2. The distant past.
T: Warnings and disclaimers remain the same.
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The tinge of excitement clear in her brother's voice does little to dissuade the terrible sense of foreboding that has knotted itself into her stomach and yet it is enough to have her agreeing to his request rather than giving the denial that had been her initial impulse.
Hastily scribbling down the number that Apollo recites she bids him a swift goodbye, makes her excuses to her still sleeping father and then makes her way down to the courthouse.
It takes a few minutes to locate someone who understands how the filing system works and then a further half hour to locate the file in question. The file is simple enough, the plane manila envelope marked with a printed replica of its code and a handwritten annotation of the more informal code used by lawyers to identify their cases. Each loop and slant of this collection of numbers and letters has been created with her father's unique hand and yet he has never once openly discussed this case or even mentioned it in passing.
Foreboding tightening just that little on her stomach she opens the envelope out and begins to work her way through the various slips of paper contained within.
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Pail grey eyes stair at him with a strong mix of desperation and curiosity, a combination he has long since become used to and which further strengthens his resolve.
"I'll gladly help you, Mr Guard, but first I need know what actually happened."
"I was simply doing my rounds, Mr Wright, when the alarm went off. 'Course I ran to the painting that'd set it off and then boom out I went like a light. Next I know the boss was loomin' over me with a couple of coppers askin' for my arrest."
"What time did the alarm sound?"
"8:30 pm, right on the dot."
"How can you be so very specific?"
"I heard the old Westminster in the lobby chimin' not two seconds previous. She's set a little fast, see, to make sure the other clocks in the place are keepin' the right time."
"Can you recall how you were knocked out, Mr Guard?" He enquires as he makes a swift note of the previous nugget of information.
"Far as I could see, Mr Wright, there wasn't nothin' or nobody there, but then I was only conscious for the briefest of instants after steppin' into that room."
"Yes, well, thank you for the pointers, Mr Guard and I'll be certain to come back and see you if anything else comes to mind." Hearing well the insincerity in his own voice he scrabbles to his feet, bids his client another farewell and starts the long walk to the museum.
He'd just hoped that there would be something there that'd either clarify the case a little or instil just a smidgen of hope into his heart.
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The sight of Gumshoe's smiling face as he steps into the museums decedent lobby, fills him with the oddest mix of despair and relief.
"Oh hey, pal" The detective remarks as he spots him, the cheerful tone of his voice continuing as he says, "I'm afraid you're going to have a hard time with this one, pal."
Faint edges of a tension headache beginning at the corners of his eyes he forces his lips into a bright smile and enquires,
"Have you found the painting?"
"Not yet, pal, but it's only a matter of time. The department's got their best turning over Mr Guard's flat as we speak, you see."
Biting back the urge to point out the obvious to the Detective he, instead, responds,
"Then there's still hope. Without the painting you've no solid evidence that my client is at all involved in this case, beyond, of course, his 'official' capacity."
"I guess that's true, pal." The Detective remarks, before enquiring, "You want a look around the crime scene, right?"
"Right."
Beckoning to the other policeman, who had until that point been observing them from the opposite side of the room, Gumshoe holds a brief, whispered conversation, before clapping him hard about the shoulder and guiding him under the police tap and into the crime scene.
"At precisely 8:30 last night the security system tied into the controversial 'Portrait of a man' was activated. Ten minuets later the museum head, as well as two police officers altered by the alarm, found the painting missing and Mr Guard unconscious on the floor. No one other than Mr Guard was spotted entering or leaving the room's one doorway in the moments before of after the alarm and traces of the unique oil used on the painting were found on his fingers."
"Yet even with those traces doesn't the fact that he was unconscious rule him out as a suspect?"
"We're currently working on the theory that Mr Guard had arranged for an accomplice to collect that painting from one of the adjacent rooms and that, after making the drop, he knocked himself out in order to remain free from the suspect list."
"Isn't that a little far fetched?"
"Art crime is a tricky business, pal, and to get anywhere in it you need to be devious."
The logic is, infuriatingly, sound and optimism withering just a little further he begins to look for anything that might provide some form of clue.
Almost instantly his eye is drawn to the blank space on the wall where once the painting had hung. A cursory glance about the wall informs him that nothing other than the painting had been disturbed during the theft, precision that would, along with Gumshoe's working theory, require expert knowledge of both the building and of the 'business'.
With the prospect of a long night researching his client's background pressing him further into depression, he moves onto examining the room itself.
This time his eyes are drawn to the security camera's that dot the ceiling and, optimism once more worming its way into his heart, he enquires,
"Have you checked the footage on those cameras?"
"Ah, I'm sorry to tell you this, Pal, but every camera in the area cuts into static a few seconds after the alarm trips."
The words should, of course, make him feel all the worse and yet rather than do as such they prompt him to enquire, "Has the sound also been lost?" Without quite understanding why.
"I couldn't say, Pal."
"Could you have a copy of the footage sent to my office, Detective?"
"Can I ask why?"
"A hunch."
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Letting out a tense little breathy her picks the phone off the hook, presses the receiver into the crook of his neck and types in an increasingly familiar number.
For a moment it seems as though his effort will prove fruitless and then a confident, obviously tired voice, remarks,
"This better be important, Wright."
Smiling a little simply for the comforting sound of the other's voice, he enquires,
"Do you still keep in touch with Emma?"
"She writes every now and again to let me know how her studies are going."
"In which case do you think you could send me her address?"
"For what purpose?"
"I've got a little security camera footage that I want her to look at."
"Footage that relates to a case that you've undertaken?"
"That's correct."
"Might I have the details?"
"Sure." He proceeds to inform his friend of every little nuance of the case and, after a brief instant of silence, the other says,
"Clearly you are unable to cope with working on a case without assistance and, as Miss Fey is currently 'occupied'…" The sentence remains uncompleted, possibly because he feels embarrassed to complete the thought or possibly because his foolish pride prevents him from doing as such. He understand the intent of the words, however, and smiling, he says,
"Thank you, Miles," before he ends the call.
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T: Next chapter should hopefully be up on Sunday, until then why not R+R
