Master of Murder
Chapter 9
That Evening
Mycroft woke to the sound of the telephone ringing. How long had he been here? With no windows it was difficult to judge time passing. His internal clock was mostly based on his bladder; it told him he had been there an extremely long time. The room was quiet, but he could faintly hear his captor talking on the telephone, then the handset being slammed on the hook followed by some scraping and rattling sounds, the sound of a door hinge squeaking, and then nothing. Had his captor had left the premises? Mycroft strained to hear more but there was nothing.
No, wait, there were outside noises; train noises. Not just a single train, several trains. Like a train station nearby. In the distance he heard the sound of a boat whistle. Trains near the water. Mycroft tried to picture a map of London in his head. Trains and water. He listened more closely. Traffic sounds, well that didn't help except to confirm he was probably still in London. Lorries, lots of big lorries, maybe a commercial area, but more likely industrial. He tried to recall, had he heard any other sounds? Vaguely he remembered hearing an ambulance. No, more than one; several ambulances. Not frequently enough to be a major hospital, but perhaps a small emergency clinic of some sort. Trains, boats, medical, possibly industrial…still not enough to pinpoint a location but he was starting to narrow it down to a handful of areas.
Mycroft looked around the barren room. Not much to go on here. Yet the chair and telephone table looked oddly familiar; had he seen those somewhere before? He considered the room again. No windows, dreary tan walls, painted and scuffed wooden floor. Some sort of a secure…then he realized where he was. The bed and most of the other furniture had been removed, the walls had been repainted since he was last here, but he had been here before. He was in the secure holding room of a safe house. More specifically, it was the MI5 safe house near Battersea. It was close to the Thames and a commuter train switching yard. He didn't recall any hospitals close by, but there were several just across the Chelsea bridge. He looked carefully above the door. Yes, there, a pinhole camera. He recalled Reggie Morris had scheduled this place to be decommissioned, something about the location being compromised. They were holding him in a damned MI5 safe house!
He angrily struggled against his bonds with quiet but renewed fervor and noticed that the gaffer tape holding him was beginning to loosen. The heat of the room was making it more pliable. Perhaps if he worked at it he could eventually get himself free. He just needed for his captor to stay away for a while.
—Ɵ—
Reginald sighed. Everything was going to go to hell if he didn't do something quick. Anthea contacting Mycroft's brother behind his back was not planned for. He was chief of security here, why couldn't she just let him take care of it? His meeting with Sherlock had probably been a bad idea too; he'd just played along to keep Althea placated. But the brother was a good one for sticking his nose where it didn't belong.
He drummed his fingers on the desk as he watched the remote video feed on the computer monitor flip through the cameras. The dusk-to-dawn outside lights had flicked on, it was getting dark. Mycroft was awake and struggling with his bonds again, he seemed more agitated this time. The kitchen was empty, a can of lager, the silly rubber mask, the girlie mags and some things they had emptied from Mycroft's pockets lay on the table. Tumbleson was in the garage changing the number plates on the Bentley. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but at least he did as he was told. That he had risen to supervisory level was a tribute to government inefficiency.
Reginald checked the time on his desk clock. He had been dithering about what to do for nearly an hour but a new plan of action was finally beginning to coalesce in his mind; a way to put things back on the right track. He clicked the computer mouse and started a new document. It was time to write a full confession of guilt.
—Ɵ—
"While I have some respect for your opinion, that's not enough evidence to convince me," Lestrade said. "Just because he's diabetic and has access to high tech listening devices doesn't make the man a murderer. There must be a million diabetics in London and your brother himself could have planted the devices you found. I need some rock solid evidence if I'm going to start investigating an MI5 security chief."
Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "Seven hundred thousand," he said in exasperation.
"Beg your pardon?" Lestrade asked.
"Seven hundred thousand diabetics. Nine point five percent of the adult population in London is diabetic. Based on current population estimates, that means there are slightly over seven hundred thousand diabetics in London. Not everyone in London knew or even met Penelope. Even if a generous estimate of three thousand people had the slightest interest in her, fewer than three hundred of them would be diabetic." Lestrade could be so dense sometimes. "Okay, I will concede that being a diabetic is not enough for an arrest," he continued, "are there any other leads or do you have any suspects? Do you have a clue? Was there anything on Penelope's computer?"
"The case is still open but our forensics team has not found anything significant yet. They're still processing a few things. The pathology report is complete, it was definitely murder. My people are presently interviewing her coworkers. Nobody seems to have taken much notice of her except to say that she'd been a bit nervous acting the last week or so. We have yet to interview her supervisor; he's taken sick leave for a few days. Penelope left work early on the day she was murdered; complaining of being extremely tired. We are guessing it was the effects of the Phenergan in her system. At the present time we have not identified any primary suspects."
"Yes, Molly told me about the Phenergan, also known as Sominex; a popular sleep aid. Usually white or pale yellow tablets, odorless, dissolves easily in water. It could have been in her coffee or tea." Sherlock furrowed his brow, tightening his eyes a bit more, and continued to rub his forehead. "And what about her computer?" he asked.
"There was no computer in her apartment, just the peripherals. Very curious."
Sherlock quickly opened his eyes. "Curious indeed; find her computer and you will have her murderer," he said.
"That would be highly probable," said Lestrade.
—Ɵ—
It was getting late; the busy daytime sounds of Bart's were shifting over to night mode. It was a quieter time, most of the day staff had gone home to their families. The night shift had arrived and was starting to pick up the pieces, preparing the hospital for a new day tomorrow. The morgue was normally staffed with just two orderlies and one pathologist at night. The pathologist scheduled for tonight had talked Molly into taking his shift so he could attend a bachelor party. She looked at the stack of post-mort reports still sitting on her desk. Her recent escapades with Sherlock and John had consumed a lot of time and she needed to work late to catch up with the paperwork anyway. The time she had spent helping Sherlock was far from wasted. She considered it more like an investment; she was sure he would respond eventually. She just needed to continue nurturing their relationship.
The intercom buzzed loudly, startling Molly. She pressed a button, "Yes?" she said.
"Hastings and Finn, Morticians; we're here to claim the body of Penelope Masters."
"Okay, just a moment," Molly said. It was not unusual for a pickup to be made this late, the movement of dead bodies during visiting hours tended to upset some people. She quickly looked through the paperwork for Penelope to make sure everything was in order. Routine tissue samples had been taken and placed in storage. A release form from Scotland Yard indicated they had no further interest in the body. The post-mort report was completed. Everything looked in order. She walked to the door and let them in.
Two burly men in bright blue coveralls entered the morgue with a collapsible gurney. Embroidered names on their chests proclaimed they were Larry and Moe. Molly suppressed a smile as she imagined Curly still sitting outside in the Mariah. "Sign here," she said and handed Moe a clipboard.
Molly helped them move the body bag that contained Penelope's remains onto the gurney and covered it with a fresh white cotton sheet. She handed Larry a small bag containing Penelope's personal effects and the two men wheeled the gurney into the hallway. Molly returned to her desk and its awaiting paperwork. It was going to be a long night.
—Ɵ—
Reginald Morris read over the document one more time to make sure everything was in order. It confessed to the murders of Penelope Masters and his accomplice Leonard Tumbleson, detailed the illegal transfer of government funds to a Swiss bank account, and ended with a bittersweet suicide note. He reset the computer clock to yesterday morning, saved it via the local network onto the hard drive of the office server and printed a copy. He then reset the computer clock to the current time. Pulling the page from the printer he folded it neatly and placed it in the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. "Let's get this show on the road," he said to himself.
