Next day – Saturday – around lunchtime. Outside Angelo's restaurant. The place looks quite busy. Through the latticed window, every table seems to be occupied.
Sherlock, in his coat and scarf, approaches the little restaurant from the other side of the street, walking quickly and purposefully through groups of people in business attire who are on their way to and from lunch breaks. He pushes the door of the restaurant open and enters. Through the window, the portly, white-shirted figure of Angelo can be seen approaching Sherlock with open arms and a welcoming smile on his face. With a sweeping gesture, he invites the detective to sit down. But Sherlock remains standing, shaking his head to indicate that he's not here to eat.
Flying up for a bird's eye view of the street outside Angelo's, and then across the roof of the house, over roof tiles and chimneys, the scene moves to the back of the property. It's far less pretty than the front of the building. There's a dark, dank backyard, enclosed on three sides by brick walls. The only source of light on ground floor level is the window of the restaurant kitchen - milky glass with the clinical brightness of linolite lamps behind it. The yard is just big enough for a row of wheelie bins and a low stack of torn and flattened cardboard boxes that once held the restaurant's supplies, waiting to be collected for recycling. To the left of the kitchen window, there's a closed garage door.
There's nobody around, and all is quiet – until the garage door suddenly bangs open from inside. There's the loud noise of an engine being revved up. A moment later, a heavy motorbike emerges from the garage, driven by a man in a black leather jacket, jeans and rather flashy cowboy boots. His face is hidden inside the crash helmet. The bike is indeed a vintage model, but in excellent shape, all gleaming chrome and polished leather. Its rider steers it expertly around the corner of the yard towards the street, narrowly avoiding the closest wheelie bin, and is gone.
Back in the yard, Angelo steps out of the garage to close the doors again, looking after the departed motor biker with a fond shake of his head.
ANGELO (under his breath): Don't wreck my baby, now.
At around the same time, aboard the converted Royal Air Force Voyager that serves the Prime Minister, the Royal Family and other dignitaries of the realm for travelling abroad. Mycroft Holmes is seated in one of the comfortable beige-and-navy blue leather seats in an otherwise empty row towards the back of the plane. He has an open file on the little pull-out table in front of him, absorbed in the study of its contents. From the front of the plane, voices come floating towards him.
MALE VOICE (off-screen, in an appeasing tone): Madam Prime Minister, I really would say that given our bargaining position with the European Union, the outcome of the talks could have been even -
FEMALE VOICE (off-screen, rather sharply): Yes, thank you, Sir Edwin. I know what to tell our press when we land.
Mycroft glances up with a long-suffering sigh, then lowers his eyes again and reads on. A moment later, a shadow falls over him. A young man, looking very smart in the dress uniform of the Royal Air Force, stands at his elbow, holding a small tray.
FLIGHT ATTENDANT (deferentially): Your tea, sir.
MYCROFT (absently): Yes, thank you.
He makes a token gesture of making room on his table. The flight attendant pours a cup of tea from the small teapot on his tray, then sets both down in front of Mycroft, together with a miniature sugar bowl and milk jug. The tea is steaming gently. Mycroft nods in acknowledgment, his eyes already back on his reading. The young man withdraws silently. Mycroft turns a page, then reaches for his teacup, raises it to his lips and takes a sip. He immediately pulls a face, puts the cup back down and pushes it away, looking deeply dissatisfied.
West Hendon Broadway. The eastern side of the A5, which doubles as the local high street here, is blocked off with a high wooden fence, adorned with traffic signs warning road users of construction work ahead and plenty of graffiti. The western side, however, is accessible. Just like the nearby Orme Street where Mrs Warren's home is located, this place has seen better times, with most of the houses badly in need of touching up the paintwork at least. This impression is only heightened by the fact that although it's Saturday lunchtime and the modest shops lining the street are open for business, there are few people out and about. There's a call shop and Western Union agency, a travel agency advertising budget flights to the Middle East, a hairdresser specialising in African hair, and a small Indian takeaway; followed by a halal butcher, a pharmacy, and a shop selling fishing tackle.
A motorbike comes speeding up the almost empty road - the same that exited Angelo's backyard only a short time before. The noise of the engine echoes around the confined space between the houses on one side and the hoarding on the other. Then the driver comes to a halt in front of the Indian takeaway, throttles the engine and removes his crash helmet, revealing the face of Sherlock Holmes, but with his eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses that rival those Shinwell Johnson wore when Sherlock and John first met him, and with his hair slicked back from his high forehead. He looks oddly at ease in his slightly ridiculous outfit as he approaches the door of the curry shop. He even walks with a bit of a swagger.
A moment later, inside the curry shop. The place is tidy, but cramped. There is barely room for more than one customer at a time to stand in front of the counter that runs the length of the room on one side. The tiled wall on the other side seems to have been transformed into the community noticeboard, covered three deep with adverts, business cards and flyers from other local shops and services, posters for events, handwritten lost and found notices, and dozens of small ads for flats to let and used cars for sale.
Behind the counter, a teenage Asian girl in a white t-shirt and with her jet black hair in a thick braid is busy putting together Sherlock's order while he waits, the crash helmet hanging from his arm. He has pushed his sunglasses up into his hair.
As the girl picks up a little plastic box and starts filling it with rice, she calls back over her shoulder towards the open doorway into the kitchen at the back of the shop.
GIRL: Dad? Seen Shinwell Johnson lately?
From the kitchen, there's the clatter of pots and pans. Then a man emerges to stand in the doorway. He's obviously the patriarch of the family business, grey-bearded, white-aproned, a paper cap on his grey hair and a tea towel over his shoulder, holding a ladle.
CHEF (with a slight Indian accent, and in a doubtful tone): Shinwell Johnson? He was in here for lunch just yesterday, wasn't he?
GIRL (indulgently, while she fills the next box): Well, I was at school yesterday, dad, I wouldn't know. (She indicates Sherlock with a nod of her head.) The gentleman was asking after him.
Her father turns his attention to Sherlock, looks him up and down and then outside. Through the steamy glass of the shop window, the outline of the parked motorbike is clearly visible. Apparently, that's enough by way of credentials.
CHEF (to Sherlock): Ain't seen him today, sorry. Isn't he at his workshop? (Without waiting for an answer, he turns to address his daughter in a slightly petulant tone.) He was here yesterday, though, I remember that. Came in right after that crazy Russian.
GIRL: What crazy Russian? (She puts the lid on the box. To Sherlock, with a smile) We get all sorts around here, but "crazy Russian" is new.
Sherlock returns the smile, his expression polite but carefully disinterested.
CHEF (to his daughter): I told you about him. The big student from Mrs Warren's that ordered the cheapest curry and then couldn't pay for it.
GIRL: Ah. (With playful disapproval) You mean the one that you sent to the cash machine down the road just because he was missing all of fifty p, you old cheapskate. (She shakes her head at her father, then plucks down a plastic carrier bag from where a bunch of them hangs on a nail, and puts the boxes of Sherlock's order into it.) I could've told you he'd be too embarrassed to come back, the poor chap.
CHEF (with a finger raised in a gesture of warning): You be careful, young lady. (Addressing Sherlock, as if looking for an ally) She'd feed all of West Hendon for free if it was up to her, and we might as well put up the shutters for good!
The girl pouts, but without any real ill will, and proceeds to pack up paper napkins and plastic cutlery for Sherlock, too. Sherlock, in a perfect impression of complete indifference, remains silent.
CHEF (to his daughter): And he wasn't poor , my dear, he was just stupid. I explained to him five times that he could save the delivery charge and afford the meal if he just took his lunch home himself. But somehow that didn't get into his head. Insisted on having it delivered. (To Sherlock, shaking his head at so much pig-headedness) And it was just around the corner, too!
Sherlock shrugs in detached agreement.
GIRL (to her father, indignantly): What, so you let his whole order go to waste, when you could have let him have it at a fifty p discount? (She sniffs in disapproval.) And you call yourself a businessman!
CHEF (equally indignant): It didn't go to waste, just so you know. Shinwell Johnson was there, wasn't he, waiting in line. So what does he do when I send that young blockhead out to the cash machine? He puts a fifty p piece on the counter and says to me, "The cash machine's broken, mate. I'll go after him and bring him his bleedin' curry, it's just across the yard from my workshop." And that's what he did. Left on his bike, not two minutes after the Russian, with a bag dangling from each handle. (To Sherlock, with a laugh) I'm the only sensible man left in this part of town. Can you believe it? Surrounded by bloody soft-hearted do-gooders on all sides. But that's Shinwell Johnson for you. He'd do anything for anyone.
If Sherlock has trouble maintaining his impassive expression at this, nobody notices. The girl and her father are far too absorbed in their little skirmish.
GIRL: Honestly, dad, you should be grateful! Who'd've had time for the delivery, with you on your own in here, and all the guys from the road works coming in to be fed as well just then?
CHEF (to his daughter, in an exasperated tone): Who'd've had the time, you mean, what with the young ladies hereabouts caring more about getting five A-levels than making a living for their family?
GIRL (putting her hands on her hips, genuinely hurt): Dad, that's not -
But her father has already turned towards Sherlock, again as if appealing to him to agree. But in spite of his tone, the expression on the man's face is affectionate and indeed very proud, and not disgruntled at all.
The girl, seeing it, blushes furiously, and tries to change the subject by handing Sherlock the bag with his neatly packed order over the counter.
GIRL (to Sherlock, rather bashfully): That's four ninety-five then, please.
Sherlock hands her a five pound note from the pocket of his leather jacket, and receives his order and his change.
SHERLOCK (to the girl, in a studiously casual tone): If you're really serious about getting into Cambridge though, you may want to consider swapping Media Studies for a subject that's got at least a marginal chance of being taken seriously by the admissions board.
The girl and her father stand dumbstruck.
SHERLOCK (putting his sunglasses back on): Cheers!
And he walks out, unceremoniously dumping the bag with his takeaway into the bin by the door as he goes.
Baker Street, in the neighbourhood of No. 221, a little later. Sherlock and John come walking together along the pavement towards the door of No. 221. Sherlock is back in his usual attire. Only his hair is still in some disarray after combing out the gel he'd put in it for his motor biker persona. There's nothing else left of the easy confidence that marked that role. Sherlock seems to be in a rather sombre mood now, hands in his pockets, almost shuffling his feet. The swagger is definitely gone.
JOHN (after a moment): So you were right. About why Shinwell Johnson died in the same place and at the same time as Andrei Zima, I mean.
SHERLOCK (pensively): Mmh. And you were right, too.
JOHN: About what?
SHERLOCK: That it was my fault.
JOHN (looking up at his friend): What? I never said -
Sherlock only gives him a sad little smile. Then he pulls his coat closer around him and walks on, clearly unwilling to pursue this particular line of thought any further. They pass Speedy's café - no chairs and tables outside it at this time of the year - and approach their own front door when Sherlock suddenly stops dead.
JOHN (surprised): What's wrong?
Sherlock points with his chin. On their doorstep lies a ginger tabby cat, on its side, with its forelegs and hind legs stretched out at an unnatural angle, stiff and motionless. Its mouth is wide open, revealing its sharp little teeth as if in a grimace of pain.
JOHN: What the hell -
He takes a step forward, but Sherlock throws out his arm to keep his friend back.
SHERLOCK (in a suddenly very tense voice): Don't touch it. Or not without a dosimeter.
JOHN: What do you mean?
SHERLOCK: "Curiosity killed the cat."
JOHN (disquieted): It's a warning? Then shouldn't we -
But Sherlock cuts him off, his eyes still on the dead cat. His voice is, if anything, even tenser than before.
SHERLOCK: Where did you say Rosie was?
JOHN: I didn't. But she's with Stella and Ted.
SHERLOCK (glancing at his friend, distractedly): Who?
JOHN (patiently): Stella and Ted. You met them at Rosie's christening.
SHERLOCK (relaxing fractionally): Ah. The retired SAS officer with the wife that runs a beauty parlour? Yellow tie and silly hat?
JOHN: Yes.
SHERLOCK: Their place or yours?
JOHN: Theirs. After what you told me last night, I thought she was better off somewhere out of town for the weekend.
Sherlock's eyes narrow with renewed suspicion.
SHERLOCK (now sounding positively alarmed): You mean you arranged this only last night?
JOHN: What? No, we fixed the date weeks ago. They enjoy doing the grandparents thing, you know, they - what? (He laughs incredulously as he realises the implications.) Sherlock, seriously. Stella and Ted go back a long way. And I'm sure they're not for sale.
SHERLOCK (unsmiling): How long exactly?
JOHN (with a sigh): They're my godparents, if you must know.
This is apparently not the answer Sherlock was expecting.
SHERLOCK: Ah. (A pause. He visibly takes a moment to digest the information. Then, in a much gentler, almost tentative tone) Many big squishy cuddles?
JOHN (very earnestly): Many.
There is an awkward moment of silence. Then several things happen at once. John opens his mouth to speak again, but just then, Sherlock's eyes flicker from John's face to a spot somewhere above John's shoulder, and widen in alarm. At the same time, the roar of a car engine can be heard, approaching very fast. John spins around in surprise to see what's coming at them. A small van is racing down the road towards them at top speed, its headlights huge and menacing, making straight for where they're standing. Sherlock grabs John by the shoulder and pulls him back into what little shelter the doorway of Speedy's café offers.
At the last moment, the driver jams on the brakes, and the van comes to a screeching halt, its tyres scraping along the kerb. The passenger door bursts open, and with explosive energy, out jumps none other than Mrs Warren, again in her delivery driver uniform, again very red in the face, but this time clearly because she's in a towering rage. Behind her, the van's driver – a colleague of hers, by his identical uniform – kills the engine.
Sherlock steps forward to confront the fuming Mrs Warren with the ghost of an amused smile on his face, clearly no longer worried at all about his and John's personal safety. But she advances on him with an accusingly pointing finger, almost stabbing him in the face with it.
MRS WARREN (shouting at Sherlock at the top of her voice): You! You – you goddamn dickhead! I knew there was something wrong with him, I told you there was something wrong with him, but did you listen? You're bloody useless!
John has instinctively stepped forward, as if to place himself protectively between his friend and the raging woman.
JOHN (in a tone of concern): Mrs Warren! What's happened?
Mrs Warren rounds on him, her finger still pointing at Sherlock.
MRS WARREN: He said there was nothing to worry about, didn't he? You heard it. He said there was nothing he could do for me, when I was harbouring the worst kind of criminal in my own home! A dirty, disgusting -
She runs out of breath, and has to pause for more.
JOHN (soothingly): Just tell us what happened, please. Is this about your lodger?
MRS WARREN (not appeased in the slightest, still seething with rage): Lodger? He's a perv, a predator, that's what he is, and he's had it in for – (Her voice cracks with fury.) – my daughter!
Sherlock and John exchange a look.
JOHN (to Mrs Warren, bewildered): What's happened to your daughter?
MRS WARREN (aping his surprised tone): What's happened to my daughter? (She snorts, her nostrils flaring impressively.) He tried to get his filthy paws on her, he did! Threw a sack over her head and dragged her into a car, him and his pals, not ten paces from our own front door!
At this, both Sherlock and John immediately spring to attention.
JOHN (alarmed): How do you –
SHERLOCK (equally alarmed): Have you –
But Mrs Warren rages on, oblivious to their questions.
MRS WARREN: Thank God the girls from Taiwan left this morning anyway, or I bet he'd've -
JOHN (rather loudly, to make sure he gets through to her): Mrs Warren! Have you called the police?
MRS WARREN (indignantly): Called the police? With her all bruised and shaken and crying, what d'you s'pose was the first thing the hospital did? (Her anger flares up again, and she turns back to Sherlock. In an ugly tone of triumph) Didn't see that coming, did you? Never even entered your great big mind that that's what he was after, did it? (Spitting the words out with the utmost disgust) You men are all the same. Y'all think that good looks and a big mouth is all you need to get on in life. But I'm never falling for that sort of crap again! Not with you, and not with anyone else!
SHERLOCK (rather haughtily): Mrs Warren, if there's any truth to your claim that your daughter has just been abducted by a sexual predator, your time would be much better employed in giving us all the pertinent details, rather than wasting your breath on even more ridiculous verbalisations of your otherwise very commendable protective instincts.
That shuts Mrs Warren up for a moment, if only because she's having trouble wrapping her head around that sentence. John takes the opportunity to intercede again.
JOHN (in a deliberately calm tone): Tell us from the beginning, Mrs Warren. Your daughter was dragged into a car, but she's in hospital now?
John's technique seems to be working. Mrs Warren takes a few deep breaths, then launches into her tale, with the same vigour as before, but in a less accusatory tone now.
MRS WARREN: Chantelle was on her way to the bus stop, she was just going down to the shopping arcade to meet some friends. Some bastards – two at least, maybe three, it looks like - put a sack over her head, pulled her into their car and drove off with her. In broad daylight! Can you believe it?
JOHN: And what makes you think your lodger was among the attackers?
MRS WARREN: Who else would it be, targeting her like that? And they were talking foreign, same as he did. (With fierce pride) But she fought them and swore at them and screamed at them to let her go, my brave girl. She's got a filthy tongue on her when she wants to, my Chantelle. She showed them all right that she wouldn't be easy prey!
JOHN: And then?
MRS WARREN: Then they just stopped and kicked her out again, not even a mile from home. Dumped her like a parcel, in a quiet side street, and sped off. Some decent guys from the nearby mosque heard the commotion and saw her lying in the road. They called an ambulance, thinking it was an accident. Then the hospital called me.
Sherlock, who has been following Mrs Warren's tale with interest, now steps forward, his tone clipped, ready for action.
SHERLOCK: Description, please?
MRS WARREN (to Sherlock, immediately slipping back into her previous aggressive tone): She didn't see them, did she, with a sack over her head?
SHERLOCK: Of her, I meant.
MRS WARREN: Oh. (She squares her shoulders.) Chantelle Myranda Warren - that's Myranda with a y - fifteen, long dark hair -
SHERLOCK (looking Chantelle's mother up and down quickly): - on the short side, rather overweight, continue from there, please -
MRS WARREN (sharply): She's not overweight, thank you very much! She's tall for her age, and with her figure, she could do modelling!
But Sherlock has clearly heard enough. He turns to John with an enterprising glint in his eyes.
SHERLOCK (to John): Well, come on! There's not a moment to lose.
MRS WARREN: You're coming along to the hospital?
Sherlock gives her the look of pity that he usually reserves only for the most feeble-minded members of the London population.
SHERLOCK: No, of course not.
MRS WARREN (surprised): Don't you want to hear her evidence first hand?
SHERLOCK (with a dismissive wave of his hand): Oh, waste of time. I'd take her story with a pinch of salt if I were you, too. That whole tall tale about the kidnap is probably untrue from start to finish.
MRS WARREN (aghast): What?
SHERLOCK: She very likely faked it just to get attention. (With a shrug) Teenage girls tend to do that.
Mrs Warren blanches at the suggestion, momentarily speechless with indignation. It makes her ruddy face look rather blotched.
JOHN (with stern disapproval): Sherlock, really -
SHERLOCK (to Mrs Warren, unfazed): Might want to confiscate her phone and check her browser history for how to self-inflict authentic looking bruises.
John grimaces. And Mrs Warren, without another word, steps forward and, before Sherlock can do anything against it, resoundingly slaps him in the face.
There's a moment of stunned silence, then Mrs Warren lets out a low, wordless growl of satisfaction and turns on her heel back towards her patiently waiting colleague in his van. The man immediately starts the engine, and as soon as she's inside and the door bangs closed, they speed off down the road.
JOHN (looking after the van): Jesus. (To Sherlock, with a hint of genuine concern) Not sure that was entirely undeserved, but are you all right?
SHERLOCK (absently rubbing his smarting cheek): Oh, excellent. Well, come on, John! This is a chance we'll never get again! (He energetically steps up to the curb and looks up and down the street for a cab. For once, none appears, so he sets off with long strides down the road. Over his shoulder) We'll find a cab on Park Road. Come on!
JOHN (jogging after him): Where are we going?
SHERLOCK (impatiently): John, think! Nobody's just tried to kidnap Chantelle Warren. But someone's definitely just tried to kidnap Katia Zima!
JOHN: They mistook Chantelle for Katia?
SHERLOCK: Of course! And they realised their mistake as soon as the girl they'd snatched started assaulting them with a torrent of abuse in that systematic affront to our native language that the linguists like to refer to as Multicultural London English. That could never have come out of the mouth of a Russian child trafficking victim!
JOHN: So Katia's still in the house?
SHERLOCK (speeding up to walk even faster): If we're lucky, yes! And nobody else to get in the line of fire for once, with Chantelle in hospital and Mrs Warren on her way there and the Taiwanese girls gone since the morning. That's our one chance to get her out of there, quick and clean!
Nearing the corner of Baker Street and the busy Park Road ahead, he breaks into a run.
JOHN (struggling to keep up, breathlessly): Hey, wait! What's become of "keeping a low profile"?
SHERLOCK: No time for that now!
JOHN: Well, at least we know who to look for now - fifteen, tall, long dark hair -
SHERLOCK: - slim but rather plain of face -
JOHN (surprised): How d'you know about the face? Mrs Warren didn't -
They're at the street corner - and so, by happy chance, is a black cab. The light on the roof is on, so without ado, Sherlock pulls the back door open.
SHERLOCK: I've told you before that it's worth listening to her, John! Chantelle Warren has the figure of a model, her mother said.
JOHN (puzzled): So?
SHERLOCK (already half inside the cab, leaning back out): If she had the face to go with it, she'd be one!
And with that, he disappears from view into the depths of the cab. John, shaking his head, follows him in, and the cab races off, heading north towards West Hendon.
