'Morning, Sherlock, John' Lestrade greeted us with a friendly wave. We exchanged a few pleasantries before turning our attention to the dead woman at our feet. She lay on her back, in a garden bed behind a thick hedge, which had been disturbed not too long ago. Sherlock kneeled down to inspect the body while I got the details from Lestrade. She was a pretty young thing with heels that could most likely have been a murder weapon, a body like a supermodel, and wearing make-up that looked like it would weigh a ton on her face.
'Name's Emily Cunningham. She's got a positive ID in her wallet, which the killer didn't take-'
'Obviously!' Sherlock ejaculated from below, his gaze fixed intently on her exposed thigh. I nudged him with my knee square in the spine and returned my attention to Lestrade.
'Single gunshot between the eyes, no sign of a struggle and no apparent reason to be here' he concluded. I nodded and we turned to Sherlock.
'Go on, then. Do your stuff' Lestrade chuckled.
'You've been waiting for this all week' I added. Lestrade and I chuckled, while Sherlock stood up and looked down at the body.
'The girl's about twenty years old. She worked as a receptionist at a local garage. She was meant to be here to meet up with a wealthy customer, who was also her lover – probably a sugar-daddy sort of situation. Lover shot her elsewhere and dumped her here.' His deduction reeled off his tongue like it was nothing. Lestrade nodded, but had an unsure expression.
'But how -' Sherlock groaned and cut Lestrade's sentence short, as if it was damningly obvious, and staring at him in the face – which was quite accurate, because the girl had her glassy, dry eyes wide open and glaring at Lestrade.
'The girl is wearing professional attire – but not too expensive or flashy, something an office worker would wear. She could be any type of office worker, but she's young, got shockingly bright peroxide hair and is wearing a tiny dress with massive heels, so receptionist it is. Obviously she wears this sort of attire for attention – probably in a male-dominated industry. One could say a post office, or a law firm, but this outfit is racy, it's saucy; she'd get in trouble for this at a post office, and she's too young to be working in a firm at the age of twenty unless she started her law degree at fifteen, sixteen – so which other industry requires receptionists and is male-dominated? Garage, obviously. She's just finished up from work, because the smell of fuel is quite fresh, and her perfume, despite spraying four, five – no, six times – across her hair and neck, isn't doing anything to cover the smell. As a young woman in her position, dressed like a tart and surrounded by men with brains, collectively, the size of a peanut, she would have to keep the customers happy – especially rich, male customers with Jaguars. Jaguar, you ask? Yes, obviously! There is an imprint of the logo of a Jaguar on the back of her thigh, quite high up, which indicates she was sitting on his keys – perhaps on his lap, or on the car seat, but the former is probably more so the fact; and it also indicates that she hasn't been dead for very long, maybe only half an hour or so. It's quite probable that this older lover could be her boss, because of the expense of the car and the fact she wouldn't go for anyone that couldn't provide her with cash, but a customer is also quite likely. She came here, wanting to meet with her fancy rich lover, as indicated by this company appointment card from a garage, walking distance from here – so now the boss is looking more likely. His wife found out about the affair, went to break it off with the young woman, creates a scene and threatens to expose something which would, obviously, harm his position and ends up shooting her between the eyes' Sherlock stated, probably without taking a single pause. Lestrade and I stared at him, trying to digest the supernova of information he had imparted on us. After a moment's silence, Sherlock piped up.
'Had I missed anything?' he asked. Lestrade and I shook our heads solemnly, and tried not to crack a smile.
'God, you must have been bored' Lestrade said. Sherlock's eyes widened, tilted his head, mockingly and sharply inhaled through his nose - which could be taken as Sherlock sign-language for 'obviously', but couldn't be bothered to say it for the hundredth time in the past thirty-odd seconds. Lestrade went to open his mouth, but for fear that he might make Sherlock utter another 'obvious', I interjected as quickly as possible:
'To the garage, then?' I asked. Sherlock simply nodded and lead the way. Perhaps he was also sick of hearing his favourite word.