I get my 99 with chocolate bits, wander down to the seafront and have a think about where I'm going to find Captain Tuxedo.

See, I'm good at finding people. I need to find people all the time for work, all the people who are necessary to all the set up and all the back-up plans, and some of those are not easy people to find. But the thing is, they're all known factors. Whereas this Captain Tuxedo, I don't even have a real name for him. Brighton. That was all I could get on him. And now here I am without a plan again.

Before I can think too hard about that, a girl barrels into me on a pair of roller skates. She tries to just shout her apology and take off again, but I'm not having that. I'm not putting up with that at all. I grab her back by the arm and it's all she can do to keep her wheels beneath her.

Ragged jeans. The skates aren't good skates, they're ancient plastic skates, and they don't fit her. She's got them strapped to her trainers, which are worn, have seen better days. There's a tidemark of dirt around the edges of her face and neck. Hair slightly greasy; washed in plain water without shampoo. She brings up her free arm, cradling a huge bouquet of flowers, each wrapped individually in newspaper. "Pound a head, mate?"

Homeless.

All those little factors, things I noted, they all add up in my head and I get the word 'homeless'. The skates got pulled out of a skip somewhere. Any washing she manages to do is probably in fecking rainwater or something. I add up existing facts and reach a new and logical conclusion.

Well, that's new and strange and not-entirely-comforting…

"Where did you get the flowers from?" She goes cagey, won't look straight at me. I wrap my fingers tighter round her arm and she winces, "Graveyard, mate, innit?"

I almost laugh at that one. Two weeks ago I would have given her money and my blessing for that one.

"…I'll give you twenty quid to do the Birdie dance."

She stops, does a quick count of the flowers on her arm. Apparently she's confident she can make her lunch money. "Nah, mate. Thanks all the same, though." Which is, at least, not the usual reaction. That would be the cautious look-over, some muttered reference to me clearly being some kind of pervert, and then skating away. So I loosen my grip and set her free to dance another day.

Then call her back.

"Oi!"

"What?"

"You're making me feel grubby just looking at you. Where's a decent hotel?"

"What's your budget?"

"Pretty much unlimited."

"…Do you still want me to do the Birdie dance?"

"No."

She pouts. "Metropolitan's the real plush one. Down that way on the other side of the road. Can't miss it. Look, I can do other kinds of dancing if you-" I give her the rest of my ice cream to shut her up before she finishes that.

It's surprising how much more comfortable I am with my feet on a white carpet. I feel better. I ask for a suite and one is provided.

I'm not staying here, by the way. Me, staying in Brighton, that's not going to happen, no fecking way. One marginally-less-than-mind-numbing flower girl does not redeem an entire town. No, I just really need a shower after touching her.

It's been a while since I was down at street level, see. Haven't dealt with… everyday people in a while. Not directly anyway. I've done a lot from the comfort of the flat. But that there, before, I actually touched that one. I don't think it was because she was an unwashed homeless at all, actually. I think she was just a human being and that's a bit weird. Been a while.

Even dear Little Molly Morgue didn't go far beyond squeezing a knee, and you can shower that off afterward. If they touch you it comes off but that, down there, that was me actually reaching out and…

Aw Jesus, my skin's gone all funny.

But the Metropolitan, thankfully, is exactly what the filthy little bitch said it was. It's a rarefied atmosphere, old air only ever breathed by people who can afford to, and that makes it just that little bit less used than normal places. It's easier to scrub off the outside with stuff that most people can't afford and which you can afford to get for free. Good, long scalding shower with a pumice stone very nearly does the trick. I can still feel that fleshy give under my fingers, but that'll fade. I close my fist around the handtowel hanging up and pretend it's the same feeling. It's not and I know that too well to ignore it, but it's close enough. I can nearly be tricked by that.

And I've decided. I decided in the shower. This wasn't the best plan. In fact, this was hardly a plan at all. This was a jaunt out after two weeks of no jaunts out. That's fair enough. I needed that.

But all this looking for people, all this detective work, this is for fools and angels, this is. This is a pile of shite that I just do not need in my life. What I'll do is I'll go home, I'll give Moran what I already have, and he can do it. Once I know who and what I'm looking for, then I'll step in. It's a much more sensible way of doing things. I would have thought of that if I was in a better state of mind. Frankly, I blame Sherlock. He's left me a wreck and he doesn't even care enough to come out of hiding and say sorry. It's absolutely fucking disgusting. 'Side of angels' my sculpted fecking arse, the man's a torture master.

Might just have a quick snoozy first.

Don't. Take that fucking look off your face or I'll knock it off. I've been in bed for the better part of two weeks. As much activity as I've already been through today has taken it out of me, and that's perfectly natural and understandable and anybody who judges me for it is… is a wanker, alright?

Big queensize bed all done in white and gold, just lying there, perfectly flat, hospital corners, unruffled. Man was not built to resist. Always remember that. Temptation is just nature bound and gagged. I'm having a little snoozy and that's it.

I go headfirst, and from the foot of the bed, up under the sheets. The runner moves heavy over my back like a gentle massage. Worming upward and upward, my head finally eases out onto a pillow.

Not the comfiest pillow in the world, I must say. Bit disappointed. It's a bit… like, crisp or something. It crackles a bit.

Oh, there's a sheet of paper on top of it. Right. Hotel letterhead, welcome from the staff probably that kind of thing. You'd think in a classy establishment like this…

Well, it's handwritten anyway. I suppose that's something.

Handwritten and personally addressed to 'Jim'.

I sit up. I don't want a little snoozy anymore. This is all a bit different and exciting.

'Jim,' is says, which is a bit familiar, but we'll forgive that for now. 'Ice cream was a good idea. Georgie speaks very highly of you, but you really should have paid her off.'

Georgie? Grubby homeless flower girl must have been called Georgie. Better hope I never get hold of her again too, I'll turn her greasy scalp into modern fucking art and Saatchi'll pay me millions for the ugly ginger thing.

'I understand what a wrench it must have been for you to come all the way down here, but you should stay. Call it a holiday. Relax. Or if you can't relax, you can look for me. I left a ticket on the dresser for you. Or not. Whatever.'

I'm not kidding. They've gone to the trouble of writing all that shite. You write things down so you can edit that stuff out, if you're the kind of ineloquent fuck that needs to. Gone to all that bother of sounding nervous and unsure, what's the point of that?

'Signed Tux.'

Fucking amateur. What kind of useless antagonist considers that an appropriate note to leave one's prey? Captain Tuxedo missed a couple of lessons when it came to villainous etiquette, I'll tell you that.

Of course there's etiquette. Every fool knows that. Just because I'm a bastard doesn't make me an animal, there are rules. There's a way to go about these things that keeps everything civil at least.

But when it comes to sneaking about, you must admit Tux is a pro. Either he knew I was getting this room before I did or he slipped in here while I was in the shower. Wrote a note, calmly placed it on my pillow, left a ticket of some kind on the dresser and left as though he'd never been here.

You have to give him credit for that.

It's all going just a little bit sexy again. I think I'll find out what that ticket's for…