Chapter 10

I get back to the apartment and am at a bit of an quandary about how to proceed with Arty. I need to be careful; to neither scare him nor give anyone any indication that he might be involved in the recent deaths. Without a clear direction on that front, I decide to work on the Petrus until lunch and then start on finding Arty in the afternoon. Besides, getting wine vendor names to Sherlock as quickly as possible so he can follow up makes the most sense. I pick up my work half done from the day previous and calling around asking questions is easily done and productive. I'm starting to know what to ask for and the follow up enquiries are key to getting leads. There's a rhythm I fall into. I make progress. An hour and a half later, I am still on our land line wrapping up another call to yet another wine broker when my mobile phone pings. As I pick up the device, I keep talking and scroll to the text and read.

BORED

I keep up my end of the phone conversation with the sommelier. There may or may not be a bottle in stock. She has asked for me to hold while she looks it up on her system. I am already seasoned enough at this to know that anyone who has a bottle of Petrus on hand knows it without having to check their inventory. I am being stalled under the guise of a "let me see what we have". When it inevitably turns out to be negative on the Petrus, I will be offered a remarkably specific number of alternatives – all miraculously – on hand. On my mobile, I type back.

GET BACK TO WORK

In the meantime, the woman on the other end follows the script to the letter. I waive her offers and I insist only on her giving me another contact for Petrus. She gives me two. When she starts rattling off addresses and numbers and I abandon my mobile for pen and paper. While I'm writing, I get two more pings. I hang up with the sommelier and catch up.

AN HOUR AND A HALF UNTIL NEXT APPT

Then …

STILL THERE?

I type back. WAS ON PHONE. ANY LUCK?

There's hardly a pause. He's waiting for me. ONE BOTTLE IN HAND. SECOND ONE WAS PLONK. REMARKABLY POOR STORAGE FACILITIES CONSIDERING.

I update him. ARRANGED FOR ANOTHER VISIT JUST OUTSIDE CITY

AM I CONDEMNED TO NEVER LEAVE PARIS?

QUIT COMPLAINING

BORED

GO TO THE LOUVRE

NOTHING TO SEE THERE

I have just the stinging retort for him that is interrupted by an incoming call. The mobile vibrates and rings. Number unknown.

"Hello?"

"Hello." The voice is smooth and female. If it was a cat, there would be purring. "Doctor Watson?" She says my name slowly, as if she is savoring it. Her tone makes my spine tingle.

"Yes. Speaking." I feel myself smiling. I want to say I know who is calling but I don't quite. I wish I did.

"This is Julia. Julia Wainright."

Of course. My smile stays. This interruption is a delight.

She goes on before I can acknowledge her. "From Pavel's? We met a couple of days ago."

"Yes. Yes. Of course." I sit up and use the desk to support an interested pose. "I remember. How are you?"

"I am wondering if you and Mr Holmes could come to Pavel's." Listening to her is like having honey dripped into my ears. I could do this all day. I am listening to what she is saying but only just. "There's … been an incident."

"What? Yes. Of course. Well. I can. Sherlock – Mr Holmes – is out of town on business. I'll be happy to come. What's happened? Are you alright?" I flip up a new page of my book and start making notes.

"I am perfectly fine." She says and then her voice takes on a serious timbre. "I'm calling about one of our staff. You might think it unimportant. But it's one of our dishwashers."

"Yes? What about him?"

"He's dead."

X xx xxx xx xxx x x

It nearly ruins me but I have to ask Mrs Hudson for more yet another cab fare to get to Pavel's. I could take alternate transport, I suppose, but this is faster and I still need to make start on locating Arty before day's end. While I'm in the cab, I pick up the stream of texts from Sherlock.

STILL BORED

WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO DO IN PARIS

ARE YOU IGNORING ME

YOU ARE STILL ON THE PHONE

HANG UP

JOHN? YOU THERE?

I scroll to the end and pick up the conversation before he pings again. JULIA CALLED.

DO TELL.

Even in text form without facial expressions or tone of voice, I get all the subliminal messages.

NOT LIKE THAT. SOMETHING'S HAPPENED.

WHAT? TELL ME. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. HAVE I NOT BEEN CLEAR IN MY EXPRESSION OF ABJECT BOREDOM IN THIS CITY OF DESPAIR AND DESOLATION?

PARIS IS THE CITY OF LOVE

YOU ARGUE MY POINT EXACTLY. PAVEL'S. WHAT HAPPENED?

ON MY WAY NOW. DISHWASHER DIED.

I wait for a response and get none. I am certain that relating the appearance of a corpse is enough for him to keep communicating but there is nothing.

SHERLOCK?

I AM ASSUMING YOU MEAN AN INDIVIDUAL AND NOT A MECHANICAL DEVICE.

YES.

INTERESTING. It's a one word text but in my mind, I hear it being said slowly with much vocal inflection.

ALSO – LESTRADE CALLED ME DOWN TO THE MORGUE AGAIN

AGAIN? ANOTHER ONE OF YOUR FUSELIERS?

THEY ARE NOT MY FUSELIERS. AND NO. A YOUNG MAN. DIDN'T RECOGNIZE. SAME CAUSE OF DEATH.

INTERESTING

STOP SAYING THAT. THINK I NEED TO FIND ARTY

I CONCUR

ANY HINTS

GO UNDERCOVER AS HOMELESS

YOU SERIOUS?

YOU HAVE THE WARDROBE FOR IT

YOU ARE NO HELP AT ALL

The driver stops and I look up. I am outside Pavel's. I tell Sherlock, put my phone away and get out.

xx xxxx x x xxx x xxx x xx x

Without the burden of Sherlock's monomania, I get my chance to engage in protracted social niceties and finally get to accept the invitation to sit with Julia Wainwright by the hearth. The fire has just been lit and I wonder if it has been done for me in particular. Unlikely, I suspect but I chose to believe otherwise. Certainly, Julia makes no argument to the contrary. Before she sits, she sees to several small comforts – my coat removed and set aside, an offer of beverage that I refuse and otherwise attends to me as if I am the only man left on earth. There are four chairs and we have taken the two nearest the fire place. It's cosy, intimate and when she does finally take a place opposite me, she gives the hem of her skirt a tiny adjustment with the kick of her knee. When she's finished, she looks like a portrait painting by a master.

"How are you getting on with the Petrus?" She begins with the most relevant of questions. "Has Kurt been of assistance?"

"Bit of a slow start but we are making progress. Kurt gave me a lead that got things started." I say. "We have four so far. And at least one more on the way."

"I don't envy you the task. Do you think you'll make the deadline? Mr Holmes' staff has been here on and off for six months planning this dinner. These past few weeks we have been in daily contact. I admire his ability to remain calm about it as the deadline looms and so much is left undetermined. So much depends on this event going smoothly."

"I gather that." I say and for the first time, take Mycroft's claim of the world depending on this Petrus more seriously. "Every day the outlook improves." I admit. It is my way of being optimistic without jinxing ourselves. She nods and I use the pause to change topics. "So." I say, opening my notebook out to record any salient details. "Before we get started, can I ask why aren't you talking to the police about this?"

She nods. "In this business … discretion … is critical. You and Mr Holmes are … experts without obligations. The law means something … less stringent … to you. Besides, you are already working here on another matter and while I sincerely doubt the two are related, I thought it best to provide you with the information first and then we can decide together what to do next. Some of our clientele and … friends and neighbors … are … uneasy … when the community police make an appearance. "

It takes me time to recover from the way she says the word "together". Processing the rest of what she said happens at a bit of a lag, then I get going again.

"You think the two are unrelated then."

"Of course. How could they be otherwise? One relates to the most exclusive and potentially explosive political dinner of the decade. And the other is the death of a dishwasher. He was a temporary employee. He was here less than a week."

"His name?"

"Steve Westmore."

I keep my expression bland and hide in the action of writing down the name. I stare at what I have written and remember his face the last time I saw it. Then I look up and try to get rid of the ghost image of him superimposed on her. I blink and the image remains. I push on with the obvious.

"Tell me what happened."

"There is very little to tell, really. Dishwashing is a hard, thankless job that pays next to nothing. Some take the job with aspirations of moving up in the kitchen. Others are just transient workers looking for a job."

"But as you say – this place is exclusive. Can you not hire permanent staff?"

"It is hard, thankless work. Pay is poor. The turnover is high. High enough that it's not worth the time it takes to hire. So we have a placement service who screens and sends us suitable candidates. Steve was a quiet sort. Hard worker. I am not trying to be insulting when I say he had an inclination for it. Extremely tidy. Exacting. Hustled. I had thought he just might have stayed. His is a particular loss … "

"But then …"

"Then he failed to show up for work. Then the placement service called this morning and asked about him. They had seen his name in the papers and wondered if we knew what had happened. It took us by surprise as well. So here we are, Doctor Watson. Have you any suggestions?"

"Well. I think you should call the police. They will be interested in any details related to their investigation. I … I believe I can help and make the call for you, if you'd like. Also – I'd like to take a look around again."

We linger at the fire and I take down a few more details and then I have to admit our conversation has run it course and then some. It is time to revisit the heart of Pavel's. We take the same trip back through the dining room into the kitchen. When the doors swings open, the same dense steam of flavour envelope me. I have to stop and inhale before I can continue. I just want to nick a taste of something and see if the food is just as sublime.

Chef Pavel notices me and bows slightly. We go through the routine of exchanging Russian greetings again. I am even able to use different vocabulary this time around and it catches the eye of more than one of the kitchen staff. One of the sous chefs stops and looks and gets a blast of steam for his lapse of attention at the stove. I follow Julia to the back of the kitchen and escape any need to carry on further conversation. I have officially run out of phrasebook expressions.

At the back, Julia shows me in great detail the operations of the sinks and how the dishwashing happens. Power wash attachments hang from metal pipes plumbed high. Slightly blocking off the area are wheeled metal stacking for the cooking utensils and pans, then shelvings for plates and bins for cutlery. There are also industrial sized washers that cover some of the generic bulk but would be slower than humans. I pick up one of the plates and turn it over. I know next to nothing about china but I even I recognize the name as very high end. The plate is thin and elegant; a human hand would be better served washing this than a dishwasher. Putting the plate back in the stack, I stand looking at the sink and imagine what it would be like to do this work for a shift. The kitchen is hot and steamy and loud and there are pressures of deadlines. Instantly, I understand why there is turnover. Behind me the sounds of a kitchen gearing up for service – the sounds of pans and searing heat, conversation and orders, ovens opening and closing, food being prepped – peeled and sliced and chopped. This would not be rewarding work if one was at the bottom of the food chain.

I look to the side and see the door that is propped open with a folded wedge of cardboard that has taken on the form of the doorframe.

"What's out there?"

Julia takes hold of the cardboard so it does not drop and pushes open the door. She beckons me and explains. "We are not allowed to smoke in the kitchen. There's no such thing as a coffee break in the kitchen – at least not until after service so anyone who wants a smoke goes out here." She opens the door wider and I step out into the alley. There's a large slightly rusty can full of cigarette butts and three crates in a rough semi-circle. There is a make-shift bench made of three upturned plastic drums and a single piece of board. The crudeness of it surprises me and feels like a glimpse below stairs. At the end, there is a metal gate and I point to it.

"Where does that go?"

"Into a common walkway and then onto the street."

"Those gates locked then?"

"Heavens no." She smiles. "Deliveries come at all hours. They come right up to the door. Hand bombed crates. Wheeled dollies. Sometimes just a small box. We don't have time to interrupt service."

I am collecting the information out of habit. I know the body was not found particularly close by. Still – a lay of the land is useful to have. Back inside, we retreat through the kitchen and dining room to the fire but the spell is broken and we both no there is no excuse we can make to resume our wing backs by the fire. I ask some final questions about friends Steve may have had. She is aware of no one he was close to. He was – she reiterates – everything they want in a dishwasher; punctual, obedient and hard working. He was no trouble and caused none. After a brief conversation, I give her my recommendation.

"I think you would be well advised to contact the Police. They are investigating this death and I'm sure giving them any information you have would save them time. Might lead to a break in the case. I'm happy to make the call for you if you'd like." I have my own version of repetition.

She agrees and it's easy enough done. When Lestrade picks up the phone, all I say is … "Busy?"

X xxx xx x x xx xxxx x x

By the time I get back to the apartment, it's late afternoon and on the cusp of evening. Sherlock reports that he has another bottle in hand and his texts are full of complaints about the food, transportation and entertainment of Paris. In desperation, I turn off my phone to stop the constant pings after telling him he has the cultural sophistication of a petrified lizard.

I get my coat off and put water in the kettle and before I have a chance to put it on, there's a knock at the door.

When I open the door, it takes me a beat.

"Leslie?" I say.

She stands stock still and blinks at me. Her face is unwashed. Her eyes are sunken and bloodshot. Her hair is slightly askance – as if she has pulled a hat off and forgotten that bit of grooming to straighten out her fringe. Her lips are pressed thin and she cradles her elbows with her palms. Her arms are guarding her middle as if as a shield.

For a moment, she doesn't say anything. Then she gives me just one word. "Hey."

"Come in." I open the door wider for her. It takes her a few beats before she moves and the first step across the threshold is cautious, as if she is walking into a minefield. I usher her into the sitting room. She takes her time and follows me slowly. She takes in the surroundings like tourists enter the Sistine Chapel – looking up, down and around and then over again.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? A sandwich?" She looks hungry – and beyond that – exhausted. She is pale and the dark circles are chronic. She never gets enough sleep or the right food to eat; likely both.

She shakes her head to refuse. It's a crisp tight movement, as if she is too afraid to do or say more. When I offer her a place to sit, she chooses the sofa and perches on the very edge and the end closest to the door, as if she does needs an escape route and no longer wants to stay. I bring a chair over and sit opposite her. I am close but don't block her in to give her the space she needs.

"How can I help?"

She is still looking all around and everywhere and when I speak, it interrupts her and she realized where she is. She folds over a bit and studies me before she answers, as if to assess my trustworthiness. I wait and let her proceed at her own speed. She rocks back and forth a couple of times and mashes her lips as if she is trying to work up the ability to speak. I remain still and say nothing and believe she will get to it in her own time. The room is quiet and when she inhales it's soft but swift and breaks the silence.

"Tim's gone."

I take my time responding. "Tim?"

"Tim." She repeats the name. "My fella."

"Ah. Your boyfriend." I say. I think about all the questions I want to ask and how best to ask them so she doesn't bolt. I decide to not ask any of them. "Oh?"

"Day before last." She blinks and she tears up. "Not like him to do this. Never done it before."

"How long have you two …"

She cuts me off with an answer, "Three years."

It's my turn to blink. She hardly looks old enough. Still. It is the way of the world. I wonder if this means she's been on the streets this long. Before I can ask another question, she fills in the silence.

"Three years. He don't just up and go. He don't ever. He wouldn't. We're together." She leans forward again and holds her middle. With a small, nervous motion, she begins to rock back and forth as if she might get up but doesn't quite. She sniffs and sounds in need of a Kleenex. I get up and retrieve a box from the desk and set it on the table in front of her. I motion for her to help her self but she looks at me as if I have just set out a trap for her. A frown creases her brown.

"When did you realize he had … gone?"

"Night. He always comes back at night. Usually has a bit of money from the day. Odd jobs. The like. Then we eat. He didn't …" she blinks and hits the watershed moment. It takes her a while to finish. "Didn't come … back." Big globby tears roll down her cheeks and she sniffs again and then overcomes the fear of kindness and takes two Kleenex and begins to smear and mop. She stops the tears quickly and stuffs all the emotion back inside. Crushing the Kleenex tighter and tighter and around and around, she moulds it into a wad and returns to holding herself and rocking. Distracted, she reaches up for her necklace and holds onto the pendant as if it is a talisman of comfort. The bottom of it flicks in the light.

"Could he have just slept over at friends? Maybe had a bit too much to drink?" Young men can be notoriously distracted; this is a reasonable explanation. I want the story to unfold so that there is a perfectly unremarkable solution.

"He don't drink. And … And … he wouldn't leave me." She says it again with such emphasis. The lamp light catches the water in her eyes and she seems to shimmer and shiver in the golden glow. Another large tear rolls down her cheek. She opens her mouth and tries to speak but there's nothing. Her whole demeanour is crumbling and she is doing everything she can to fight it and contain herself. She is willing herself to remain strong but she is losing. She needs to express it.

"Leslie?" I say her name softly, almost as a whisper. I know just what to say to ease her suffering. Her eyes flick up to me and she moves her hands to her belly and all at once, I realize what she is about to tell me. I need her to say it instead of me announcing it. I need to give her the dignity to tell me her secret of her own accord. "Tell me."

She shuts her eyes, pushing out more tears. She is shivering and red faced. Her nose is running and her face is a stream. "I'm … pregnant." Getting the final word out is the trigger. She folds into herself and begins to sob. By the time I get to her side, she is inconsolable and almost convulsing from the release of emotion. I touch her shoulder and move my hand up to her neck and then partially down her back in comfort. Her clothes are thinner than they look and I can feel her individual ribs and the spaces between. She bone and sinew, hardly any muscle. It's like stroking a bird. She is overwrought and I can feel her body radiate heat. She is burning and in a reflex, I check her forehead. Also hot. Dry. I sit down beside her. She seems to know that I have done so and she responds by turning to me and dropping her head against my shoulder.

I put my arms around her and let her weep.

X x x xxxx x x xx x xx x xxxxxx x x x

My phone.

I've had my mobile turned off for hours and only realize it when I get home.

The entire evening has been a hard battle to get Leslie to accept help. I have to use every physician wile I have to get her to a hospital emergency room. I remind her that she trusted me enough to tell me what is wrong and having done so, really does want the help. I talk about her health and her baby's health. What would Tim want? I invoke Sherlock without success; his absent opinion has no sway. I eventually win by telling her quite bluntly that if she refuses the care, I will bundle her into a blanket and carry her there myself because I am not in the habit of having patients refuse me. We lock into a stare and she tries to determine if I am bluffing. It might be the sudden contrast in my demeanor that wins her over; she might not have expected to encounter a direct order. People who refuse help the hardest are often those who need it most.

From that point on, she refuses to be separated from me. When she gets direction from the nurse, she looks to me first for approval and I give it and only then does she agree. The same happens when the obstetrician arrives. He gives the preamble and – determining I am not the father – asks me to leave. She refuses to let me leave during the examination and holds my hand so tightly her whole hand goes white from the effort. I know she is not in any pain; she is afraid – afraid of the unknown, of being alone, of the future. I understand the fear more that she can possibly know and that is why I stay with her. For these few intense hours of examination and waiting for test results, I am all that she has in the world – a parent, a partner, a friend. She hangs onto me for dear life and I do nothing to separate myself from her. I understand I am all she has. When the obstetrician returns, he gives her the news that she is general well but underweight. The baby is safe. But she is young and homeless and needs to get off the streets. He looks to me and I nod and take on the responsibility for seeing to it.

She refuses to accept my offer of temporary lodging so I insist that she register into a shelter. I refuse to have her sleep rough in the condition she is in. We arrive and she is registered and when we are ready to part, I look into her eyes and wonder at how scared she looks. I have seen that same look in the eyes of wounded soldiers who are terrified of what will happen to them and too believing in the fiction of courage at all times. With all the reassurances of the shelter registrar, she gets me to promise her to see her in the morning. I give her the remains of the cab fare from Pavel's. It's not much and it will pay for a decent bit of breakfast in the morning.

"Make sure." She says to me and she reaches up again for her necklace. That necklace seems to settle her and give her enough confidence to let me leave. "Make sure you come. We have to find Tim."

"I will." I say and take a step towards the door. She rushes me and hugs me hard then breaks off and disappears into the shelter without a backward glance.

Back at 221B, when I turn on the phone, there is a stream of messages. Sherlock has another bottle of Petrus in hand and a great many critiques about the fine city of Paris. I scroll to the end and discover my lack of response has disgusted him completely and he has sought solace in the Fragonard Museum. He calls it a little gem of a museum with a claim to fame that the central exhibits are flayed cadavers of all human and animal types. I am certain he will be there for hours of study. Finally – something redeemable about Paris.

It is past midnight and I'm starved so I make a snack and while I wait for cheese to melt on my toast, I check the four bottles underneath the tea towel. I touch each of them in turn as if to ensure they are real and marvel at them once again. I pick up one of them and study the label. So understated almost austere. There is no need to make a colourful splash on a label when everyone knows the real goods are inside. I put it down and then line it up with others so I can study my cache. They don't look like much – just bottles of wine yet worth thousands of pounds each. I put the tea towel over them again and tuck in the edges carefully. I give them a final, comforting pat as if they were small animals being bedded down for the night.

When the cheese on toast is ready, I pour myself a cup of tea. As I eat, I review the various notes I have taken over the day and try to order all the information. I'm too tired and too full of images and ideas to make any progress. I make little headway and by the time I go to bed, I am pleased for the excuse to stop thinking. I have a list of things – more wine search, see Leslie, talk to Lestrade about the dishwasher … The last thought I have before I get to sleep is that I have yet to start looking for Arty.

Tomorrow, I promise myself.

Tomorrow.

X X XXX X xxx xx x x xxx x x xx xx xx x xxx

I wake up to sirens.

They are sirens until they morph into klaxons and then I am conscious enough to realize it's my mobile. I make it stop and then realize I have to commit to speaking. I am hardly awake and have no idea who it is. I look for the time to orient myself … seven thirty. Not so obscene that I have slept in but still early enough for me to righteously annoyed at being awoken too early. I have had five hours sleep, if that.

"What?" I mumble and then clear my throat for a clearer "Hello?"

"Did I wake you?" It's Lestrade.

"What?" I fall back to my pillows and shut my eyes. I want to hang up and go back to sleep but don't. I cover my eyes with the crook of my elbow and try to remember what dark looks like.

"Busy?"

"Yes."

"Mind coming to the morgue?"

"What? Again?" I am awake now. My voice is sharp and commanding. There will be no returning to sleep after this call even if I say no.

"Can you come?"

"Jesus." I say under my breath. "Jesus Christ." And then ask the obvious. "Who is it?"

"I'll send a car around."

Jesus.

Xx xxx xxx x x xx x x xxx xx x xxxx x x xx x

I get to the morgue and when I reach Molly, she blushes when she sees me. I note it but don't make anything of it until I give her a good morning that she stutters to return the greeting. The redness of her cheeks deepens. It occurs to me that she is nervous. I don't understand why and consider the reason. I'm too tired to think beyond the idea that Lestrade knows something. Maybe he's realized I have not been overly generous with details. I start putting together the chain of events related to Arty and Rickie. I put my hand into my pocket and hit my notebook. It occurs to me this will be evidence for the prosecution instead of any help for me. There is a great deal I haven't told him.

Lestrade is standing by the body bag and I wonder if he has ever left this spot so rooted to it he seems.

"Now what?" I look at the body and think about what he is going to show me. It will be an unzipping and then a another reveal. A male with a throat slit and then ridiculous queries about if I recognize the body because the first one was a fuselier. I don't know every fuselier in the UK nor every soldier who served in Afghanistan. I am tired of coming down here to identify bodies and giving him unpaid medical advice. My conscious pricks me because this is the third body and I have yet to even start looking for Arty. A genuine effort on my part and in this regard might stem the flow of bodies.

"Molly." Lestrade lifts his chin and gives her the go ahead to proceed. He stands aside with his hands clasped behind his back.

She unzips the body bag as she has done twice before. I wait for the face to be exposed. The features are slightly obscured by the edge of the bag and I draw closer and look down just as Molly peels back the two sides of the bag.

I don't recognize the profile. I take another step forward and tilt my head so I see the face square on. The features are indistinct and generic and then there is a flash and all at once I recognize the face. I suck in my breath with a gasp that I end with a choked gulp. There is hair fallen across the face and instinctively, I brush away the strands and then let my hand rest on the forehead. The flesh is dead cold. I take my hand back and let my arm fall to my side. A film of tears covers my eyes. I look at Lestrade and know he has been studying me the whole time. I know he knows there was a flash of emotion on my face.

"Who is she?"

My first answer is strained and comes out hoarse. Jesus. I clear my throat and then again. Jesus Christ. "Leslie Burton. How …" I have to take a breath before I can go on. "Did you know to call me?"

Lestrade releases on of his hands from behind his back and offers me an clear evidence bag. "Your card." He says. He waits for me to react.

I don't say anything.

"She's pregnant." Lestrade says.

"I know."

"Yours?"

"What? No!" I look up at Molly and she looks down at her shoes. She is crimson.

"Needed to ask."

All at once, I see her again. I need to see if she has the same gash across her neck; if she died that same horrible way or if there was something different. Molly has exposed more of her face and neck and I can see without touching. Yes. Yes the same gash. Clean and true – ear to ear – she had no chance. No chance at all. With nauseating clarity, I realize that she didn't stay in the shelter. After everything, she still went out. I know it with the fullness of my intellect that she went looking for her Tim and there was no one there to stop her; no one there to keep her safe. I feel my eyes film up and her face blurs. At her neck, the small talisman is still there and I take a closer look. It is bloodied and I rub it clean with my thumb. It's a small cartoon image and I look up at Lestrade.

"Who is she, then?"

"Part of Sherlock's homeless network."

"His what?"

"Listen. Any further with the last body?"

"Not a whole lot of progress, no."

"This." I show him her necklace. "It is the same as his tattoo. She … saw me yesterday. She was looking for him. Tim. He had disappeared. The other body. Is Tim."

I take a last look at her. Her features are so fine and flawless. She was so terribly young and now will never be anything but.

Jesus.

I shake off the shock and step away from the body. "Anything more you need?" I ask

"Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact," Lestrade says it sharply, as if he, too, has not had much sleep.

"What?" I counter his irritation with some of my own.

"You are going to sit your ass down in Interview One and you are going to tell me everything you bloody know."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D