"Christ, June," Greg Lestrade said on first glimpse of her as she got out of the car and began to cross the dark street to him. "You're still on? Go home and sleep."
Merivale lifted one hand to her iron-grey bob self-consciously, though as usual she hadn't so much as a hair out of place. But there were now deep smudges under her eyes and she swayed a little on her feet. Watching her, Lestrade reflected, and not for the first time, that there was a particular sweet age for detectives who sometimes didn't see a pillow every day or their own home and spouse in a week. Old enough to be used to the business, but still young enough that a couple of cups of coffee and the right kind of attitude would see them through. June Merivale, who'd come alone, had been that age during the Thatcher administration. "Sleep? Who's got time for that?" she wanted to know wearily.
"You do," he said, folding his arms severely as if he was addressing one of his constables. "I don't know how many times I've had to tell my lot that a detective who's sleep deprived has all the skills of one who's three sheets -"
"Oh, spare me the OH&S," she said. "No sign of your boy yet?"
Lestrade shook his head. "I don't suppose you could torture the information out of Holmes for me."
John winced, and it wasn't the implausible threat of torture that had done it. He'd never heard Greg call Sherlock "Holmes" before. The name conjured up more of the sort of bully tactics Anderson had started at Thompson's murder scene.
"Not likely," Merivale said. "You were right, he's a stubborn bugger. Mind you, you do owe him one. I had him have a look at that CCTV footage of the phone call Hayley got. He reckons it's Caitlin Trent."
"Caitlin Trent?" Lestrade looked blank. "And who's she when she's at home?"
"A real pain in the arse, is what she is. At least, from what I hear. Haven't had the pleasure yet, but Celeste's mum included her and her brother in a list of Celeste's school friends. She wasn't one of Matthew's friends?"
"The name's not ringing a bell. You think she did it?"
"No chance in hell a teenage girl could have killed Bob Thompson like that, and anyway, she has no motive to," Merivale said shortly. "But I'm sending a couple of my lot out to the Trent's once it's a decent hour, bring her in, have a nice little chat about pissing around in phone boxes for funsies when there's a murder enquiry on. So what have we got here, then?" She peered through the broken car window, though the halo of light at the front door didn't extend so far as the drive and not a lot could be seen in the dark.
"Piece of sacking, or something, and a handwritten note saying help her. Don't have a stroke, we didn't touch any of it."
"Good. Forensics would never forgive you. They're on their way."
Molly, sitting over on the front step and rocking Charlie against her shoulder, suddenly looked alarmed. Melissa had just come out to the step and put a cup of tea beside her. She muttered something inaudibly to Molly before Greg asked, "Who's on? Anderson?" as if on cue.
Merivale shook her head. "Gifford," she said. "She said she'll be half an hour at most. Probably got one of her students with her, but we can't have it all our own way." She suddenly switched gears and turned to Molly, going over to sit down beside her on the front steps. "Mrs Watson, right?"
She nodded. "Molly."
"I'm June. Aww, and is this Charlie? Your hubby mentioned her. She looks a little bit like my daughter did at that age. Dianne's probably your age, now."
For a second, Greg saw not the woman making life as difficult as possible for his family, but the one who had saved two-year-old Archer Towery when his overwhelmed, deeply-depressed mother Rachelle had tried to throw both of them off that car-park roof. I get it. I've been there. It's difficult when you've got kids to think about. You're not weak. You're a strong woman and a good mother.
"And you saw the guy who did it, right?" she went on, smashing the illusion. All business and enough of the motherly bullshit; she had a murder enquiry to run.
Molly shook her head. "I only saw his face for a second before he ran," she explained. "A man… well, a boy, really. He might have been… twenty? I'm not very good at telling people's ages."
"Neither am I." Merivale smiled. "What was he wearing, do you remember?"
There was a sudden glint in Molly's eyes; effrontery at the idea that all because she couldn't tell twenty from twenty-five, she wouldn't remember something she'd seen clearly only twenty minutes before. "He had a white hoodie on, and maybe a pair of jeans and trainers, dark trainers… I can't tell you much more. I didn't hear his voice. It all happened so quickly..."
Merivale asked, "Was the hoodie up or down?"
"Up," Molly said without hesitation. "So I didn't see his hair colour or anything. He was white, so I think his hair mightn't be very dark, but… you know. I suppose it could have been. After a bit, you start wondering if you're remembering something or making it up."
"So it wasn't anyone you recognised?" Melissa asked, blithely ignoring Merivale's glare for jumping into what was shaping up as an ad hoc interrogation.
"No. I've never seen him before."
"Okay." Merivale nodded and stood up again. "If that's all you can remember, no point in dragging you in for an interview at three in the morning. Especially since for all we know, this is just a sick prank from some idiot with more time than sense." She looked askance at Greg. "I suppose you saw it on the news last night. The whole thing's out - Celeste, Thompson."
"But not the notes, the Shakespeare," Greg said. "Not on any of the channels I checked, anyway."
"No," Merivale agreed. "Press office requested that to be kept a secret. Still, lots of people leave notes, and this one doesn't sound like Shakespeare to me…"
As Merivale, Greg and Mel launched into a conversation about the case, full of obscure references to Jimmy in the Press Office and Kath from IT, John wandered back to where Molly sat on the step. He reached out and gently tweaked at one of Charlie's ash-blonde locks of hair. "Asleep?" he mouthed.
Molly nodded. "What do you think I should do?"
"You said you'd go and help out Anderson, so you may as well. Behind a locked lab door might be the safest place in London right now. I'll drive you in, if you want," John offered, looking up as Merivale's phone started to ring and she excused herself to walk away a few paces and answer it. "Just phone when you want to come home…"
He trailed off. Both of them had just heard Merivale say, "Shit. Who called that in?"
Everyone fell silent, though Merivale still had her back to them, wandering further down the drive as she listened, phone at her ear.
"Shit," she said again. "All right, no more pissing about on this one, are we clear on that? A pair of armed uniforms at the registered addresses of everyone who's worked with Greg in the last year or two. Send them now… well, get Tebbutt onto it, then. I'll meet you there…" She glanced at her watch. "Twenty-five minutes, maybe. Bring Holmes with you… yeah, I know, but he was right about the Trent girl, wasn't he? Be a grown-up and ignore it… okay. If there's no answer you keep the lads off the scene as much as possible and wait for the techs, all right? See you then."
All eyes were on her as she disconnected the call and turned back around.
"When you told me what the note said, Greg," she began slowly, putting her phone back in her pocket, "I got Alan Peters to call the known contact numbers of every her the note might be referring to. All accounted for, except Sergeant Jones. She isn't answering her mobile or her landline. I'm headed out there to see why."
Lestrade swallowed. "Do you think she's…"
"No idea yet. For all we know, she's fast asleep, or listening to loud music, or in the middle of the best shag of her life and will wonder what the bloody hell all the fuss is about when we get to her place. I hope that's all it is. I'll let you know as soon as there's anything to tell."
There was a couple of seconds of grim silence before Melissa suddenly announced, "I'll come with you, Detective Inspector Merivale. If there's…" She looked at Greg, then stopped. She had only a nodding acquaintance with Sergeant Jones, but from the look on Greg's face, she wasn't a team member he wanted particularly to lose.
Merivale, understanding what Melissa had left unspoken, nodded grimly. "Right," she said. "You can put in for overtime later."
"Oh, bugger the overtime. I'm planning on marrying this man, not burying him," Melissa said. "I'll follow behind you. Give me the address, and I'll see you there."
Melissa soon left in her own car, leaving Hayley still inside the house and the two detectives standing in the dark driveway, hands in pockets, wondering what to do next. After a silence, Dyer touched Lestrade's shoulder lightly and gestured; across the street they saw the front-room light flicker on and the curtains move. Lestrade grimaced. Anita Braach. The entire Braach family hated his guts, primarily because he was in law enforcement and they were in law breaking - nothing the murder squad had any dibs on, as far as he knew. But Anita was no doubt over there cackling with glee at all this, and had been since the six o'clock news the night before.
"I don't like just standing here waiting," Jake finally said.
"Neither do I, but there's not a lot we can do about it."
"If we go out to Jones's place-"
Lestrade shook his head. "Wouldn't do any good," he said. "It's not like they'd let us anywhere within about six streets of it, not under the circumstances. Anyway, looks like we'll have the uniforms over here before long, with their wonderful protection."
Jake looked as disgusted as Lestrade felt. "But we're witnesses," he protested. "I mean… not to… God, if she's dead-"
"Want to know what I'm thinking?"
Jake looked up at him.
"Start telling yourself Jones is dead, mate. If she's not, you'll get a nice surprise." Lestrade suddenly patted his pockets. "Shit," he muttered.
"What?"
"Left my smokes in the glove box." He looked over Jake's shoulder back to the Braach's house. The light was still on, but the curtains were now drawn. "You tell Merivale I did this, and I'll have you sent back to working traffic stops until you retire." He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around his fingers before gingerly opening the passenger side door.
His first thought was that someone had left a brown leather belt in the car, and it had slid onto his shoes. But brown leather belts don't have fangs.
By the time Molly finally arrived at the forensics lab at New Scotland Yard, it was just past three in the morning. Philip Anderson met her in the vestibule to hand over a coat, gloves and hairnet. "Did something happen?" he asked her as she struggled into them. "I thought you'd be here half an hour ago."
Molly opened her mouth to tell him all about the strange incident with Greg's car. At the last minute, though, something stopped her. "Oh, no," she finally said. "I just had to wake John to take me in, and we had to deal with Charlie. Sorry."
"You're here now." Anderson yawned and shut the lab door behind her. As he walked past her, Molly wrinkled her nose in disgust and her stomach flipped ominously. He obviously hadn't had a shower in the past day or two, and probably hadn't brushed his teeth in all that time, either. She had a moment of hoping his lab practices were cleaner than his personal hygiene, and that she wouldn't have to explain to him that his rank body odour was making her throw up.
"I don't need to gear up for the Clean Room, then?" she asked, swallowing.
He muttered something inaudible, then shook his head. "Already got through that part - most of it, anyway. To tell you the truth, I'm out of my depth with this," he admitted.
Molly thought of something Sherlock had once blithely said: Anderson would be out of his depth in a mud puddle.
"If we were doing this all above-board I'd request a fingerprint analysis specialist to come in and have a look." He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "I haven't come across anything that even looks like Matthew's prints yet, but looking for them might all be a waste of time. Whoever killed Thompson is smart enough to quote Shakespeare. They're probably smart enough to use gloves." He slouched a little as he let out an exhausted sigh. "So I could have just wasted most of a day achieving nothing."
Molly had spent many hours and days on projects that had ultimately become a waste of time. She smiled grimly. "What about… er. What about the vomit?" she asked, swallowing again at the mention of it. "That you found on the floor at Bob Thompson's place?"
"Oh, you know the full profile'll take weeks to come back," he said unhappily. "It was something starchy - potatoes, mostly. Chips." He shrugged. "No prescription drugs, no alcohol… nothing sinister. I can't go back to Greg with nothing but that to go on. But so far, the DNA on the vomit isn't giving any matches or partial-matches to the sample Greg gave me, so it looks like Matthew's in the clear for now. Unless… well, we all know Greg's ex ran around on him…"
Molly suddenly remembered something John had told her: Anderson's marriage had disintegrated in the wake of his brief affair with Sally Donovan. Donovan had promptly dumped him anyway, moved on to some bloke who worked in the Serious Crash Unit for eight months, then started up with the man she was now married to. Anderson obviously wasn't as okay with that as he might like people to believe.
"Have you ever seen Matthew Lestrade?" she asked.
"Not up close, if I ever did." Anderson shuffled a ream of paperwork. "You know the detectives don't usually fraternise with us lower types, but for the odd Christmas party."
Molly suddenly flushed with outrage. Never mind how Anderson saw his own job and position, she had had a longer and more intensive education than Greg, John or Sherlock, and she was not a 'lower type.'
I'm getting like… like Harry, or…!
"Well, he's definitely Greg's son," was all she finally said. "You can see it a mile away."
He shrugged. "Okay."
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by the scuffling sounds of Anderson shifting his paperwork around. He hadn't glanced at the contents, so obviously just keeping his hands busy. Molly, glancing down at those hands, saw that they were shaking in a way that unexpectedly made her stomach flip again. As a matter of fact, all of Philip Anderson was shaking; a nervous sort of buzz that reminded her of a hummingbird. She suddenly wondered if he'd done something stupid like overdosed on caffeine tablets, or, God forbid, something really stupid and loaded up on speed to get him through the night.
"Well, so I'm here now," she said, twisting at her wedding ring so hard it left a pink trough on her finger. "So, um. You can go sleep."
"The Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit have probably racked up more enemies than anyone else, even without Sherlock's help," he went on, as if he hadn't even heard her remark and had forgotten what he had called her in for in the first place.
"Yes," she agreed. "I suppose they have. Anyway, you should probably-"
"Comes with the territory - people don't like it when you expose their crimes. But you know, I was thinking about this today. I mean, what if it's something… what if this isn't just 'oh Greg Lestrade happened to be the man in charge when my lowlife boyfriend was arrested for manslaughter and put away for twelve years'?"
She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"
"What if someone's got a good reason to be doing this?"
By this time he was standing so close that she could feel his hot, sour breath on her face. She cleared her throat. "There's no good reason for anyone to do this," she said.
"Everyone knows what happened with that case out in Norfolk." Anderson tugged at his hair; an odd, off-kilter gesture that made Molly's heart jackhammer in her throat. "Maybe Greg isn't the person we all think he is. Maybe he's got secrets."
Molly leaned back into the counter, splaying her fingers for anything in reach - beaker, bottle, even a pipette would do - anything that could be used as a weapon. Just in case.
Her fingers met thin air.
"Philip," she said, as calmly as she could manage. "You're making me a bit uncomfortable now, actually."
He licked at his lips and tugged at his hair again for a second before shaking it off. "Sorry," he mumbled, backing off and returning to the counter. "Sorry. Just a bit… well, mmm. You know. Bit edgy."
She nodded. "You're very tired," she said, in tones two degrees away from ones she'd use on Charlie. "You go sleep. I'll keep an eye on this stuff and wake you if anything happens."
