10.15hrs Friday 22nd February 2013
Greg and Sally stood by the cordon with Detective Inspector Andrews from the local CID, watching as Sherlock climbed all over the inside of the car, careful not to destroy or damage any evidence.
"So, that's him then, Sherlock Holmes." Andrews remarked, watching as the black coated figure backed out of the passenger door and moved around the vehicle. "He always like this?"
"Usually he's much worse." Sally said without malice. "It won't last."
"Worse? How could….." Andrew's voice trailed off as Sherlock – giving a believable impression of a sniffer dog, crouching down to examine the ground, his nose almost touching the floor before leaping up and stalking towards a brick-built building.
Sally chuckled as he swept straight into the ladies.
"Wish I'd filmed that."
Andrews frowned at Lestrade, who just smiled and shook his head.
"It's a love hate relationship…"
"Lestrade!" Sherlock's voice echoed its way out of the latrine building and carried across the park. His dark head popped out of the tiled doorway. "Don't cross the grass – come around the edge of the tape until you get to the building." And with that he retreated back inside.
With a shrug Greg picked his way around to the toilet block, Donovan and Andrews following close behind. As they stepped onto the covered paved porch, Sherlock stepped out again.
"Close inspection of the ground around the car, tracking across the grass, you can see…" here he pointed down to where the grass met the building. "The marks where her stilettos sunk into the ground, some deeper than others? It's not rained for several days, so Mlle Dufour was in all likelihood carrying a small case or overnight bag, something heavy enough to increase the depth of the indent of the right foot."
He moved back inside, expecting the police officers to follow.
"One would assume she went into the toilet to change out of her 'court' clothes, put on something easier to travel in, less likely to draw attention."
"What makes you so sure? She may have simply come in here to use the toilet." Andrews interrupted.
"No return stiletto marks." Came a slightly surprised whisper.
"Exactly Sally." Sherlock nodded at her. "So she must have changed into flat or low heeled boots. Now, look at this…." He flicked his torch on to supplement the weak winter light coming in through the doorway, shining it into the sink. "Brunette hair, and if you look closely there is a root attached, so forensics will confirm that the DNA will match Dufour."
"So she brushed her hair, so what?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, catching a look from Greg that said 'Don't piss off the locals', and moved the position of his torch to show a yellowy thread caught on the rim of the dirty white porcelain.
"Honey blonde I would say, what do you think Donovan?"
Now it was Greg's turn to roll his eyes as he was well aware that the younger man was doing. Sally stepped a bit closer.
"Could be, but it looks…."
Sherlock waited, watching her. She looked up at him with a frown.
"It's not real – from a synthetic wig?"
Nodding, Sherlock handed her his torch.
"Hold that steady for me…... please"
Lestrade's eyebrows rose, but neither Sally nor the consulting detective noticed. She was watching him as he pulled out his magnifying glass, bending ever closer to the sink, thoroughly examining the strand. With a satisfied grunt he stood back and held out his hand towards Sally. She switched the torch off and slapped it into his palm – he paid no heed.
"If you look, there are no minute nicks in the strand that would indicate a machine wefted wig – therefore you're looking for a company that supplies hand knotted wigs – it's very likely too that the colour will be unique to the manufacturer."
"She got changed, and then put on a blond wig – that stuffs your search then." Andrews shook his head morosely.
"No." Sherlock swung around to look at him. "It just delays us awhile. Do you have access to a good artist?"
"Photo-fit?"
"No, someone who can actually draw to my descriptions; I've seen this woman several times, and can envisage the changes the blond wig will make – get me an artist; I'll provide you with a current likeness of Mlle Solange Dufour."
xXx
14.20hrs Friday 22nd February 2013
Despite the chill wind blowing up the estuary the tall slender blond and her ruddy cheeked, dark haired companion strolled along towards the old café, its peeling paint telling a tale of better, more prosperous days.
Stepping into the gloomy interior they walked to the counter, allowing their eyes to adjust to the poor light as they did so. At a corner table two young sailors sat, tucking into a greasy looking 'all day breakfast' and speaking in low tones.
Ordering two cups of coffee, Altermann gave an almost imperceptible nod toward the two men, and then joined Solange Dufour where she had settled in a window seat.
"Our boat is here." He spoke softly, indicating the other occupants of the café. "When we've had our coffee we can go back to the hotel and collect our luggage."
"What about the car?"
Altermann hesitated while the young lad from behind the counter pushed two over-filled mugs from his tray to the table, then without a word returned to his station by the till.
"We'll drive it along the quayside, park it up and leave it – by the time anyone realises it's abandoned we'll be long gone."
"And of course, no-one will associate it with us?"
"No, I hired it under the name of Hans Fassmeyer, German citizen." Gerard smiled at his companion. "I don't imagine he's even aware that his driving license and credit cards are missing, and if he is, it will take time to track them from Switzerland to England."
The blond head nodded, then dipped down to sip at the thick brown liquid. She pulled a face.
"God save me from the abomination that passes for coffee in this ridiculous country!"
Altermann winced as he too sipped at the bitter yet tasteless drink, shuddering as he swallowed.
"Well, fortunately it's not compulsory to finish our drinks," he said softly. "By the time we've walked back and collected our things it will almost be time to board the boat."
With a final brief nod to the two sailors as they rose from their seats, Dufour and Altermann left the café, unhurriedly strolling back along the quayside towards their waiting car.
xXx
14.00hrs Friday 22nd February 2013
Sherlock stood and stared at the artist's interpretation of his description of the diamond thief. Through narrowed eyes he examined every line and area of shadow before stepping back and giving a curt nod.
"That's her, that's Solange Dufour. Lestrade, we need that alongside the photograph taken at her arrest – after all, it's very likely that she'll revert to her natural look or even change it yet again."
There was a depressed murmur of agreement from the three police officers in the room as the artist took his work away to get copies sent nationwide.
Stepping closer to the yard officers Sherlock lowered his voice.
"Lestrade, can you make sure copies get to Interpol and to my brother – we know her most likely destination is home, Mycroft can get these to some of his contacts on the continent."
Greg nodded and turned away, pulling out his mobile to make the call.
"Where to now?" Sally asked, her eyes roving over the map of the UK that hung on the wall.
Sherlock stepped up behind her, taking in all the possible exit points.
"I don't believe she'll head to a major port or airport – it would be too easy for us to follow." His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to look inwards. "No, her rescuers have a choice of routes out."
He spun on his heel and looked hard at D I Andrews.
"There are more than a handful of private airports within a fifty mile radius of Trent Park, can you make sure they all have copies of the pictures?"
Andrews nodded.
"I'll see to it." He said, glad to have something to do at last. He hurried from the room just as Sherlock's phone started to ring.
Pulling it from his pocket Sherlock glanced at the caller ID and frowned, answering it with a sharp jab of his thumb against the keys.
"Mrs Hudson? Has John returned?" he demanded without preamble.
Sally turned to look at him, her breath caught in her throat as she waited for the answer. Even Greg, his instructions given for the further distribution of the pictures, was standing looking expectantly at the younger man.
"No dear," Mrs Hudson's voice, though shaky, could be clearly heard. "But a letter has arrived for you, and it's John's handwriting on the envelope."
"Then open it Mrs Hudson."
The sound of an envelope being carefully ripped open was followed by a gasp and the sound of the elderly lady obviously trying to catch whatever fell out of it without dropping her phone.
"Oh Sherlock!" she exclaimed finally. "It's a bank card – one of yours! And there's a note – hang on…"
Mrs Hudson put her phone down as she fumbled with the single sheet of paper. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he waited.
"He just says…."
"His exact words if you please Mrs Hudson."
"Yes dear. He says 'Sherlock, I've emptied the back-up fund. I will replace the money when I get back to London. If for any reason I don't make it back…' Oh dear, do you think…"
"Just finish the note." Sherlock ground out through gritted teeth.
There was a pause, then she continued shakily
"He says 'If for any reason I don't make it back there is a lump sum due to me from my Army pension that will cover what I owe you. Also, my will is held by the bank, you'll find details in the notebook in my top drawer. Everything I have is yours'" Her voice broke as she read the last sentence.
Sally and Greg stared at Sherlock, who was staring at the phone in his hand as if it was a poisonous snake.
"Are you still there dear?" the fretful voice came over the phone's speaker.
"Yes, yes I am. Where was it posted?"
"I can't read it – maybe when you get home you can work it out."
"Too long – I'll ask my brother to pick it up." Sherlock cut the call without bothering to say goodbye, immediately dialling his brother's number.
"Mycroft, John has written to me – I need you to get someone to pick up the envelope and find out where he posted it from."
The was the muted sounds of voices, then
"Anthea's on her way, she'll be able to sooth Mrs Hudson's no doubt frazzled nerves – you are far too rough with your landlady."
"The pictures?"
"Are on their way to Switzerland, France, Belgium and the Netherlands." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Is Lestrade still with you?"
Wordlessly Sherlock handed his phone to the Detective Inspector.
"Lestrade."
"Ah, Detective Inspector; I've spoken to your superiors, and we are agreed that there is every possibility that Dufour will head for the continent, where we need a Scotland Yard presence to accompany the representative of this office in order to bring her back." His voice was soft yet brooked no argument. "As both you and Sergeant Donovan were involved in the original arrest, I have arranged for your passports and clothes to be collected from your homes and delivered to your office, where the representative's passport and clothes will also be waiting for him."
"Now hang on Mr Holmes, you can't just…"
"Yes, I think you'll find I can." Came the calm reply. "Now I suggest you make your way back to Victoria, the sooner you pick up your travel instructions, the sooner you can be on your way."
Greg fumed silently, clenching his jaw against a desire to tell the manipulative arse exactly what he thought about his interference before a thought struck him.
"Hang on a minute – who is the representative from your office?"
"Ah, yes. That would be a Mr Holmes – Sherlock Holmes."