difference to the taste.

His team were beavering away - they were coming together nicely - though he'd swear his new detective constable, Sally Donovan, was already gunning for his job. She was bright, thorough and seemed honest; on the downside, she was inclined to be too brisk with victims and their families. There again, some coppers never quite got used to the fact that not everyone was a suspect. And she was sometimes too quick to leap to conclusions. He gave an involuntary grin. She certainly hadn't approved of his releasing Sherlock. Though that could have been due to the fact Sherlock had pointed out she had recently gained four pounds in weight. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

Could tell he'd never been married.

His long day catching up with him, Lestrade yawned and leant back in his chair, his eyelids feeling weighted from lack of sleep.

"Wakey, wakey, Greg," said his DCI, sounding disgustingly lively for a man close to retirement. "What have you been up to? The Chief Super wants a word. I thought you had a few days off?"

"I made the mistake of checking that a bloke paddling around in Thames mud was all right and discovered he'd found a severed leg. Why is it that good deeds always bite you on the arse?"

"You think you'd know better after all these years. You'd best hot-foot it to the DCS's office. Have we got a new dress code I should know about?"

"I understand you're not officially on duty," said the Detective Chief Superintendent, taking in the paint-splattered, torn jeans and faded sweatshirt with one comprehensive glance as Lestrade entered his office. His tone was untypically jovial but his eyes were coldly assessing behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.

Lestrade gave mental thanks to his DCI for paving his way.

"Ah, no, sir. I moved today and was cleaning my new flat, hence..." His gestured down, noting that he'd lost a fly-button on his fifteen-year-old 501s. Hardly surprising really, it was a wonder he'd been able to fit into them.

"There's someone who wants to see you. Someone rather important."

"Me?"

"So it seems. He's one of those grey, anonymous men in suits who always get what they want."

"IPCC?"

"Worse than those buggers. I reckon he's a secret bloody squirrel."

It took a moment to sink in. "You mean like James Bond?" Lestrade was mortified to hear himself ask.

The Chief Superintendent's face cracked into something resembling a smile. "Only if James Bond carries an umbrella and has a face the colour of an uncooked pudding. He's younger than I expected, given his obvious seniority, and he's slick as a dog turd on the sole of your shoe. Watch your back, Greg."

Lestrade felt a slither of apprehension. It was never good news when the Chief Superintendent remembered your name.

"Sir."

"Well, off you go. He'll be here at ten. You've just got time to go home and change. A shave wouldn't go amiss."

As Lestrade's main criteria when selecting clothes was affordability and comfort, it was difficult to imagine anything in his wardrobe making a good impression but at least he'd get a decent cup of tea before this meeting.