Chapter 11
People stare as we walk.
Everyone knows who I am. Moreover, everyone can read Lestrade's dark mood. As we approach, they step aside. They avoid eye contact. No one wants to get caught up in whatever has happened. There is a crushing silence that isolates me.
I have said nothing since the morgue, not even to Molly as I left. As I passed her, she looked up at me and the upturn of her face was the only thing keeping the tears back. She sagged and had that "I wish I could help you" expression of helpless empathy she gets when she knows far more than she is allowed to tell. She might have been the one to tell him about the business card and she might have anticipated the reaction even as she read my name with a hesitation and a stammer. Molly must have had to withstand his sharp unanswerable questions and knew that he would have to ask them all over again when I arrived. How long had they waited together for me? How irate would Lestrade have been? Two of his last three serial murders have connections to me and I knew the name of the third yet I have been unforgivably evasive since the start. Molly – dear silent Molly – must have borne the brunt of it. There is no doubt she knew exactly what I was in for since early this morning. Lestrade's expletives would have been graphic accompanied by periodic apologies. Lestrade does not do a good job masking his temper when he thinks he has been played. He knows full well I have been less than forthright. That it is me and not Sherlock who has done this has been all that more provoking.
Lestrade yanks the door and lets it swing open with such force that I blink against the sudden gust of air. He uses his hand to snatch the edge. The arc stops fast and dead. The door is seized and half open. He orders me in with a silent glare. The single table is bare and the four chairs are hard. Interview One is not designed for hospitality. Lestrade follows me and his hard steps echo in the emptiness. His current mood does not make up for any deficits of décor. When he turns to speak, he wrestling with self-restraint. I think he is only just winning.
"You." He points to me and then points to the single chair on my side of the table. "Sit."
I take a seat. He does not. The balance of power is his to own and do as he chooses.
"This." He holds the file upright so half his face is obscured and then slaps it down on the table in front of me. The folder lands with a hard crack. "Steve Westmore. This." He holds up a second file in a similar fashion. "Tim. Timothy? No last name." He pitches down this file right next to the first with the same energy. "This." He gets into the routine and has this one smacked down on the table before he finishes the neat row of three. "Leslie Burton. Each one of them. Throats bloody slit open."
I watch him without interruption. I don't speak because he hasn't asked me a question. My silence further darkens his expression. We hold each others gaze without waver. He takes my blank look as insolence. He grabs the back of a chair and takes hold of the top, then leans forward until his tie swings freely. From my peripheral view, I see his hands clench and the muscles contract until his the ridges of his knuckles are taut. His reaction is reflexive and his grip designed to contain his anger. He moves back and forth and is working hard to bottle it.
I realize that this interview is not a frivolous exercise. Our friendship has been suspended indefinitely. He has fully enveloped his role of DI. There is no doubt in my mind. This is very serious. Lestrade has every right to be furious; I do in fact know better. Still – in this interrogation room, I have a sense of being cornered and the impulse for self-defense surfaces. The soldier part of my brain fixates on the tie moving like a pendulum. My hands itch and I rub them on the rough denim at my knees. I exhale and try not to imagine me reaching out, wrapping his tie around my fist and hauling him across the table into a headlock.
I remind myself why I am here. Then, as if Lestrade is reading my mind, he does as well.
"We are …" He picks he way along with simple words, " … going to go through them. One by one. You." He emphasizes it with another pointed finger. "Are going to tell me. Every bloody thing you know. Do you understand me?"
It is his first question and I know enough to respond – promptly and clearly – with the only possible answer.
"Yes."
He lets my reply settle for a moment and we stare at each other. I blink first. It breaks the spell and perhaps convinces him that I willing to cooperate. Before I can work that into a truce, my phone goes off and as I scramble to get it, Lestrade silently dares me to answer. I have no choice but turn it off without even looking at it. It's another move that stabilizes the mood. The world can end yet he will have my undivided attention.
"Right." He says with derision. He reaches out and spins the first file right side up and opens the front. After a quick scan of the first page, he rocks back and forth a bit on the chair then pulls himself up so he stands straight. He takes the first page with him and studies it. Then he places the single morgue photograph in front of me like he is dealing out a card at a blackjack table. He is no rush and waits until I shift a bit in my seat before he begins.
"Can you identify the person in that picture?"
"Yes. Westie." I say and then revise it. "Steve. Steve Westmore."
"Steve Westmore. You know him how?"
"I served with him in Afghanistan. He was in my unit."
"Knew him well?"
"Not really. I sewed up his chin once."
"How did that happen?"
"Bar fight."
"He start it?"
"Hard to say."
"We will come back to that. When was the last time you saw him?"
I have to give it to Lestrade. He is the rank of Detective Inspector for a reason. He keeps up with this blistering, uninterrupted stream of questions for over two hours. In that time, I get one short break while he takes a phone call. I am allowed to use the loo and when I return, he has set out a paper cup of water for me. He – however - takes no break nor has any water for himself. He resumes with the same unrelenting precision. There is nothing that he does not ask. Every tangent is pursued. Every possibility explored. By the time he has made his way through all three files, he knows absolutely everything I do. He knows about the Homeless Network, all about Arty, Rickie and Leslie and Tim. Knowledge is power and it is also a balm for his anger. The fury has dissipated and the storm nearly worn itself out. He is not yet happy but he is no longer ready to throttle me. In a month's time, we might be able to share a pint at the local pub again. In a year we might look back on this and laugh. But not today.
"Where is this Arty, then?"
"I don't know." I answer honestly and thinking Lestrade fully recovered keep talking. "I've been more worried about getting in the Petrus. We don't have much time."
"Bloody hell!" He says and shoves the chair aside, infuriated. He paces back and forth then stops and towers over me. He points in the general direction of the door. "I have three dead bodies in the morgue each with their necks slit ear to ear. They are dead. Dead! You understand me? And you tell me you are more worried about getting in some bloody wine? You have no idea where he is?"
"No. I don't."
"Why the hell not?"
"I …" The question takes me aback. "I don't know where to start."
"You bloody live with Sherlock Holmes!"
I open my mouth to speak then swallow the retort. I close my mouth and say nothing.
How can I answer that?
Lestrade has a point.
Xxx x xx xxx x x x
"Where to?"
The officer is young enough and new enough not to recognize me. That is – there is every chance he knows my name, reads my blog and recognizes me but has dismissed the chance of it actually being me in his squad car. He is new enough for every face to be a blur. Besides, I suspect he believes he is low enough on the food chain that he is not likely to meet me in person. When Lestrade gives him the order to see that I get home, he does not use my name, nor is he give any impression that I am anything more than a stranger. The lack of Lestrade's parting salutation does not help my status as an unknown and quite possibly secures it. The young officer nods and gives me a once-over but does not register than I am anyone in particular.
"Hello." I say and get in the car. As I sit, the phone in my pocket butts into my hip. Reminded that I have had it turned off, I unpocket the phone and turn it back on.
"Where to?"
"221B Baker Street."
He looks up at me sharply. "I know that address."
Ah. I think to myself. There it is. Something always gives us away. That address is famous. I smile inwardly, a little bit pleased at being recognized. It soothes my ego after the thrashing of Lestrade.
"Yes." I say, realizing he has identified me. "People do tend to know it." The phone screen lights up and as the power comes on, it begins to vibrate as a stream of text messages comes through.
"What?" He looks at me blankly.
I return the expression. "Sorry?"
"221B." He says. "Baker Street?"
"Yes. That's it." I start scrolling down. Sherlock has been trying to contact me. The questions start off gentle but escalate into abuse. Then the phone begins beeping. Voice mail messages. I dial, put in my pass code and listen to the first of five saved messages. The first is from Mrs Hudson. She almost never calls me.
"Right." He bobs his head up and down to confirm it. "Call went out for that address a good while ago."
"What?" I look up and around me as if there is some clue. "What happened?"
"There's …" He starts to tell me and is interrupted by my phone. He stops talking.
"There's what?" I ask and my phone rings again. I end the call with my voice mail and pick up the incoming.
"Hello?"
"Where are you?" Sherlock says without preamble. "Why did you turn off your phone?"
"I'm in a squad car."
"Have you been arrested?"
"No. I was able to talk my way out of it. Listen." I say looking out the window at the grey blur of a morning. "Leslie …" I say her name and all the sadness floods back. "Leslie is dead."
"Who?"
"The Waterloo Bridge Girl." All at once the culmination of the morning's efforts take hold and I am angry. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock! She's dead! She … bloody … worked for you!"
"Never mind that. Mrs Hudson is beside herself."
"What?"
"You need to get back to Baker Street as soon as you can."
"Will someone please tell me what has happened?" I direct the question equally and loudly to both Sherlock and the officer.
Xxx x xx xxx x x x
The street has three separate police cars and two unmarked ones lined up along the curb. Inside, I catch a glimpse of officers tucked here and there busily working. Out of view, I see a flash go off. Someone is taking scene photographs.
"Mrs Hudson." I say when we meet in the front hall. She's seen me come up. Perhaps she's been waiting for me or worse, set adrift by the chaos of officers and activity in her home.
"Did Sherlock call you?" She says and dabs her nose as she approaches me. "I tried calling you but you wouldn't answer."
I hold her by the shoulders at arms length and stoop a bit to look into her face and catch her eyes. I don't ask until she is looking at me. "Are you alright?"
"Oh. Yes." She sniffs again and shivers. "Perfectly fine. Not a hair on my head harmed. I wasn't here when it happened. I came back to this and I called you. Then I called Sherlock. Did Sherlock call you? I didn't know where you'd gone." She blinks and seems to settle the longer I talk to her. Her eyes are bright, sharp. The fear is subsiding. The rambling slows.
"What happened?"
"A break in. I've been ransacked. Entire place in ruin!" She leads me into the parlor as proof. I look around. If anything, she has understated it.
"My god." I say under my breath. Then to her, I ask her again. "You are not hurt?"
"No. I wasn't here." She says with a shiver. "Was down at Tescos and then round to the butchers to get some meat for sandwiches. Ham's on special this week. When I came home." She puts her hands out, one hand a fist around a wad of Kleenex. "This!"
I wander into the center of the room, uprighting a chair and then a table as I pass them. The place looks like a bomb has been detonated.
"Did they take anything?" I turn to her.
"Not anything here worth taking, is there?" She says with brutal honest. "Not a thing at all worth taking."
I have been up woken up early. I've been to the morgue. Identified the brutally murdered body of Leslie Burton. Been through Lestrade's protracted and intricate interrogation. Narrowly avoided being arrested. I feel like my brain has been beaten, bruised picked clean of information. Now this. I can't think. Her words take time settling into the sense part of my cerebral cortex but something about the way she says it stimulates an idea. The sensation builds until it emerges fully formed and blurt out.
I charge out of the room at full tilt and take the stairs up two at a time.
"Where are you going?" Mrs Hudson calls up to me.
"The Petrus!" I call down to her. "The Petrus!"
I open the door to the apartment. The impact of the scene stops me cold. The place is torn apart, ransacked just as Mrs Hudson's is. I race towards the four bottles of Petrus. As I enter the kitchen, I step on the dishtowel that covered them. I look on the counter and see nothing but space where the bottles used to be. I put my palms down on the emptiness and nearly keel over.
Sherlock calls again.
"Hello?"
"John." It's me.
"Sherlock. We've been –"
"Quiet. Battery nearly dead."
In the background, I can hear the wind blowing. He must be outside. On a street somewhere. In the distance, I can discern traffic.
"I'm being followed."
"What?"
"I'm being followed. Don't know who or why. John, you need you to be caref-" He breaks off in mid-sentence.
"Sherlock?" I ask and then look at the phone. The connection is still live. I listen hard. The soft shush of a breeze mixes with far off voices.
"Sherlock?!" I repeat.
I hear a click. Then the phone goes dead.
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
