Duck, Duck, Goose
"At one time my only wish was to be a police official. It seemed to me to be an occupation for my sleepless intriguing mind. I had the idea that there, among criminals, were people to fight: clever, vigorous, crafty fellows. Later I realized that it was good that I did not become one, for most police cases involve misery and wretchedness — not crimes and scandals." ~ Søren Kierkegaard, Journals and Papers, Volume V
His fingertips felt the pale skin of his cheek, formed of angles, as he looked at the behemoths.
They'd been at the Scotland Yard building as soon as possible, early in the morning. As early as that was, however, it wasn't early enough. Lestrade had greeted them, commented about some sort of strings Sherlock might have pulled or some such and told them to wait for the papers. When the first box came, it had a piece of yellow post-it note stuck on it on which was written, in hurried calligraphy: "With my compliments, MR"
Stupid, dull, silly pieces of paper with reports on small nothings filled boxes, brought together into a veritable sea of paper. A man's entire carrier of files and folders: cases he worked on during his free time, cases he'd helped with, cases he couldn't solve and cases he did brought together into a single, cramped, dully painted room.
"Did you start reading these?" John asked Lestrade, who shared a look of resigned panic.
"No. Haven't started yet" the real reason stopped at the tip of his tongue, dread at having to go through so many files and at the same time, feeling like this legacy was inefficient and impersonal, inept at describing the man the victim had been. They hadn't been friends, but the death of a cop always struck hard. Hence why everyone had wanted to help and at the same time shied away, regulations be damned.
Sherlock had already dipped his feet, as it were, jumping head first into the dusty boxes.
To Lestrade, it was both a relief and an insult. He didn't have to start…but to let someone who wasn't on the force…
He mumbled an obligation between his teeth and excused himself. The detective didn't notice. He'd already finished three files and looked at John, who was still on his feet, by the door.
"Take those boxes over there" he gestured towards the other end of the room. "See what you can find. Put them in piles by dates, circumstances, inconsistencies…"
His thin fingers, a musician's hand, marred only by various chemical burns, gripped the folders one by one. On his dark curls, a thin layer of dust had settled.
John dived heroically into the task, removing all the files at once and starting to fast-read through them.
It was several minutes after they'd begun that Sergeant Donovan walked in, a displeased expression on her face, but a decided one. Silently, she grabbed a box and started reading the files inside.
For once, Sherlock didn't comment on her presence.
The hotel that had come up in the random, mental lottery was the Landmark.
The Atrium Suite was the perfect mix of luxury and privacy, named for its view upon the hotel atrium, separated into a sitting area and a bedroom by a frosted glass French door. It had a minibar, pristine Italian white marble bathtub and walk-in shower, two televisions and unlimited Wi-Fi bandwidth.
The lesson was that crime indeed paid and did so in six figures.
Most of it left her unimpressed, having lived in all sorts of houses and hotels, but luxury always cheered her up so she kept pursuing it.
In the morning, as soon as she woke up, she decided that it was time to go through the old man's duffle bag.
She'd told him about its necessity years back. She had never needed one: her laptop and phones were the only things she'd ever needed and she always had them on her person. She'd also installed a GPS tracking system on them to get them back just in case something happened to them. They were important. The rest of her things…well, she had stashes of cash and paperwork around and most, if not all of her clothes were usually left at the hotel, regardless of their cost.
Many a maid had found new, unworn designer dresses or hand-made shoes of soft, buttery leather in her wake.
But he – an indoor sort of person, who rarely went outside – did need such a bag. Inside its dark recesses were fake IDs, shirts and a spare pair of pants along with cash. A lot of cash.
Years of handling large stacks of it had given her the ability of quick counting and handling of money. Within the minute, she had the paper rectangles arranged in a pyramid on the futon placed at the end of the bed. Henry had kept three quarters of a million sterling in a duffle bag under his bed.
She almost laughed. She would have, if it hadn't been so tragic. He never managed to spend it or give it away and now, never will.
Saved it maybe? For his daughter or granddaughter? She passed her fingertips over the bills with the same rush she always felt around large piles of the stuff, but no matter her sentiment for money (she liked loads of it), somehow she couldn't bear spending it. It was starting off as an odd trend…first refusing Mycroft's money, then not wanting to spend this…
She tossed all the cash back in the bag and kicked it under the bed. She'd figure out what to do with it.
Money was her life.
Then she'd ordered breakfast in her room, not having the desire to go down to the Winter Garden: freshly squeezed orange juice, buttermilk pancakes with whipped cream and pecans, freshly baked Danish pastries and a large, mocha with whipped cream, chocolate flakes and cinnamon.
It was still early. She had no pressing matter to attend to, and as per usual with people who always had to race from place to place, she had no idea what to do with her time.
She got dressed, sniffing the clothes beforehand. They smelled of alcohol and cheap pub, tobacco and herself, and she knew that she had to buy more clothes than the one extra outfit she came to London with. Then she took to comb her hair and finally braided it. She felt like going insane, until the phone rang at the same time as room service knocked at the door.
She answered, opening the door and indicating the table then tipped well while the voice at the other end of the line spoke in short, clipped sentences.
She lit a cigarette and poured some scotch she'd bought the previous day while listening.
"I'll be right there" she said and hung up. Then she knocked back the glass of scotch, put out the cigarette and ran to get a cab, breakfast forgotten.
Lewis sat, huddled in a corner of the sofa, drinking a mug of hot coffee with both hands, like a poor, mistreated child. Hungover, tired, sore and despite himself, still panicking. The pain in his head seemed to be moving around and he turned his head like an owl, trying to shift it back.
The kid talking didn't help. Good God, it didn't help. He was going through a detailed and fascinating history – he was sure – of all the interesting items in his house. Interesting to him, that is.
The place was wrecked. It was the place where junk came to die. The house seemed like it would burst at the seams with all the things that were inside of it. A fishbowl held numerous photographic films (he hadn't even known those still existed), a CRT television was filled with what appeared to be socks and a palm tree was growing, merrily, inside an upside down old diver's helmet.
A palm tree.
In London.
"Are you listening?" the kid asked, without a hint of frustration or anger, just apparently, quite unaccustomed to having someone around to be heard by.
Little wonder… Lewis thought, but nodded along, gently, so as to not upset his headache. "Yeah, yeah, I'm listening" he hid his mouth behind the mug. "Just trying really really hard not to" he muttered to himself.
When someone rang the doorbell, it felt as though Big Ben had snuck inside his head and started ringing. He'd hidden inside the belfry once. When it was quiet, he swore that he could still hear it ringing.
The kid ran to the door with an excitement akin to a dog whose owner had been away and Lewis…Lewis didn't know if he should have be excited that the attention was going to be off him for a bit or if he was dreading facing Snake again.
He simply focused on trying to find a position that didn't bring pain to him anymore.
And then the kid's voice came back, even louder than before, spouting words faster than they could form, ending up with a mash of intertwining words. If his face didn't hurt, he might have even smiled at Snake's bewildered expression.
"- ever since the rumours of Chicago I've always wanted to meet you!" the kid ended the speech, taking gulps of air.
"It's …great to meet you too, kid" she muttered and looked him over. "Hungover?"
Lewis nodded slowly. "I'm pretty sure my headache woke me up this morning"
"That's not a good sign" but she grinned anyway. Happy at his discomfort, he knew.
"Some people have coffee, others have tea. I have scotch" she'd once told him at some get together a thief had arranged after fencing off a particularly intriguing set of diamonds. "If I don't have a hangover and a serious dehydration problem, I get melancholic. Give me a healthy headache, some ungodly desire for greasy food and maybe a joint and I'll be happy for the rest of the week. I really don't see how the experience could even compare to an Earl Grey…"
"No, what's not a good sign is that I constantly hear sloshing" he moved his head to the left. "I think I liquefied my brain"
"Would you like another cup of coffee?" the kid offered.
"Yes. Please"
"Oh, erm, can I get you one? I can make mocha, espresso, cappuccino, anything you like!" he addressed Snake.
"Black coffee is fine. I've only had a scotch this morning" she said, stripping off her long coat and tossing it over a small table whose base was a half-naked lady.
"Erm, alright. Black it is" and he moved so fast he almost teleported through a door made out of tree bark. She stared at it for a moment before shaking her head.
"I think he's got a crush on you, Snake" Lewis smirked and groaned when she plopped on the couch with a maximum amount of movement and his brain sloshed a bit more.
"Because I need the attentions of a kid right now"
"I think he's older than you"
She glared, searching through her pockets. "Well, who isn't, in this business?" she found a brand new pack of cigarettes, which she tore open. "So what happened? Why did you call?"
"The kid learned something. I don't know. Something with maps and…something" he muttered and put his mug on the trunk that served as an end table by the couch. "He's been talking so much I don't know what he's saying anymore. Apparently Ed was training him up to…take his place? Take a fall?"
"Ed wouldn't have let someone else take the fall for anything" she lit the cigarette and puffed in thought. "Then again, training a kid doesn't sound like something he'd do either"
"Kind of late to consider it, isn't it?" he groaned and tightened his jacket around himself better, and watched the smoke wafts take to the ceiling. "I'm never drinking again"
"I hear that every day" she blew rings of smoke that took to the air and turned to the door made out of tree bark when the kid started walked slowly towards them, two mugs filled to the brim in tow. "What's your name, kid?"
"Oh, erm, that's rude of me. I'm…Simon. Simon Masterson. Everyone calls me Pinkie" he stuttered.
She frowned and accepted the drink as Lewis accepted his in a vomit green mug. He looked nauseous just staring at it. "Why?"
"Erm…long story" he evaded, pulling a chair that looked made out of cards.
"Can you start a sentence without saying 'erm' ?" Lewis intervened, irritated.
"Erm…" he flushed and sunk his head into his chest, flustered.
"Kid, Louie said you had something to tell me" Snake intervened, taking a sip of coffee before placing it away and continuing with inhaling out of the cigarette as if it had done something horrible to her.
"Right. Well…erm, you know how Eddie liked to buy places right?" he started, wringing his hands nervously.
"Yeah" Snake tapped her fingers on her leg impatiently. "He rented them out for cons or as places to stay for out-of-towners looking to lay low. He had a bunch of places in Leyton if I remember right"
"Yes! Yes" Pinkie shuffled his feet. "Well after doing some time inside, he started getting more and more of them. Not just Leyton. Everywhere. Places to hide his stashes and stuff"
An odd spark of attention bloomed in Snake's eyes. "Tell me, kid, did he keep the keys in that dreadful bowl by his entrance?"
"Erm…yes?"
A slow smile stretched across her face. "Continue with your point, please"
His eyes were fairly wide and both his hero worship and his complete lack of experience permeated the air like moisture. "Well, he might have stashed some things in one of them to give us – you – a clue for his murderer. Eddie knew everything"
Lewis groaned and Snake blinked. "Good line of thinking" the kid beamed out of every pore. "Slightly off conclusion. There were no keys in his key bowl, killer wanted to lay low…" she let the sentence hang, looking at Pinkie expectantly.
"Oh!" he jumped to his feet. "You think he's hiding in one of Ed's houses!" he grinned for a second, then his expression turned serious. "You think he's hiding in one of Ed's houses?"
"I would" Lewis intervened. "The cops wouldn't know, right? Perfect hiding spot. Not like he expected anyone to go and check the key bowl of all things"
Snake got up and walked to the window, head tilted back. Small gesture of thought, but Lewis felt guilty all over again. Collaborating didn't mean being forgiven for all of his faults and there were plenty. It occurred to him that they'd never worked properly together. He never worked with anyone for a long term. Informers rarely did.
Casual threats and dangers, those happened often. Trying to atone for badly offered information was not something to do twice. Good informers didn't even have to do it once.
He was grateful just for the opportunity.
"Want me to check out the spots?" he offered in a genuinely first attempt at delicacy and care.
She tossed him a look. "Yes, because you're exceptionally well equipped, mentally and practically, to deal with a serial killer and possible bodies in his house, hidden away…" she started smirking. "In places where you can see them…"
He glared.
"I'll deal with it" she shook her head and turned to Pinkie. "Can I get the addresses, please?"
"I've got one better" he jumped across the room and looked between the books on a bookshelf shaped in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of a spider's web. He pulled the map out and surrendered it to her.
Snake spread it until it was the size of a large towel, overshadowing her torso and looked it over. "Louie…I might take you up on your offer anyway" she muttered.
"Why?"
She set the entire piece of paper on the antique walnut desk and spread her hands over it. Tiny red circles had fallen onto Greater London like a bad case of the measles. All three stared at it with an expression bordering from Lewis's disillusion to Pinkie's panic.
"Those are a lot of doors to unlock…" Snake deadpanned, blowing smoke.
"Must have cost a fortune to get, too" Lewis remarked.
"Well, yes. But the point is that he could hide a lot of things from, well…everyone" Pinkie commented, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"Glad he thought of everything, then" the informer muttered, displeased. "But how are we going to know which one he's in. Look at these. They're spread all over London. Is that…is that one inside the National Gallery?"
Pinkie squinted. "Erm…Sorry. Smudge" he rubbed the spot with his thumb.
"Well, there goes one of them" she muttered. "Just a thousand more to go"
"We'll help you. Erm…I'm sure there's loads of people we can call to help" the kid said, despite being able to think of none.
"No" Snake growled. "We can't exactly trust a lot of people, now can we? Bloody hell, even if we could, they'd probably be moronic enough to spill it to the wrong person" for a moment her eyes fell on Louie and he looked down. "Or even worse. Get themselves killed"
She grabbed her coat quickly, tossing the cigarette pack inside. "I'll deal with it. You two stay together. If anything happens, I'll call you"
"Are you sure?" Pinkie asked, uneasily. "That would be…"
"Suicidal?" she grinned carelessly. "Welcome to the job, kid. You sure you're up for it?"
"Did you find anything?" John, bored and a little numb, asked Sherlock who was reading a case file with an interested eye. Sergeant Donovan had gone for coffee and though other officers had walked close to the door, none had entered.
"I'm not sure" he replied.
His pile of cases with potential implications was inexistent. He had considered none of them to be relevant or interesting or even particularly difficult. He, in fact, was anticipating some sort of murder file.
The one that had caught his eye, however, was not one of violent death. It was quickly gutted open on his side of the table, photographs, reports and notes spread strategically.
The little girl in the picture was smiling widely and was all dressed in pink. Strawberry blonde curls framed her chubby little face and vivid blue eyes were gleefully watching the photographer. The report was one of missing persons, filed three months back.
Sherlock recognized the date. There had been posters and searches but nothing had turned up. At least not at first. It was presumed that she had skipped school with the intention of running away.
Dredging up the Thames had resulted in a body, two weeks after the disappearance, at a point where no one had had any hope left. The family had asked for it to be a non-disclosed event that was not reported in newspapers or television news and being fairly affluent, the fact had remained a secret.
His eyes skimmed the conclusions of the file.
It was an extremely simple one that involved climbing up the edges of the bridge and drowning. The picture that accompanied that final report showed the dead body, blue and bloated, dressed in filthy pink. The large backpack had probably just dragged her down.
There were no reasons to suspect foul play or some other illegality. Written in faded pencil, on the corner of a piece of paper was the number of another report.
He dived in the mess of papers for it, while John looked at the photograph.
"That's sad, isn't it? I wonder how no one noticed when she fell"
Sherlock shook his hand, dismissing the thought. He had found the file.
It was a murder case, of a man suspected of small time crimes – mainly racketeering. He had died – multiple stab wounds – while putting his cat out for the night. The murderer had never been found and there were few suspects. None investigated past the first interrogation. It was classified as a random attack being as how he lived in a bad neighbourhood where drug-related attacks and assaults happened with alarming frequency.
Sherlock let his head hang back. It was inconsistent. That type of crime with lack of evidence…
It seemed unplanned, messy, easy. Even the police department couldn't have botched that one and yet, no evidence…
At all.
The only thing that connected those two files, those two cases, was the number written in pencil. Something Sergeant David Reynolds has thought about. Something he had suspected.
"Lestrade!" he shouted, jumping out of his chair. John flinched.
"Lestrade!" he tore open the door and shouted down the hall.
"What!?" the man ran over. "What is it?"
"This file" Sherlock held up the murder report and that one" He pointed at the table. "What's the connection between them?"
Lestrade took the file in his hand and gave it a look, then checked the other one. "There is no connection" he answered, as if it was plain to see.
"Of course there's a connection" Sherlock tapped the number in pencil. "Your Sergeant thought of it. Now what is it?"
"Oh, that. That was just Reynolds's theory. It didn't check out. Seeing as how the parents were wealthy and this guy-" he tapped the picture of the small-time crook "-was suspected of racketeering in the area, he thought it was a kidnapping and later, after the body was found, a botched one. There was no evidence to support it and since he was found dead, the case was closed. He wasn't even called for questioning" Lestrade explained.
He paused and looked at the consulting detective carefully. "You're not thinking that this is why he was killed, are you?"
"I'm thinking-" his phone rang. He quickly took it out of his pocket and read the text, then pounced on the table and took the files. "John, come on. I'm taking these files. You don't mind, do you?" he asked and was out the door before Lestrade could answer.
"Wait, where are you going? And what are we supposed to do?" the DI asked, watching as he was already almost out of view.
Sherlock stopped and tossed over his shoulder. "Keep reading the files!"
"…Great" he muttered, left behind in the room full of paper. "Just great"