Chapter 11
Michael got behind the wheel of the Garda SUV and John sat in beside him in the passenger seat. Sherlock sat in the back, pensive and silent, and retreated into his Mind Palace. John frowned in concern because every so often Sherlock emitted what sounded like a groan of disgust. He muttered "stupid" a couple of times too. John shook his head in confusion. This was odd even for Sherlock. He texted Mary to see how Molly was. However, Mary replied that 'Romeo Holmes' must have worked his magic on her because Molly was in great form. John groaned inwardly. Great, now his best mate was also going to excel in what was previously John's area of expertise. He swung his head around in bewilderment as Sherlock groaned again. Michael had obviously done his homework, John thought, because he didn't so much as raise an eyebrow at Sherlock's odd behaviour. They chatted about the scene in the warehouse earlier and Michael asked him about other cases they'd worked on. He had, indeed, done his homework. Then John received a text message from Lestrade. He was on his way back to London for a 'meeting'.
The motorway up from Wicklow was quiet and they reached the outskirts of Dublin in good time. Things began to slow up then as they hit the inevitable traffic into the city. Michael flicked on the siren and skilfully weaved in and out of the bus lanes. They were in the city centre in fifteen minutes and he double parked at the Garda Station in Pearse Street. It faced onto the distinctive and iconic granite walls encompassing Trinity College. While they waited for him to drop the car keys into the station, Sherlock rang Mycroft.
Five kilometres away, in the boardroom of Garda Headquarters, Mycroft felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. Gesturing at his phone to Aoife, who was addressing the table, he stepped out of the room to take the call. Sherlock asked for a progress report and Mycroft filled him in. Things were progressing rapidly. The raids were in play. A few regions had finer operational details to tweak but all of the targeted premises were now under surveillance. Satellite coverage had been supported by the Americans due to the sheer scale of the surveillance operation. 'Operation Oísín' was definitely set for 4:00am. The choice of time had been deliberate and Sherlock grunted in satisfaction. He knew that it was scientifically proven to be when people were in their deepest sleep or, as crucially, at their most tired if awake. There were reports flying in of major activity at the premier targets. Agents were moving in on the ground, where possible, but keeping a good distance. There was particular concern around one site near Gatwick Airport where heat seeking equipment picked up multiple persons but very little movement.
"Traffickers", Sherlock responded in disgust and Mycroft agreed.
"More than likely to be women and children to be sold on". He responded. There was a pause then.
"Give Lestrade the lead on that raid. Let's hammer the bastards Mycroft". Sherlock said.
Mycroft reported that police assault teams were beginning to assemble in police stations all over Britain and Ireland and the anticipation had seeped into the boardroom in Garda HQ. There would be a complete press black out until 4.30am. Then a statement would be released by both Government press offices, again simultaneously, announcing the joint operation. The statement would definitively link the Moriarty's to the raids. They anticipated a media scramble, just in time to film multiple targets in handcuffs, all things going to plan. Mycroft paused and noted to his brother that the British and Irish police chiefs were getting along famously, all revelling in the tightknit and professional relationship, nurtured over the past couple of decades. Mycroft assured his brother that there wasn't one bad apple in the mix. He'd ensured it. He enquired about the scene at the warehouse and Sherlock told him he'd examine the evidence after interviewing the professor. He'd already released the laptop to Michael as it wasn't his area. He expected them to find nothing worthwhile on it.
"How's Molly?", "How's Aoife?" they enquired simultaneously and both laughed drolly. Aoife was fine, Mycroft said, contemptuous of the doll, her only comment had been that she was obviously getting to them. Sherlock repeated Molly's 'Poxy Moriarty's' comment to him and he chuckled at that. Sherlock finished off the call by asking Mycroft to send him a full list of all the residential properties registered under both sibling names, in the UK and Ireland only, with a particular emphasis on cottages. Immediately on alert Mycroft asked why. Sherlock cleared his throat.
"I'll fill you in later Mycroft, I promise. It's just a lead I want to check out. It may assist us in locating Sinéad Moriarty". Well, Sherlock mused to himself, it was kind of the truth.
"You'll have it within the hour", Mycroft said, and terminated the call.
The three men were escorted into the Professor's office. It was a tight fit. Michael made the formal introductions, deliberately opting to stand at the office door. He then gave him the required speech about matters of national security, and that their conversation was to be kept in the strictest of confidence. The elderly academic began to sweat. Sherlock fixed his gaze on him.
"Sinead O'Muireartaigh", he simply said. The professor inhaled sharply and sucked in his breath.
"Well", he said, "I suppose I should have expected this visit really, in some shape or form", he said quietly. Then he began to explain. "I have so many students and she graduated over ten years ago, but I'll never forget her, believe me". He told them how she was a brilliant student and a truly gifted actor.
"She was a natural, a chameleon. She didn't just act, she actually became the character to the extent that it was eerie. She could switch it on and off in a heartbeat".
"Seen that before, runs in the bloody family", John interrupted. "Sorry, go on", he said, after a kick in the ankle from Sherlock.
Her timing, her skill, I've never seen anything like it. No role was too difficult, for her it was effortless, and, believe me, I challenged her", the professor continued. He sighed heavily then. "Here's the thing though, she avoided the limelight religiously. She refused to audition for the lead in any of the curriculum productions. I could do nothing to convince her and I was not in a position to force her. It was inexplicable. I'd never had a drama student refuse a major role in all the years I'm doing this job".
"What was she like? Describe her personality". Sherlock instructed bluntly.
The Professor didn't appear to mind, or even notice. He paused to gather his words. He described her as vivacious and popular. She was charming and witty and very attractive. She shared a room in the college with a girl from County Donegal called Grainne Kenny. The two young women hit it off immediately and soon became inseparable, as young women can do in college.
"They partied but they got their work done".
He told them that by the second term, after Christmas, he continued to cajole her to take on major acting roles and she would explain that she wanted to be a theatre director, not an actor, but he continued to push it. One day after another attempt her face turned icy.
"I said no, Professor. You'd do well to accept that. You are beginning to annoy me". Then, he said, she switched back to the charming character she usually appeared to be.
"It's hard to explain", he went on. "She chilled me to the bone with that comment. She was a completely different character and I wondered which one was the real Sinead. I let it go though. What could I do?". I didn't believe her about her passion being in direction and production. I began to wonder what drove her. But I had many students and a busy faculty so I kind of shrugged it off. She flew threw the modules, academically she was also quite brilliant". He stood up abruptly.
"Let me pull out her file", he said, "let you see a photo of her at least".
He went into the adjoining annexed office which contained huge metallic filing cabinets, floor to ceiling. Sherlock jumped up, pretending to be helpful but more concerned that he may not be entirely honest and hide something from them. The professor pulled out a number of drawers and rifled through the files, and then rechecked them all.
"That's strange", he muttered, "they don't appear to be here. Her file is missing. That can't be! We keep files for each student, photos of production plays, stock photos of casts, like I said, she was camera shy but I definitely had some. The students have to submit portfolios and head shots as part of the drama module. No, it's not here, and there is no where else it can be, before you ask, Mr Holmes".
Alarmed now, he sat and booted up his PC and searched through his electronic folders.
"Oh my God!", he exclaimed, "that entire years' data is missing. I would never have noticed as its so long ago now. What the hell is going on here?"
"Don't bother with the IT Department" Sherlock said. "They'll never find them".
He made to stand up then but the Professor stalled him.
"There's something else though, something I need to tell you". Sherlock sat down again.
"By the second and final year of the course, the two women, Sinead and Grainne, had fallen out spectacularly. It had something to do with a lad in the college, I forget his name, it's not important. I don't know the ins and outs but he was going out with Sinead one minute and then Grainne and himself seemed to get very serious. Sinead requested a room swap and that was arranged. That kind of thing happens all the time. The young man promptly moved in with Grainne. About a month later there was a fire in their room. Grainne was alone and died of smoke inhalation. It was tragic. The coroner determined her to be in a severely intoxicated condition and the fire inspector cited a burning cigarette as the cause of the fire. The Coroners Report later determined accidental death. After a tragedy of that magnitude occurring on the premises the college insisted that the effected students speak to counsellors and I sat in on some of them", he paused then.
"I made a point of sitting in on hers". He tightened his lips and drew in a deep breath. "At one point during the session she looked me in the eye and her mask slipped, quite deliberately".
"Isn't is lucky for me, Professor, that Grainne and I had fallen out? It could have been me in that room."
The expression on her face made my blood run cold. It was smug and malicious. She is a pure psychopath, Mr Holmes, as evil as they come. I firmly believe she set that fire."
Sherlock held up a picture of Jim Moriarty, displayed on his mobile phone.
"Did she look like him, Professor?"
The professor's eyes widened in shocked recognition.
"Yes she did, Mr Holmes", he replied, "she could be his sister. Oh my God! She is! O'Muireartaigh, of course!"
Michael warned the professor again not to speak to anybody about this case and he readily agreed. They saw themselves out and returned to retrieve the police car. It was a quiet and reflective journey back to Wicklow.