Chapter 10

"What was that all about?" Michael asked as Scarlet finally got out.

"Nothing really, just confirmation of a few things from this morning. We'll be safe enough here, I told you, didn't I?" she assured.

A few minutes later they had been given entry to the main door and had reached Rafe's flat. The man who opened it could only be his cousin, Charles-Henry Ravenhurst, standing well over six foot tall, with black, neat wavy hair, dark green eyes, an elongated face and a strong aquiline nose, similar to Rafe's. He was immaculate in a navy blue suit which Scarlet guessed was a bespoke Saville Row or Jermyn Street creation, and peered at them over silver-rimmed spectacles.

"Good day, so, you are Scarlet Ribbon, an old friend of Rafe's?" he spoke in the most clipped, RP accent Scarlet had heard in a long time, it was almost as if he did not wish to waste words.

"Yes, that's correct, and this is Dr Michael Morton," she replied, looking at Michael who felt very sheepish under the gaze of the tall Englishman.

"Very well, come in, my cousin is rather anxious that you begin your project today," Charles-Henry said carefully.

"Oh we hope to," Scarlet said with a smile. Hmm, charm has zero effect on this one, he's practically Dr Spock! She thought when Charles-Henry did not return the smile.

Inside Rafe practically bounded off the sofa where he'd been lying and flung his arms around Scarlet, "Oh I'm so relieved to see you! If it hadn't been for Charles-Henry and Meredith, I'd have probably opened up an artery again!" he looked awful, pale, haggard and downright miserable.

"Rafe, I'm beginning to wonder if you're not really succumbing to something, look at the state of you! Michael, please check him out, I don't want us to really be calling for a hearse!" Scarlet kept her arm around Rafe's slender waist and helped him back to the sofa.

Michael followed, he sat down next to Rafe, "Right then, let me just check a few things, I've got a blood pressure kit in here, but she's right, you look like a man who is mentally and physically exhausted," he said.

"No thanks to that woman! If it wasn't for you chaps, Nancy would be the death of me, definitely!" Rafe moaned, as Michael instructed him to roll up his shirt sleeve, and then put the cuff onto his upper arm.

"Mr Ravenhurst, surely you can have the marriage annulled? I mean, it sounds like this woman tricked him into it, whatever her motive!" Scarlet turned to Charles-Henry who stood in the doorway, tall and uncompromising like a grizzly bear.

"I have already looked at the legal issues there, and it is possible, however, having offered Ms Donafiro the chance to do so, we now know she is determined to slander my cousin's name if any such steps are taken. The idea that she should believe Rafe is terminally ill and then accept his death is possibly the next best course of action. Fortunately for the Ravenhurst estate, as long as my aunt is still alive, she is the sole owner. Also, my uncle was not able to amend his will before he died, and at the moment, my youngest cousin, Fern, Rafe's sister is the heir. A curious situation, but legally it stands as his last will and testament. The plan would be to make it clear at the last moment to Ms Donafiro that she has no claims on the family estate, and hopefully she will beat a sensible retreat," Charles-Henry explained in his slow, but precise manner.

"Well, well, Rafe, you being a rascal might actually have worked in your favour. Good job your mother is hale and hearty!" Scarlet said brightly, turning to her dishevelled friend.

"Your blood pressure is on the high side, but that would tally with you being very stressed. What's your alcohol and tobacco consumption like?" Michael asked calmly.

"Er, well, I'm very partial to malt whisky, probably sloshing down rather a lot lately, and I had given up on the old cancer-sticks, but I'm afraid I started again, if only to annoy Nancy who hates smoking," Rafe confessed.

Michael clicked his tongue. "Aye, that makes you a great candidate for a heart-attack, stroke, lung cancer, throat cancer, or all of them! But don't worry, most doctors are as unhealthy as you are."

Rafe was relieved when Michael smiled sympathetically at him. "So, what horrible disease can I pretend to have? Something exotic?"

Michael shook his head, "No, something mundane, exotic diseases are difficult to fake effectively. This is very risky, but I'm prepared to do it if you do exactly as you're told. Is there anything at all you know of, any inherited conditions which might actually have affected you that we could play on?"

Rafe sat up straight and stared at his cousin, "By Jove, I've been a total fool, how could I forget? My father died because he had an inherited electrical defect in his heart. Our grandfather, and great grandfather both died in their 50s with the same thing, it's like a time-bomb, the least thing sets it off! I'm surprised my ticker hasn't conked out already the grief Nancy's given me!"

"Well, I didn't want to encourage you to try something that might well endanger your life!" Charles-Henry retorted.

"So," Michael began, stroking his chin, "Inherited arrhythmia, which is actually fascinating. This 'time-bomb' idea is right, it's called Brugada Syndrome, I'm sure you would have been tested for the condition when you were a teenager, Rafe, were you?"

"Um, yes, I think I was. I was nineteen when my father died. Scared me stiff because I'd got into rather a messy situation at college… the first time I had a run-in with a mad Italian woman! I don't recall them finding anything at the time," Rafe replied.

"Ok, then you should be safe. But, all the same, you should come down to the clinic and I'll hook you up to the ECG, just to make sure, it's the only way to detect an irregular heart rhythm. I will only go ahead with this if I think you do not have any real problems. Inherited arrhythmias can skip a generation, so you might have been the lucky one. So if you are in the clear, there are drugs that can induce chest pain and even cause VF, that's ventricular fibrillation, when the heart flutters and stops pumping blood. It's a very, very dangerous game, and will look terrifying to anyone not in the know. However, we can do other things that are less dramatic, like muscle relaxants which will affect your ability to walk, some even stop the breathing and necessitate artificial breathing apparatus. That sort of thing can add up to a brain tumour, especially one which has metastasised, that is, spread from somewhere else. Or, we can use blood pellets to fake vomiting blood, and you can have pancreatic cancer. This really does sound disgusting, I take it this is the only way to get rid of your troublesome bride?" Michael stopped, feeling a little uneasy.

"Sadly yes. But that's interesting about the heart stuff, mm, yes, I could have a spectacular fake heart-attack and that would really frighten her. She would know about my father. She wouldn't know whether I had it or not, I've been too much of a coward to find out any more since… well, my younger brother definitely doesn't have it, and Fern's ok. You've cheered me up no end, Dr Morton, I'd be quite happy to go to your clinic," Rafe beamed.

Just then there was a furious knock at the flat door. "I didn't hear the buzzer, who could that be?" Charles-Henry asked.

"Huh, you don't need to guess, cousin, it's the black widow herself! Let her in, damn menace!" Rafe snapped, his demeanour suddenly reverting to gloomy depression.

Charles-Henry opened the door, and was rapidly pushed aside by a tall, curvaceous woman in her early fifties with jet black curly hair which fell luxuriously over her shoulders. She was dressed in a leather jerkin, black trousers and eye-catching red heels, Scarlet noting they were Jimmy Choos. The woman had an oval, olive-skinned face, with large brown eyes and a fulsome mouth. She was striking indeed, but there was something cold about her eyes, a brutal gleam which gave the impression she was not to be trifled with. Her sculpted nose was of interest to Michael, who immediately recognised the work of a fellow plastics expert. Probably paid to get rid of an unsightly Roman nose! He thought.

"Mamma Mia, my husband! Always people here, do you not trust me?" her voice was sharp and piercing.

Dearie me, thought Scarlet, she's a looker right enough, but oh that voice, it could break glass, and not in a good way either! Before she could butt in and begin the charade, Nancy Donafiro looked across at Michael, who was removing the blood-pressure cuff from Rafe's arm.

"Oh! Mio Dio! You're a medico? What is wrong with my beloved?" she shrieked.

"I'm afraid when I arrived today, my client was very much the worse for wear, complaining of chest pains. I called my private doctor here to attend him, I'm extremely concerned that your bullying and excitable behaviour is making him ill," Charles-Henry said, stalking across to confront her.

"Oh no, no, surely? Dottore, is there something wrong with my husband?" Nancy directed her question at Michael, having turned away from Charles-Henry.

"Mr Charteris' blood pressure is sky-high. Were you aware he has a hereditary heart-condition?" Michael began in the gravest tones.

Nancy shook her head, "No, no, his Papa, he dies of bad heart, but no, not my beloved Rafe!" she threw up her hands in horror.

"Well, I'm afraid it looks very much like Mr Charteris has inherited his father's condition. It's known as Brugada Syndrome, which means the heart has an electrical fault, and in turn can result in ventricular fibrillation, a heart-attack, which without intervention can be fatal. Unfortunately the irregularities can begin without warning, thus I was just about to suggest that I take Mr Charteris to the clinic to run an ECG, a trace on the heart's rhythm," Michael explained. He had a personal interest in heart problems as some of his older female patients were very risky candidates for plastics procedures due to such issues. It had been the reason for installing an ECG in the clinic in the first place.

"Oh mio Dio!" Nancy gasped again, crossing herself rapidly, "My beloved husband, I did not know! Oh forgive your Nancy, per favore! I love you, I do, ti amo!" she said, holding her arms out towards him. Rafe stiffened visibly.

"Don't lie to me, Nancy, just because the doctor and his colleague here haven't seen you verbally tearing me to shreds and threatening to discredit me, does not mean they're unaware of how you treat me! This is your fault! If I die of a seizure, it will be down to you! So much for your desire to avenge your mother! You would have me killed would you?" he growled, then coughed violently.

"Rafe, beloved husband, you're sick, you're saying things you don't mean, mi amore!" Nancy smiled uneasily and turned to the others, "He's just worrying, he gets a bit sciocco… in English, ah, mad, foolish! Mad dogs and Englishmen, eh?" Nancy continued her self-effacing act.

Scarlet could see by her exaggerated mannerisms that she was trying desperately to convince them Rafe was in the wrong and not her. "Miss…er, Mrs Charteris?" she began. Nancy spun round to look at her. "It's clear you're quite upset by this yourself, perhaps it would be wise if you let Dr Morton and I carry out the ECG, then we will be able to give you a more informed opinion. There are drugs to treat this condition, but without following the correct procedures we cannot begin the treatment, do you see?" Scarlet had affected a soft but authoritative voice, "By the way, I'm Dr Winters, I work at the same clinic as Dr Morton. Mr Ravenhurst here employs our services for many of his legal clients."

Nancy seemed taken off-guard by this cool female in her grey coat and high boots. "Ah, certamente, yes, si, you should take him to the clinic. I shall go to my apartment, call me with the results, per favore?" she asked.

"Rest assured we will contact you once we know more," Scarlet soothed. "Isn't that right, Dr Morton?" she added, giving Michael a knowing smirk.

"Yes," Michael began, again in a serious tone, "It is imperative that we match the treatment to the condition. This is a very dangerous condition for anyone to suffer from, we would appreciate your cooperation."

"Si, si, I will leave you, mi amore, do not die on me!" Nancy cooed. Rafe visibly shivered as she blew him a kiss and stalked out of the room.

As she left, Charles-Henry bolted the door. They stood in silence until they heard the bang of the lower street door and the sound of heels on the gritted pavement outside. "Oh Rafe, what have you done? That woman's not fit to be in polite company!" Scarlet exclaimed, "I can see why you're suicidal!"

"And it looks as if she's decided on our con for us. Heart-attack it is then," Michael sighed. "This has to go according to plan, or I'll end up in jail along with our friend Brook!"

Charles-Henry decided to accompany the three of them to the clinic. When they returned through the walkway from Lexham House, there was a large tow-truck in the middle of the clinic carpark. The operator was winching the mangled remains of the Aston Martin onto the trailer, and the firemen were beginning to sweep up the debris left behind. The police car was still there, and when they reached the front door, Constable Wallace was on duty. He waved them in as Michael explained this was an emergency patient. Charles-Henry raised an eyebrow in a quizzical fashion, "Do I take it you have troubles of your own, Dr Morton?" he said.

"You could say that, but we need a detective, not a lawyer," Michael replied, as Scarlet Ribbon walked in front of them, holding Rafe's arm. She had made sure he'd found a warm coat and boots, realising that things were very serious with her old friend. Agnes was at the desk, looking flushed, "Oh Dr Morton, thank goodness you're back! I've had nothing but hassle on the phones from the press! I just told them no comment! He's at it again, Brook, it's all over Twitter! He must have been watching when it happened!" she gasped.

"That man! He better hope the Met get him before I do!" Michael retorted, "I hope you kept a note of who called, then I can get Simon Brogden to issue them a proper statement."

"Yeah, I always do, Boss, that detective is still here by the way, he went off down to the basement with Dr Mellifer about an hour ago and I haven't seen them since," Agnes explained.

"Ok, thanks Agnes, you can tell them I have a patient, I'll be in the small treatment room," Michael told her. "By the way, this gentleman here is a lawyer, I think it would be a good idea for you to tell him everything we've now told you, he might be able to give us some free advice about our blackmailer," he added, "Charles-Henry Ravenhurst, this is Agnes Woodson, our receptionist."

Agnes stared up into Charles-Henry's face admiringly, "Hello, Mr Ravenhurst, you better sit over here, this is some story!" she said, indicating the other rotating office chair next to hers behind the desk.

"Thank you, Miss Woodson, I shall be intrigued to hear it," he answered politely, striding around to sit beside her.

Very soon Rafe had his shirt off and a number of plastic suckers attached to his chest with wires that connected to the electrocardiograph machine. Scarlet commented on Rafe's skinny frame, "Don't tell me you've been starving yourself too? Oh Rafe, this is awful, the sooner we get you out of that woman's clutches, the better!"

"Food's not really of interest to me right now," Rafe said glumly.

"Sounds like a course of anti-depressants would make a difference, but then, I'm a plastic surgeon, not a GP. Do you have your own doctor?" Michael asked.

"Fraid not, Doc, too scared, like I said. There's still the family doctor at home, he knows the whole history of the Ravenhurst male line's heart problems," Rafe explained.

"He should be the first person you go and see after this," Michael told him, and Rafe nodded slowly. "Right, I'm just going to switch on the machine and get a good reading, hopefully we'll see a perfectly normal trace." With that he flicked a few switches on the ECG and then walked behind Rafe to watch the print out. The tracer needles began to quiver and jump across the paper, tracing out lines showing the heart function. Scarlet looked at Michael's face anxiously, but he just kept his attention on the printout as the paper slowly fed through. After what seemed like an age, Michael switched off the machine and pulled off the printout. He was smiling.

"For a man who probably has every chance of suffering any number of nasty aliments because of his disregard for a healthy lifestyle, you have an amazingly robust heart. It's a perfectly normal reading, no blips, defects or the like. If you did have Brugada Syndrome, there would most definitely be an irregular trace," Michael said.

Rafe's amber eyes brightened, "Well I never! So it did skip our generation! Mother will be so relieved when I tell her. So it's safe to play our little game, eh?"

"Hardly, but it's certainly possible."

"Good, now, you better make sure your will is in order so that harpie doesn't grab your house and all the rest of it! Just imagine if your beloved Clarice fell into her hands!" Scarlet said to Rafe, referring to his antique sports car.

"Oh Heaven forbid! Yes, right, Charles-Henry and I will have a proper talk," Rafe turned to Michael, "Many thanks Doc, you've scotched one of my lifelong fears today."

"Glad to be of service, now, my main advice is stop drinking and smoking and get some decent food in your belly! I've met your type before, they're usually younger, stock brokers, people in risky jobs, all high on adrenaline, living on cigarettes and Mars bars. Scarlet, maybe you should take Rafe to Claridge's, it would do him good," Michael swung a look in Scarlet's direction.

"He only has to ask. Anyway, how do we go about this then?" she replied.

"Well, someone suffering arrhythmia is always more likely to fainting fits, which can bring on a heart-attack. Also, there are 'pre-syncope' episodes, precursors to fainting where the sufferer loses coordination, falls over, feels dizzy or sick, and has a racing pulse. A strong dose of Prazosin, which a GP might prescribe for high blood pressure, would cause such side-effects. Now, I don't have that drug here, I'd have to get it, and I'd be taking a risk, but one prescription shouldn't cause too much suspicion. The good news, if we can call it that, is that there's plenty Zemuron in the clinic, it's an intravenous muscle relaxant used before surgery. I would use that to fake the heart-attack. Not only will you lose all ability to move your muscles, but it will severely diminish your breathing. Somehow we'll have to be on hand because if I don't intervene, you'll be dead in about four minutes," Michael explained in a serious tone.

"Sounds like a job for one of my techie friends, apparently phone lines are not difficult to reroute," Scarlet said cheerfully, as Rafe gaped uneasily.

"Well, I suppose if we are going to have to be drastic, I should do it over at Nancy's place so as not to arouse suspicion that it's a set-up! Then we need a fake hospital for me to "die" in, that's no problem either, I know people for that. Michael, can we try the first option tomorrow? I'll go over to hers and pretend to kiss and make up, then keel over on the doorstep or something. Charles-Henry can be waiting in the car, you can tell him what to do, it'll be fine!" Rafe did not sound entirely convinced, but was just desperate enough to try it.

Michael had finished removing the electrodes from Rafe's chest, "Alright, I'll give you a prescription for the Prazosin, which you can get at a pharmacy, get it today, then call Scarlet and I will pass on the instructions for the dosage. Otherwise, I have to go and check that Laurence and Inspector Lestrade haven't got lost down in the bowels of this place. Whatever I tell you, do not take any more, because you will make yourself very ill, and I will get the blame!" he told him, grabbing a prescription pad from the top drawer of a steel cabinet in the corner of the room.

Laurence Mellifer and Greg Lestrade were standing in Gloucester Road tube station, much to the latter's surprise. "That's amazing! I can see why the civil defence and Cold War guys liked this, how deep did we go?"

"At least 100ft, the known DLS's are between 100 and 200ft, and they were around Piccadilly and Southwark. This one really was top secret, because it was for the bigwigs, not the ordinary plebs! So there's no way any lunatic killer would find it either!" Laurence enthused as they ambled along the platform, unconcerned by the odd looks from passengers at Laurence's blue medical scrubs.

"Incredible, and we've walked, what, about a mile?" Lestrade supposed.

"0.7 miles," Laurence said, showing Lestrade his watch which had a pedometer display.

"Very clever. And that tunnel had a huge open bit below this, space for all kinds of activities. Ok, I think you'd be safe enough down here then, just don't blab about it," Lestrade said. "By the way, if my ex-wife gives me any grief, I'll be down here to hide from her, that ok?" he grinned.

"Anytime, come and see me and I'll get you spare keys!" Laurence replied.

They took the escalator up to ground level then from Gloucester Road, they crossed Cromwell Road, a busy dual carriageway, and walked past a huge terrace of Georgian buildings, a Sainsbury's supermarket, round the corner of the Majestic Hotel, and turned left into Pennant Mews again. The fire engine and tow truck had now left the carpark; all that remained of the explosion was a charred patch in Michael's parking space. Constable Wallace was still on the door. He nodded to Lestrade, "Hello sir, I didn't realise you'd come out."

"Yeah, round the back," he said and looked knowingly at Laurence. "All ok here?"

"Seems so, Dr Morton was out and then came back with an emergency patient he said. Miss Summers and another man were with them. Think I've seen him before, might be a lawyer actually, sure he's been at the High Court," Wallace observed.

"Thanks. What did the fire investigators say?"

"Not much, just that if you wanted a report, to contact Fire Officer Gordon," Wallace replied.

"Ok, will do."

Inside, Agnes was talking in an animated fashion to the tall, well-dressed man that was Charles-Henry Ravenhurst. Scarlet Ribbon had already left with Rafe to take him home via the chemist. Michael Morton came out from the door to the treatment rooms just as Laurence and Lestrade entered.

"Inspector, so, what did you think of Laurence's hidey hole? Not that I've ever been down there," he said.

"Impressive. I'd keep that schtumm if I were you. I'm going back to Scotland Yard to get the fire investigator's report on your car, and I'll be back in touch once I've had a chance to find out what else my officers have uncovered about our friend Brook. I guess you'll be ok to go home whenever you like, Constable Wallace will be keeping an eye on the clinic tonight. But take very good care, anything suspicious happens, or if Brook makes any attempt to contact either of you or the other members of staff, let me know. Here's my contact details," Lestrade said, handing a business card to Michael. He left soon after. Agnes looked up, "Dr Morton, can I please go home? I'll be safe enough, Rocky'll make short work of any villains!" she said, referring to her dog, a Husky-Alsatian cross with a particularly vicious temper.

"Yes, alright, I hope you haven't been boring Mr Ravenhurst," Michael smiled at her.

"Nah, Chas and me have been getting acquainted. He seems to think we've a water-tight case for blackmail against Richard Brook, even if the cops can't prove he blew up your car," Agnes replied, beaming.

"Indeed, Aggie is quite correct. I would be happy to represent you should the police finally apprehend this creature. He sounds as if he is in need of psychiatric help!" Charles-Henry added.

Chas? Gee, typical Agnes, she gets everyone down to her level, Michael mused. "That's good. I doubt we'd have any money to pay you, considering we're still on borrowed time with our finances."

"It would be on a no-win-no-fee basis, since you are aiding my cousin's cause. I am confident we would win such a case, though, Dr Morton," Charles-Henry said, peering over his silver-rimmed spectacles like a studious owl.

"We'll just see about that, then, should the need arise. Ok, I think it's time we all risked going home. Hopefully it will be business as usual tomorrow," Michael said.

Soon the staff had gathered themselves together and started leaving in pairs; Alanna and Maurice walked towards Earl's Court tube station as they both took the same line home; Julie and Chantal walked along to the nearby bus stop on Cromwell Road; Agnes declared that 'Chas' would share a taxi with her. Laurence appeared in his cycling gear, wheeling his bike outside and heading towards the lane into Lexham House car park. Michael was standing alone on the Mews apart from Constable Wallace who assured him he would be there for another few hours until a relief officer arrived.

Well, better phone the insurance company, they aren't going to be happy, Michael thought to himself. But he stood for a moment longer, looking around him, up to the terraces of the other buildings on the Mews, across at the hideous modern edifice of Sun Alliance Insurance which completely blocked the view of Cromwell Road from the Mews, and then down onto Marloes Road and the red brick blocks of Sherborne Court and Pentland House. If Brook had been here earlier, there were so many places he could have hidden. He decided to be brave and headed off towards Earl's Court himself, where he would take the Piccadilly Line direct to Osterley and then walk home.

When Lestrade got back to his office, there was a post-it note stuck in the middle of his computer monitor. The writing was small, but just decipherable, "Seen I.A. she knows possible suspect for KB, need to talk, NOW!" It was Molly's writing. Where was she? He decided to try the most obvious place, the police mortuary. The room was in pitch darkness, with only a dull shine coming from the stainless steel operating tables. "Hello? Anybody there? It's Greg," he whispered loudly.

There was a distinct click and suddenly the fluorescent lightning tubes glowed into life. Molly had been standing behind the door. In her hand was a medical grade saw. "Thank goodness it's only you!" she sighed.

"Er, kinda relieved myself, what the heck are you doing with that?" Lestrade asked, as Molly lowered her weapon of choice.

"Hoping to defend myself from lunatics. I think I need to tell you everything, cos I think Irene knows now. I have to tell you what Mycroft told me not to, because Irene knows the man who is most likely responsible for Kate Burrell's death, as it wasn't Richard Brook," Molly told him.

"Ah. Ok, you want to lock this door then?" Greg gestured, shutting it behind him.

Molly nodded. She put down the saw on a nearby trolley which was full of other equipment for dissection, and pulled her keys from her pocket. Greg sat himself down on a stool, and Molly leaned back against the trolley. "Now, I have to go back to the week before Sherlock and Moriarty were on the roof…" she began.

Greg was amazed to hear her confirm the story he had heard from Laurence Mellifer, and that Mycroft had already suspected Sebastian Moran as a potential ally of Richard Brook's, and possibly Kate's killer. Molly explained that she'd now told St Bart's security that the cleaner, who had been going by the name of 'Lance Miller' was a wanted criminal, and should he return to the premises, they were to detain him. She told Greg about Irene's desperate phone call and how the dominatrix had already met Moran, again, reinforcing the possibility that he had killed her friend. "Now, she isn't even supposed to be here! If Mycroft finds out I told her his brother was alive, he'll lock me up and throw away the key! But then, now we know, Moran saw Laurence and me in the middle of that operation, so he guessed anyway. Thing is, he could have warned Moriarty what was going to happen, but he didn't. So where does this leave us, Greg? Where does it leave me? I came back to the Yard because I thought it was the only safe place left that Moriarty can't just waltz into… and I mean Richard Moriarty, cos Jim's dead."

"Hmm, would you believe I've heard some of your story already from Laurence Mellifer? It seems that Richard Brook, whom you're now saying is likely to be a Moriarty, put a bomb under the wheel arch of Dr Michael Morton's car at the Carisbrooke Clinic this morning. It exploded, but thankfully no-one was hurt. Your friend Laurence spotted the device and he probably saved the life of the nurse who had only been about to move the car to let their pharmacy supplier park his van. I've been at the clinic most of the day. And do you know why I ended up over there? After we'd had the results of the DNA comparison from the Kitty Riley crime scene, D.C. Western grabs me in the corridor and shows me this photo which had been posted on Twitter, by Richard Brook himself! Talk about an exhibitionist! Western had checked the hashtag and realised Carisbrooke Clinic was the same one where we arrested the Indian lad who'd thrown acid at his sister, the clinic she'd been treated at free of charge. And Western shows me a transcript of a few hours' worth of Twitter messages from yesterday, all set off by Brook posting an image of that little toerag Lester Arnold, who we nicked months back for a spate of high-end car thefts. When I got over there, it was chaos! But don't worry, your friend's ok. Everyone's on the lookout for Brook now, so I told them to go home," Lestrade told Molly, whose eyes were wide in horror.

"But you can't! You can't just leave them without protection! Greg, I'm not leaving here until they've got Moriarty, I can't believe you're going to risk the lives of others because you think he won't do anything else today!" she insisted.

"Woah, hey, I'm on information overload here, I left a local constable looking after the Clinic, and everyone in the division and the whole of the Met should have a description of Brook by now. He can't escape, especially if you're saying there are MI5 agents after him as well! Just because Sherlock Holmes isn't here to solve everything at the drop of a hat, doesn't mean to say that the rest of us are useless! Aw Molly, come on, don't you believe in me?" Greg pleaded.

"Honestly right now? No. I believe in him, but you have no idea what or who Brook is. It's a good thing I spoke to Donald Western while you were out, he's been investigating his real identity and trying to find out about Sebastian Moran. Just forget what I said, let's do what Sherlock would be doing if he was here. He'd be looking at everything, every tiny scrap of information, then he'd disregard the obvious, and whatever is left, however unlikely or crazy, is bound to be the truth! We'll have the reports from the crime scene officers now, so we can work on both at the same time!" Molly told him, unlocking the door.

Greg hauled himself to his feet, "Wow, never seen you so animated. You should tell your boyfriend to jump off the hospital roof more often!"

Molly swiped her hand at him, but missed, "Idiot. You're getting worse than Anderson!"

Upstairs in the divisional office, Lestrade, Western and Molly talked over the information that had been gathered. "Ok, so we got as far back as the Moriartys getting divorced, but then, I had a word with the relevant Social Work team over in Ireland, cos parents of two-year old children splitting up is bound to cause some grief, especially as it looks like Rory Moriarty took off to the States with James two months after the divorce was agreed. Take a look at this, it's a report submitted to the court on behalf of Rory Moriarty by a social worker. It details the father's reasons for wanting to take only one of his sons away from their mother," Western said, handing Lestrade a scanned copy of a document he'd been emailed.

Mr Rory Moriarty wishes to inform the court that he seeks custody of his son, James Moriarty as he believes the child is in mortal danger from his sibling, Richard Moriarty, who is currently resident with his Mother, Bridget Moriarty (née Burke) at her mother's house in Waterford. On the first of July 1979, the twins' birthday, Mr Moriarty heard a terrible screaming coming from the boys' room. When he entered, he saw his son Richard stabbing at his son James with a pair of safety scissors. James had his hands around Richard's neck, trying to apparently fight him off. Mr Moriarty pulled the twins apart and relieved Richard of the scissors, which were stained in blood, James having sustained multiple scars to his arms and torso. Mrs Moriarty came into the room and grabbed Richard up in her arms, shouting, 'What has your son done now?' Mr Moriarty reported that he called back at her 'Your son tried to kill my James, he's insane and so are you!' The argument continued, and eventually Mrs Moriarty left the house in Dublin and drove to her mother's. Mr Moriarty pointed out that this was not the first time he had witnessed his children fighting with each other. It was not just play, as they often inflicted quite severe bruises upon each other. He also said that he and his wife had not expected to have twins, even though Mrs Moriarty was a twin herself, as had her father been. Husband and wife favoured one son over the other, and it appeared as if Richard resented James for distancing him from his father. The children are only two years old, but tests have shown that both have difficulty sleeping, are constantly active, and are developing very rapidly in comparison with others their age. Mr Moriarty is convinced that his wife induces Richard, the younger twin by ten minutes, to be cruel to his brother, and believes it would be best if he were to take James away from what he considers to be a life-threatening situation.

Lestrade was amazed; social work in the 1970s would not have been very advanced, and yet here was a suggestion of ADHD, mental illness and seriously disturbed adults too! Western could see his superior's surprised look. "Have a read of the next page, it's the psychologist's report on the mother," he commented.

"Bridget Burke has a history of mental disorder; she had been admitted several times to a psychiatric ward at Dublin's General Hospital for EST as a fifteen year old. She appears to have a form of manic depression, characterised by periods of obsessive activity followed by total catatonia. She was given a course of anti-psychotic drugs which were to be regularly reviewed by her GP and psychiatrist. She is now twenty-six years old and appears to have had a severe depressive episode after the birth of her children. Bridget confessed to the team that she disliked her son James, and preferred Richard. She believed that her husband was actively trying to cause James to harm his sibling. Despite many attempts to convince her this was not the case, her mother and husband despaired. Her behaviour and mental state is very unstable; she admits she has not taken any of her medication since the pregnancy. Our conclusion is that Bridget Burke should not be left in sole charge of a child as young as Richard at the present time. Although impossible to determine at this stage, having observed the children, we believe there is a strong potential they have inherited their mother's mental illness."

"You couldn't get off with saying that today!" Greg gasped, "I mean, woah, they're basically saying that two babies are mad freaks just because their mother had shock therapy when she was a teenager. But, I suppose, if no-one helped set them on the right road… and you said that after Bridget Burke died, they had to take Richard into psychiatric care? Poor kid, if he'd just seen his mother fall down the stairs, no wonder he flipped his lid!"

"But Greg, look what it says about Bridget's death. There were scrape marks on the stair tread consistent with wear patterns on her shoes. It suggested she had resisted. Somebody pushed her. That mixed up little boy is a murderer, just like his brother. Think about it, he's been dragged away from his Dad and his brother. Maybe he blames his Mum and James for screwing up his relationship with his Dad? He's ten, but he remembers when he tried to get rid of his brother, he sees his Mum standing in the way of him getting back to his Dad and having another go at his brother. It is very, very sad, but it explains something, why they're both consummate actors. Jim fooled me completely, but then, he probably thought I was a sad cow who was desperate for a man! And Richard is an actor by profession, who has often worked on children's TV shows. He's kept close to the environment that reminds him of his desire, to get rid of his brother. Now I don't claim to be a psychologist, but I think it happened like this – Moran and Moriarty are plotting to bring about Sherlock Holmes' downfall. Moran notices this guy who looks exactly like his boss, finds out he's an actor, suggests to Moriarty that they use him as part of the plan. Moran contacts Richard Brook and finds him very amenable to the plan. Then Moran finds out that the likely result of the showdown is Sherlock will survive, what other reason would there be to create a body double? Moran gets a little greedy, thinks he can take over his boss's empire by using this lookalike actor to become Moriarty and keep the charade going. What Moran doesn't know is Richard has known all along this is the hated brother he has waited a long time to destroy. He goes along with Moran, but if he clears up all the evidence that his brother is definitely dead, he can take over from him without any trouble. Maybe he knows where his father is, maybe he's going to visit him and pretend to be Jim, cos Jim was Daddy's favourite, then he'll have what he wanted all along, as well as all the ill-gotten riches he ever dreamed of. Getting rid of Moran shouldn't be too hard, but he'll keep him around for now. How am I doing with my deduction?" Molly asked, stopping for breath.

Greg nodded his head, "Sounds good, doesn't it, Constable? She's not just a pretty face, eh?"

"But it does sounds right, boss. This means that Richard Moriarty is as much a danger as his brother ever was. Question is, do we share this with your MI5 man?" Western asked.

Mycroft! There was always the fly in the ointment. Telling him would mean more secrets, more cover-ups, Greg wasn't sure he wanted to be Mycroft's lap dog. "No. This is a police investigation, we're trying to pin Kitty Riley's murder on this nutter, and Moran's a good bet for Kate Burrell. We'll get them for that. I think Sherlock Holmes is taking care of himself without our help," Greg said definitely. "And you, my girl, come home with me if you're scared, I do have a firearm there!"

Molly blushed a little, "Oh, er, thanks for the offer, Greg, but I think I'd better catch up with Laurence Mellifer, I'd feel better supporting my old college mate. And guns are dangerous. The type of person Laurence is, his place will be wired up like a Christmas tree, nobody is going to be sneaking up on him."

The phone rang and Western picked it up; "Hello, CID? You have? Oh, wow, that's good news, yep, I'll tell Lestrade, thanks!"

"What's the news?" Greg asked, suddenly on alert.

"They've arrested Sebastian Moran. He came back into St. Bart's for his shift, where he'd been working under the name of Miller as a cleaner, and he's kicking off. They're bringing him down here in a van," Western told him.

Molly sighed with relief, "Thank goodness for that! Without Moran, Richard Brook isn't going to know everything! Right, I'm off now, before anything else happens."