The car park was much what you'd expect a car park to be: lots of cement, the faint smell of fumes, and fluorescent lighting on every level. Every level, that is, except the third; all of the lighting fixtures against the wall had had their tubes neatly removed, and the fixtures above the center aisle between the rows of parking spaces were all extinguished except for three odd looking lamps.
"Remote-activated lights," said LeStrade as they came out of the lift, "You wouldn't even notice if you weren't paying attention. Bright enough for lighting if you're walking under them, but dim enough to keep most of the level in the dark."
"You could've told us about them back at 221B," said John.
"Why, so you could be sure it wasn't actually a weeping angel? Thought you'd've figured that out when the angel didn't come out of the tv to kidnap you."
"So you're a Whovian as well, eh?" said John.
"Nah," said LeStrade, "but my daughter is. Her nightmares got so bad that I had to go buy a nightlight, write a special note from the Doctor saying how he made it angel-proof just for her, and put both outside her bedroom door one night while my wife was reading her a story. I played the Tardis whooshing sound and hid in the linen closet while she came outside and opened the letter."
"Did it work?"
"Like a charm, until the bulb burned out a month later. Lifetime guarantee my foot."
Sherlock, of course, was listening to none of this exchange, and was instead focusing very intently on the floor.
"We've already checked for make-up smudges, Sherlock," said LeStrade.
"That's why I'm checking for grey rubber instead."
"What?" said LeStrade.
"Unless the kidnapper was eleven feet tall she would have needed a ladder to put in those lamps. Ladders usually have grey rubber on their feet. But… no, of course. Ladders draw attention. She just climbed up on her car. Also, I take it you wouldn't waste my time if the security camera pointed at the entrance and exit to the lot were functional?"
"The owner of the car park says it was vandalized yesterday by what he assumed were some kids," said LeStrade, "The repairman was supposed to come tomorrow to fix it."
Sherlock switched his gaze from the floor to the ceiling, although he wasn't looking at the lights; he was looking at the stretch of ceiling between them.
"The camera we found was set up in spot number 384. Mr. Tennant's car is in 393, if you'd like to take a look," said LeStrade.
"As soon as I show you how they disappeared," murmured Sherlock, whose attention was clearly elsewhere. He continued to walk the length of the hall with John and LeStrade in tow, before stopping and pointing up at the ceiling. "There. Get one of your men to put an evidence marker next to it. Let's see the car now."
Sherlock took off in the direction of spot 393, leaving LeStrade and John to stare up at the spot he indicated on the ceiling. All that was there were some thick wire cables. They looked like they'd been pulled down from the ceiling a little, but otherwise there was nothing extraordinary about them.
John left LeStrade to tell his men to start processing the cables and hurried over to Sherlock, who was staring very intently inside the open door of an expensive-looking car.
"Sherlock—" he started.
"Early forties, married with two children with another on the way. Fond of the zoo, the theater and either the countryside or the park, probably the former since he'd be less recognized there. Recently had a haircut, probably wasn't fond of it since he was examining it in the rearview mirror before he got out of the car. Had a fight with his wife two days ago, but nothing serious enough to merit buying anything more than a few roses to sort out. Right-handed, Scottish, and a mild-to-strong aversion to spiders."
John paused. "How on earth did you know he has a mild-to-strong aversion to spiders?"
"Who doesn't? Now," he said, spinning on his heel and setting off toward the other end of the lot, "the interesting part."
Sherlock approached the agent who had just finished setting up the ladder underneath the cable and quickly climbed up to the ceiling.
"We haven't processed this area yet," said the agent indignantly.
"Just needed you to get the ladder, thank you," Sherlock said curtly, then added, "I can't have you contaminating the scene."
Totally oblivious to the consternation this caused in the officer, Sherlock took out his pocket magnifier, examined the cables, and removed something from them with a bit of tweezers before handing it to LeStrade in a small plastic bag.
"Fiber. I'd do the chemical analysis myself, but, as I lack access to your crime lab's database of the chemical composition of various fibers, I'm afraid Anderson will have to try not to botch the job."
LeStrade was about to ask what on earth Sherlock was even looking for or expected them to find in the fiber, but decided against it. They had a system: Sherlock would either tell them as soon as he was done examining and deducing, or tell John once they were out of the crime scene and John would text that information to LeStrade. In the meantime, Sherlock was back in his own world of evidence, and LeStrade knew better than to interrupt him. The world's only consulting detective closed his pocket magnifier and placed it on top of the dip in the cables. It briefly slid down the small, shallow slope before coming to a rest. It was angled toward the end of the left hand row of parking spaces. Sherlock hopped off the ladder, and strode over to the last space.
"Yes, of course," he said, "easiest possible getaway. The spot at the end, closest to the ramp."
Sherlock took a scraping of a part of the cement floor, turned to LeStrade and said, "The kidnapper's been careful about not leaving prints, but unscrew the lightbulbs and check the metal casing. Unlikely someone this cautious will be so careless, but I overestimate criminal intelligence every day. Where can we find the wife and the last person to see him in person?"
"Mrs. Tennant went home to look after their children early this morning," said LeStrade, turning toward the officer in charge of evidence collection to hand her the fiber, "She probably won't be awake for another few hours. The fan who took the picture with him outside the car park lives just across the street, number 201, Apartment 4. I'd suggest talking to her first, then getting the hell out of here. In about ten minutes, I'm going to a press conference to discuss Mr. Tennant's disappearance, and it'll be a matter of seconds before the fans start swarming the car park trying to play Poirot.
LeStrade turned back around. "So are you gonna tell us how—"
Sherlock and Watson were already halfway to the elevator. Well, LeStrade thought irritably, can't say I didn't try to warn them.
[AN: If you didn't get the reference, google "Hercule Poirot." Or, better yet, go and read some of Agatha Christie's mysteries featuring him. My favorite is Murder on the Orient Express. Anyway, I like to think of him as the Sherlock universe's equivalent of referencing Sherlock Holmes, fictional detective.]
