I've been reading Simon Eccles' bank statements for most of the afternoon. I feel really guilty, like I'm breaking the law and that's because I am.
This morning Sherlock went out, ostensibly to buy a newspaper but I don't think he knows where the newsagents is or what he sells, and he came back with James and a boy. The boy was about twelve if I can judge age and he was even grimier and thinner than James.
"This is Tiger." James introduces the boy who looks about as fierce as ball of string.
"Roar." Says Tiger in a matter of fact voice, I see Sherlock suppressing a grin.
"Hi Tiger, want some breakfast?" I ask, trying not to be patronising but having no idea how to talk to a person of his age. He nods. I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on and bacon in the frying pan.
"Ok Tiger, there's the laptop. We don't even know what bank he was with, will that be a problem?" The boy shakes his head, logs on to my laptop without being told the password and starts to flicker his fingers over the keys.
James sits down on the sofa and put the television on; he puts his feet up and watches GMTV. Sherlock comes into the kitchen where, it seems, I am preparing breakfast for urchins.
"What's that about?" I cock my head in Tiger's direction; he is still tapping away, occasionally looking over the monitor into space as though he's thinking.
"Hacker." Says Sherlock. "One of the very best. We need to look at Eccles' bank statements and I don't want to ask Mycroft for help. James suggested Tiger." Ok. That James knows these people does not surprise me but that Sherlock does is another matter.
"How's he going to find his password? We don't know anything about Eccles." I turn the bacon.
"I googled him. There was a page for him on Facebook and on LinkedIn. Of course I couldn't get into them but Tiger can, easily." I think about my protected blog. Jesus, anyone could be reading it. There could be hordes of people awaiting the next instalment of my sex life. Bugger.
"I'm in." The bacon is not even cooked. Tiger's voice hasn't changed at all; he's not excited or pleased. Sherlock takes the bacon sandwich to him looks at the screen.
"Beautiful." He says. He reaches into his pocket and frowns. Then he turns to me and snaps his fingers. I gave him a twenty pound note and he raises his eyebrows. I give him another and think I'll have to go to the cash machine again now.
He hands the boys the money and the sandwich and they leave. Sherlock turns to me.
"Right John, get familiar with his accounts. You should be able to piece together his normal week. Don't leave the site for more than ten minutes or it'll log you off. Do you need the bathroom?" I dutifully go and come back to see Sherlock clicking the site to keep it open. I take the laptop and sit down. He puts on his scarf and coat.
"Off to see Lestrade again, he wants me to look at some pictures. I don't know why, I'm not taking the case, it's too obvious."
"What is it?" he sighs and starts to fasten buttons on his grey coat.
"People trafficking, sex slavery I think. From Eastern Europe. It's very boring." I look up from the screen and I know my mouth is open.
"Sherlock that's people's lives you're talking about there! You can't just decide it's boring when some poor girls..."
"And boys." He adds going to the door.
"And boys." I say firmly, "are being treated in this appalling way. You have to help if you can." He looks at me for a long minute. I can almost see his brain working.
"Ok John. I'll look at these pictures and see what I think. But I'm not promising anything." I nod. I know that Sherlock looking at the pictures might be the best chance those kids have.
He kisses me before he goes out the door.
So, like I said, I've been reading Simon Eccles' bank statements for most of the afternoon. I feel really guilty, like I'm breaking the law and that's because I am. I have an A- Z with me and a Yellow Pages. By now I can pretty much tell you Eccles's usual week.
He's a member of The Berkeley Health Club in Knightsbridge, very expensive and elite. He has a monthly payment to them and I know he goes there regularly because he usually buys something in a local supermarket after he's been there. He uses the Tube to get to work but not every day, his Oyster card is on a reasonable top up but not what he'd need for everyday travel. He buys books and CDs from Amazon and shops on EBay. He goes drinking at the weekends except for the first weekend of every month. His card shows debits from the card machine on the same street as The Punchbowl on Mayfair and he's also used his card behind the bar. He shops on Oxford Street, spending about £400 every fortnight. I'm guessing he is a smart dresser.
None of this tells me where he has gone. Or why.
I hoped there'd be some transactions after the date Mycroft said he went missing, some withdrawals somewhere sunny or foreign which would indicate where he was. But nothing, nothing at all.
I'm re reading and checking my list again when Sherlock comes home. He's got two pizza boxes with him and I try not to look surprised because last time he was thoughtful and I was shocked he got annoyed.
"Get anywhere?" he asks taking the laptop and puts it on the table next to the pizza boxes. I shake my head.
"I can follow Eccles around London but I have no idea where he is now." We eat the pizza, mine ham and pineapple, Sherlock's pepperoni, and I tell him all I know about Simon Eccles.
"Why doesn't he go out on the first Saturday of the month?" he asks mouth barely empty. I shrug.
"Maybe he doesn't get paid 'til later?" Mouth full now, he points to the screen where the balance is shown to be more than healthy before that weekend. I nod, he's right. "Maybe he does something else that weekend?" I ask, an idea forming in my head. Sherlock smiles around his pizza and nods encouragingly. I look again at the screen. "But what?"
Sherlock moves the laptop closer to him and flicks us back to the previous two months of statements. On the latter one is a standing order for £300 to a payee identified as just 'RR'. I frown and flick back to the month before this one. There it is again. And again, as far as the bank website will allow us to go. But it stopped two months ago. I look at Sherlock.
"I imagine if we find out who this RR person is we might find out where Simon Eccles was going on those first Saturdays. They might be connected." He crams the last piece of pizza in and grins. On anyone else it would be unattractive but it's Sherlock.
"Perhaps, whoever this RR is, they've done something to Eccles because he stopped paying them?" I suggest.
"Blackmail?" Sherlock suggests and then shakes his head. "I doubt it; £300 isn't much of a blackmail sum." I nod, he's right.
"We could ask Mycroft?" I muse, thinking about Mycroft's 'safe' phone number. Sherlock shakes his head.
"He can't help us beyond the absolute end of the line. We can work this out." He picks up the phone and, looking at the screen, dials a number.
"60- 25- 89, 0977359," he says clearly into the receiver. "Simon Eccles, 07 04 71, SW7 6LH." He pauses as he's put through to a customer services representative. "Hi, I'm just looking at my statements here and I need to amend a Standing Order for £300 to RR? I'm not sure the amount is right and I can't find the original letter they sent to me when I set it up. Could you possibly...? You can give me the address though right? Great. Great. Yes I've got a pen." He scribbles something on the pizza box. "Ok thanks, no that's it thank you. You've been a great help." He beams at the invisible customer services person. Then he disconnects the call.
"They couldn't give me a phone number, which would have been easiest, but they did have a postal address for RR." He taps the paper. "I think we need to pay this person a visit." He finishes his pizza and is eyeing mine when my mobile beeps. I look at it; it's a text, from Lestrade.
'Enjoying the pizza? If it wasn't for me you'd starve you know.' I look at Sherlock.
"Did Lestrade tell you to buy lunch?" he nods, oblivious to why this might not be the romantic gesture it first appeared to be. I sigh.
"What happened with Lestrade's case?" Sherlock eats the last piece of my pizza and throws himself on the sofa.
"He showed me the pictures of eight teenagers, all missing from their homes in the Ukraine. You were right John, they're not all girls. He showed me some blurry CCTV footage which he thinks might show one of the girls in the pictures. I told him where to be looking considering the location of the footage and he said he'd get back to me if anything new comes up."
The next day we take a cab to the address Sherlock got from the bank. The building is a white stucco Georgian house in a very expensive part of London. The front door is a shiny black with a large silver ring door knocker and nothing else to distinguish it. It is flanked by two enormous white pillars which are led to by six white steps. The place is imposing and grand.
"I don't think we should knock until we know what is going on in there." Says Sherlock bending down to tie his shoelace even though he's wearing shoes that don't; tie up. I look at my phone, mainly for cover.
"How are we going to find out? It could be a house, or a business. Hell, it could be anything." He nods and we wander a bit further down the street to a bus stop. We stand there, hoping a bus doesn't come. Luckily for us this is a part of London where Boris Johnson doesn't consider the residents need public transport, so the bus doesn't come and we get to watch the house.
After about an hour when I'm just about to give up a car pulls up outside. The car is a black Bentley, sleek and elegant. The engine hardly makes a noise and the contrast between the car and the white of the pristine building is startling. A man gets out of the back door. He is wearing a sharp black suit and he is carrying the sort of briefcase foreigners expect all Englishman to own. He runs smartly up the steps, we hear his shoes clipping on the stone and he knocks on the door. After a moment it opens and a women steps briefly onto the threshold.
She is tall and slim; her blonde hair is tied up in a complicated way on the top of her head. She's wearing black, I can't see from here exactly what and she kisses the man lightly on his cheek and ushers him inside. The door closes and the car pulls away. Sherlock turns to me.
"John your phone." He snaps his fingers just to make sure I understand his urgency. I sigh and pass it to him and he sprints off down the street.
I see him run up the steps and rap on the door knocker. He waits and raps again. The door opens sharply and someone else answers the door. A small dark haired woman.
"I think your guest dropped his phone." I hear his voice down the street; it is well educated, not out of place in this part of town. The maid takes the phone and closes the door. My phone! A moment later the door is opened again and she hands the phone back to Sherlock. He nods, says something I can't quite hear and comes back down the road to me.
"Well? Any wiser." He nods but he doesn't look certain.
"I'll tell you on the way to lunch."
We order our sausage sandwiches in a greasy cafe in Seven Dials and I wait for Sherlock to finish thinking. His eyes, usually so focussed are miles away and his mouth is pursed. Eventually I can't wait any longer and I interrupt his thoughts.
"So? What is it?" he looks at me like he's just realised I'm here.
"Hmm? Oh yes. Well I couldn't see much, the maid held the door open only slightly like she didn't want to reveal the inside to anyone. It seemed immaculate and expensive and residential as you'd imagine from the outside but there was something of a business about the place. Anyway all I got was this." He shows me my mobile phone. On the screen is a number.
"How did you...?" he smiles and pats my hand. Even at such an innocent gesture I can feel the electricity.
"They have an old Bakelite telephone on a stand in the hall. On the circular centre of the dial was this number. I read it while the maid was looking at your mobile." I am openly impressed.
"Wow. That's amazing. What do we do now?" he copies the number to my contacts and then starts to dial another number.
"We phone Lestrade and see if he can help us with the address and number. Hello? Yes, Sherlock. No, I have no more ideas." He frowns trying to think what normal people say in these circumstances. "Sorry. Yes. Of course. Well, anyway..." he starts brightly, pleased to be off a subject in which he has no interest. I shake my head and he frowns. "I wondered if you could see if you have anything on this address and telephone number for me? Come on, you scratch my back... well, you know what I mean." He waits and then smiles. "Marvellous! Ring on John's number if you find anything, will you? Thanks, great. Bye."
"He's going to ring us if he finds anything. I don't; think he is very happy with me..." I nod and drink my coffee.
"Well, he thinks you should be putting more energy into helping his case I suppose." Sherlock frowns.
"Found anything boys?" it's Mycroft and he's sliding into the booth next to me and opposite Sherlock. He smiles conspiratorially. How the hell did he find us?
"I don't think either of us qualifies for that nomenclature." Sherlock sounds sour. "And you're hardly a maiden aunt or a school nurse." He purses his lips and squints. "Actually..." Mycroft sighs and shifts on the vinyl seat to face me.
"Have you found anything?" I push the piece of paper with the address on it over to him across the Formica table top. He glances down but even I see that he knows the address, he doesn't even read it. He nods.
"Very good, very good. And what do you know about..." he taps a fingernail on the paper. I shake my head.
"Nothing, it's a very expensive house and it seems in a nice area, respectable." For some reason this tickles Mycroft and he giggles behind a hand. I raise my eyebrows but he doesn't elaborate.
"If you know this place and you know who this RR is then why didn't you tell us?" I glance at Sherlock who is sitting back in the booth, long legs out across the bench and watching Mycroft like a hawk.
Mycroft smiles an apologetic smile. It almost looks sincere.
"Unfortunately John I'm not at liberty to help you with this. I have certain... loyalties I have to keep and this would be in breach of most of them." He screws up his face. I sigh; this is such an old tune now.
"So why don't you just go away and let us follow this wild goose chase then Mycroft? This popping up is getting tedious." Sherlock snaps, leaning across the table from his corner. Mycroft sighs, as though Sherlock is my pet dog who has failed to behave again.
"Goodbye John," he puts his hand on my shoulder and gives a little squeeze, Sherlock's eyes narrow.
There is an awkward silence and then my phone rings. Sherlock snatches it up and presses the button to connect the call.
"Hi, right, nothing? Say that again...," he writes on the paper on the table, "Vanessa Brandon? Anything else? Right. Ok. Thanks. Bye."
I look at him expectantly. He frowns and taps the paper in exactly the same way that Mycroft has just done. I don't tell him.
"Vanessa Brandon, no former arrests or charges. Lestrade only has a name. Hmmm." He hands the phone to me. "John, dial the number. I want you to ask for Ms Brandon, tell her you're a friend of Eccles and say he recommended you speak to her."
"What?" I stammer, "me? Why me?" he sighs.
"Because if the maid answers she's already spoken to me and might recognise my voice. We don't know who we're dealing with." I frown but it makes sense. Damn. He leans across to me and I feel his hand under the table running across my leg, I get those tingles again. "I'll make it worth your while." he waggles an eyebrow. I take the phone.
"It better be good Sherlock," I fake menace and he chuckles.
"I'm always good John."
I dial the number, my heart beating like a pneumatic drill, blood loud in my ears.
"Hello?" it is a man's voice.
"Hi," I sound nervous even to myself. "I'm a friend of Simon Eccles and he told me I should get in touch with Miss, er Ms Brandon," I realise too late that I don't know if she's a Miss or a Mrs. and hastily amend what I am saying.
"I see. And how could Ms Brandon help you?" the man's voice is careful, noncommittal.
"Well, Simon said he had a direct debit to her and that she... helped him with some things." God I am an idiot, Sherlock is rolling his eyes.
"You'll have to be vetted." The man is still careful but I think I might have said the right thing, what is it they're doing? Drugs?
"Of course, I thought so I mean obviously you can't have..." I laugh as though I know what I'm saying. The man's voice laughs too.
"Of course. We have a gathering at the weekend but I think I might be able to squeeze you an appointment with Ms Brandon before that if you're eager to attend? Thursday? At 2.30 at the house? Do you have the address?" I nod and then realise he can't see me.
"Yes, yes, that would be wonderful. I'm impatient to get to meet everyone." I have no idea what I am saying.
"Of course. Just some preliminary questions Mr...Erm..." I look about wildly and my eyes alight on the shiny seats of the booth.
"Vinyl. Mr Vinyl." I say closing my eyes at my own utter lack of intelligence. Mr Vinyl? What am I? An 80s pop star? Sherlock runs a hand over his face. The man on the phone chuckles but it's not as though I've been rumbled or even if he thinks it's a stupid, made up name. It's as though he understands what I am saying. What am I saying?
"Mr. Vinyl. Wonderful. I think you'll enjoy Saturday night very much indeed sir. I don't think I'm being improper when I say that Saturday is latex night." My mouth drops open. Sherlock frowns and gestures wildly with his hands.
"Great." I say blankly. "That's just... great. Can't wait."
"Marvellous. Hopefully see you there Mr. Vinyl." And he hangs up. I sit open mouthed staring at Sherlock.
"What?" he hisses, "what? Are they drug barons? Assassins? What?"
"No," I shake my head slowly, the dawning realisation of what I just let myself in for sinking through my stunned brain. "No. I think they're a bondage club." Sherlock's eyes widen and then he laughs. He laughs so loudly that all the other diners stare at us and I clap my hand over his mouth. His eyes are glittering. He just loves this. Jesus.
I hope you like this chapter, I felt there was something missing but it might just have been that I wrote it in two parts bc of work? Let me know what you think. I hope it's ok?
As always I have to thank the Baker St Irregulars! You people make this writing better and better by your comments and enthusiasm! I love you all, really I do: PrincessNala Peachsilk, Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2,Tanya Zsa Zsa, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild! You're all sparkly stars!
Love as always to OHOB and Reggie cxx