Chapter 10:
Third time lucky
It was only the next day when Lestrade called Sherlock about another murder. John had the day off work so both men were lazing round the flat, John reading and Sherlock on his laptop, when the call came. The detective had been researching the case on the laptop, having had no time the night before as John had sent him to bed after finding him asleep and pained in his chair when he had returned from work. Sherlock was glad to have gotten the call though, because just as Lestrade had said, there was very no information to be found out about the murder victims or their mysterious jobs. He had decided that the two people must have worked at the same place, but other than the conclusion that it was a high-powered and secretive office, they knew nothing. John had seen the first crime scene himself and had been told a lot about the second one by Sherlock that morning so knew as soon as the cab pulled up outside a grand hotel that the third would be almost identical to the others.
Lestrade was leaning against the wall in the hallway when the lift door opened with a 'ding'. He had his arms crossed and his brow was furrowed in annoyance. "What on earth took you two so long?" he asked, the frustration clear in his voice and the way he pushed himself off the wall. He didn't wait for an answer, merely turning and storming down the corridor, clearly wanting Sherlock and John to follow him.
"We found the trolley, from the last case" he told Sherlock as they walked, not waiting for a reply before carrying on. "It was in a room further along the corridor covered in blood. It's the victim's, DNA checks out."
"Did you see who moved it?"
"If you are talking about the CCTV then no; the tape showed nothing."
"It's blank?" Asked Sherlock, although the works came out as more of a hiss of annoyance.
"Not really" explained Lestrade, "The tape shows us nothing until the cleaner comes to the room. She leaves her trolley in the hall and goes into the room, then she runs out again and down the corridor leaving the trolley behind. About three minutes later it vanishes."
"Vanishes?" asked John, confused.
"Someone has been messing with the tape, putting in pre-recorded clips to make it appear as though they haven't been there."
"What so just like on the case with the upturned offices?" suggested John, looking at Lestrade who nods.
"That was my thought, yes"
"It's not related. Just coincidence" insisted Sherlock, rolling his eye when Lestrade made to argue. "That case was unimportant, just some fool messing with me. This is different. The murderer felt he needed these people dead, he didn't do it out of fun".
"Ideas just catch on then" Sighed Lestrade, ending the conversation with a shrug.
The chosen room was in the middle of the corridor this time and faced out onto the road however, as Sherlock pointed out by calling them all idiots, had nothing of importance to do with the case. Again the room was posh and finely furnished with a naked body on the bed, the only sign of damage the single slit across the throat. Sherlock scanned the room slowly, looking for anything new. There must have been nothing as he almost instantly turned back to Lestrade.
"Nothing new. It's pointless being here." He said, clearly annoyed at this lack of evidence.
"I know, but if there is it'll be you that finds it" Lestrade replied, pausing in thought before speaking again. "There's not much point dusting for fingerprints either; they'll just come back inconclusive like the rest."
"Don't even bother. They were posing as a cleaner; they would have been wearing gloves" Sherlock huffed, turning back to the body. It was another male, this time with dirty blond hair that was thinning along his fringe. "Mid fifty's, lives with elderly wife, two grown up sons, grandchildren, probably quite young which would explain the hamster" He looked around again with a sigh. "Different knife again but the same set, smallish knife, doesn't want to reuse the weapons so throws them away, probably into the Thames. The victim wasn't cleaned as toughly as the other's so the murder was rushed and brought here quickly. There is signs of a beating too, but the victim was killed too soon to leave bruises. The murderer wants something from them. Desperately. But …"
There was a pause as he trailed off, looking up into the corner of the room, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Suddenly he twirled round, his eyes fixing on Lestrade. "Was there much blood on the trolley? Enough to be visible from a distance?"
"Yes, an obvious amount" answered Lestrade, watching the detective closely. Sherlock nodded and turned back around, a hand weaving through his hair. He was restless, looking as though he wanted to pace, with his other hand drumming on the crutch handle and the un-used one leaning against the bed.
"It was the murderer that took the trolley" he stated with a slight grin as he turned. "The murder was more rushed than normal and he put up a fight. When the body was taken to the room it hadn't been properly cleaned and so the blood got onto the sheets of the trolley. The murderer waited in the next room until the cleaner came and stole her trolley after she ran to fetch help, leaving their trolley behind."
"Why take the trolley though, why not just leave without one?" John asked quietly from beside Lestrade.
"Ugh, disguise, John." He groaned, blinking heavily as he reached for the crutch that still rested on the bed. There was a slight pause and then the detective started towards the door, pausing only to roll his eyes and drone a sarcastic "Can I leave the rest to you and your incompetent crew?" to Lestrade on his way.
Lestrade sighed, frowning at his consultant's sudden exit as he watched the detective leave the room, closely followed by a rather apologetic looking John. He was used to Sherlock being abrupt, rude, arrogant, but never had he seen him act in such a defeated manor, his usual fiery spirit all but gone. At first he had blamed the strange behaviour on the accident, but after more thought he realised that couldn't be right. He had taken a concussed Sherlock home before, many times, and stayed with him the night. He had seen him laid up in hospital with pneumonia and sprawled against an alley wall with a jagged hole in his stomach. Even the first time he had met the detective he has been convulsing in an abandoned house due to an overdose, and the next few times he had been in the whelms of withdrawal. But never before had he seen him so confused and uncertain and utterly unwilling to stay at the crime scene despite how boring he found it. It was a stupid, insignificant observation but it bothered him, because although nobody else had noticed, he knew there was something bothering Sherlock Holmes.
The reception was nearly empty when Sherlock and John walked through, with only an elderly couple sitting in armchairs around a blazing fire. A girl sat behind the reception desk, her blue suit neat and her hair almost perfect with hairspray. She jumped when a shrill ringing erupted from her desk and Sherlock ground to a halt.
"Hello, Whitefield Hotel, how may I help?" asked the young receptionist as she answered the phone. "Um, sorry, I don't know, would you like me to ask someone or-… Oh, okay, that's fine, Have a good day" She put down the phone, looking slightly confused and swivelled back to her computer. Sherlock stared for a moment, his brain working on overdrive.
"Oh, Stupid, Stupid!" he hissed eventually as he swivelled around and marched towards the desk his pointed shoe and crutches making no noise on the rich carpet. The girl looked up as he approached, her eyes widening at his mechanically imposing form.
"How may I help?" she asked as he stopped before her desk, her voice strong yet shy.
"Were you the receptionist who worked here yesterday?" Sherlock demanded, not seaming to notice the way the girl's teeth closed over her lip as he spoke. She opened her mouth to reply but shut it again, her lip still clamped between her teeth as she gave a shaky nod.
"It was your first day, yes?"
The girl nodded again, her brown eyes fixed on the man leaning over her.
"And you gave the keys of the room to the cleaner, didn't you?"
"Yes, she said she had left her set at home!" explained the girl, her voice high with worry.
"Thankyou, you have been most helpful" Sherlock replied, suddenly smiling at the girl in a way which looked more eerie than friendly. She forced a smile back, but with her eyes still wide with fear, she looked a little less than happy. The detective pushed himself back from the desk and hurried towards the exit, calling "Hurry up, John" over his shoulder when he realised the doctor was still standing where he had been left, muttering a hurried apology to the girl who stood behind the desk.
"The cleaners have just been asking the receptionists for keys?" asked John suddenly, breaking the silence in the taxi on their way back to Baker Street. Sherlock had rested his head back against the seat, his eyes closed and a grin on his lips, when they had entered the taxi and had stayed that way since. His phone was resting in his hands and every so often he would send off a text, his eyes still closed as his fingers flew over the tiny keys. He received a text once too, but even he could not read with his eyes still shut.
"Hmm?" he asked after a moment's delay, John's question only just registering in his hurried mind. John sighed across the cab but repeated his question, leaning forwards as to get a better look at the detective's expression. Sherlock grinned slightly but his eyes remained closed and he didn't move.
"Hit it in one, John" he replied, his voice sounding distant. "A new receptionist with no experience, of course a cleaner would look so innocent to them" He huffed in amusement, bringing a hand to his head. "Why are they all such idiots, John?" he asked, sounding exasperated. John smiled as he leant back in his seat, shaking his head at his friend's annoyance.
Not a minute later a near silent buzzing vibrated from Sherlock's lap and the screen of the phone glowed up as a message can through. Sherlock's hand tightened around the phone and he picked it up holding it out for John to read.
"It's Lestrade" Supplied John, glancing up at his friend who grinned, holding out his phone for John to take with his eyes still closed.
"Have you got a headache?" asked John curiously as he took the phone and opened the text. Sherlock grunted in reply and ruffled his nose up in a disgusted expression. The corners of his mouth curled into a semi-sympathetic smile but it faded to confusion when he read the text.
"It says 'The dates check out, seams you were right after all'. That makes sense to you, I suppose?" John looked up after moment to see a grin growing on his friend's lips. "Brilliant" he hissed happily, finally opening his eyes and sitting forwards.
"Explain, then"
"Well, as you said, the hotel is picked because it has a new receptionist working that day and also –as Lestrade just confirmed- a food delivery that morning. The body is snuck inside with the food, don't look disgusted John, probably by someone disguised as part of the team, and left in the clean laundry trolley. The cleaner then asks for the room keys at reception, fetches the clean laundry trolley and takes it up to the room.
"The CCTV is harder though, it's planned, the bodies just appear. Someone must be doing it from higher up, either that or…" he trailed off, leaning back in his seat, his gaze drifting off into the distance. John sighed but sat back too, knowing he wouldn't get anything else out of his friend until he had solved the puzzle that was currently running through his mind. He physically jumped when Sherlock's forgotten phone vibrated in his hand and he looked down at the caller Id.
"Mycroft" he stated, turning to Sherlock who had looked round at the sound of the buzzing. He snatched the phone away and hit the red button, ending the call midway through its third ring. A text came through almost instantly, and the detective opened it, his eyes only following the writing for a second before he sighed and turned off the screen. "Interfering git" he muttered, stuffing the phone back into his blazer pocket. John rolled his eyes and turned back to the window, his mind wandering from the case and Mycroft, to the warm, comfy sitting room in Baker Street.