Some strong language in this chapter. Just sayin'... :)

Chapter Nineteen

After depositing Arthur outside the University of Westminster, the staff car continued on its way, with its remaining occupant in a far more pensive mood, and delivered Mycroft to his office building on Whitehall. Once ensconced behind his walnut desk, with an in-tray overflowing with documents requiring his urgent attention and a cup of his favourite tea at his elbow, the Iceman picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

'Yes, sir,' the disembodied voice at the other end of the line replied to his enquiry, 'the surveillance equipment was installed on Friday, as per your instructions, and it has already borne fruit.'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in appreciation of that announcement.

On Friday, under the cover of carrying out routine maintenance on several estate properties, Mycroft had ordered the installation of voice and video recording equipment – all legal and above board, with the necessary warrants obtained - in Mr Needham's home. And, crucially, he had facilitated the tapping of Mr Needham's mobile phone.

'Mr Needham?' the man in the blue boiler suit enquired.

'Yeah,' Bryan Needham replied, giving the man and his boiler suit a suspicious once-over.

Holding out his photo ID, the visitor explained,

'We're here to carry out PAT testing in your property and also to renew the Gas Safety Certificate. I believe you had notification from your landlord?'

'What testin'?' Needham grunted.

'PAT testing, sir, and Gas Safety,' the man replied.

'And what the 'ell's PAT testin'?' Needham demanded.

'We need to test all your electronic appliances to make sure they're safe to use and not likely to cause an electrical fire…sir,' the man explained, taking pains to maintain a polite countenance.

'There's nothin' wrong with any o' my appliances!' Needham retorted, belligerently.

'It's a legal requirement, sir. It has to be done every year.'

This was not strictly true but Mycroft had gambled that Needham would be ignorant of that fact.

'Since when?' Needham blustered.

'Since 1989, sir.'

'We've never 'ad it done before,' the surly tenant growled.

'Well, you need to take that up with your landlord, sir…you might even be entitled to some compensation for his oversight…'

Mycroft had prepared a script, anticipating Needham's likely objections, and he knew all too well what would pique his tenant's interest.

'…but it's for your own safety. You wouldn't want your house to burn down, just because of a dodgy mobile phone charger, now would you? And your landlord is footing the bill.'

Mr Needham peered, morosely, at the man's ID then checked out the official-looking blue van, parked beyond his garden gate, and the second boiler-suited man standing behind the first, before shouting over his shoulder,

'Maureen? Maureen? Where the 'ell are ya, ya stupid cow?'

As he waited for his errant wife to put in an appearance, he continued to glower at the visitors.

'Whatever's the matter?' gasped Mrs Needham, who had been wrangling a load of laundry out of the washing machine and onto the Victorian airer, that hung from the ceiling in the cottage kitchen, but had abandoned the task in order to answer her husband's call.

'These blokes need to test our electrics…'

'Electrical appliances, madam,' corrected the first contractor.

'Whatever…' Needham muttered.

'And your gas appliances,' added the second man, with a cheerful smile.

'Sort 'em out, woman,' Mr Needham snarled. 'I'm goin' for a jar.'

'Er, sir…' interjected the first man '…do you have a mobile phone?'

'Yes! What of it?' Needham's short fuse was nearly burned down.

'We'll need it, sir, to test the charger…' replied the man, apologetically.

Needham huffed a disgruntled sigh and reached into his trouser pocket, took out his mobile phone and slapped it into the hand of the other man.

'Thank you, sir,' the man said.

By that small, innocuous act, Bryan Needham had ensured that Mycroft Holmes would be privy to the content of all his mobile phone communications with his new-found felonious friends.

'Over the weekend, we intercepted a conversation that referred to a shipment due to arrive, imminently, at Felixstowe. The transcript has been despatched to you, sir.'

Mycroft reached for the pile of documents in his in-tray and selected the one on the top, flipping it open to verify it was the Needham file. He thanked the other party and gave further instructions then closed the line and sat back in his chair, sipping tea and nodding his appreciation as he read through the transcript.

'Hello?'

'Needham? Where are you?'

'I'm at 'ome. Why?'

'Are you alone?'

'Yeah, more or less… Just me an' the wife.'

'Go somewhere private.'

'It's only the wife, for Gawd's sake!'

'Don't fucking argue! Just go!'

(Background noises of doors opening, footsteps and doors closing. Change in ambient sound – enclosed space?)

'Awright, I'm in the fuckin' karsie! That private enough for you?'

'Just shut your trap and listen. There's a shipment arriving next Thursday, at Felixstowe, three in the morning…'

'Great! I'll meet it!'

'Not at the port, you muppet! No, you need to meet it by the train station at Manningtree…'

'Train station? That's a bit risky, ain't it?'

(Caller's comment indistinct – possibly cursing?)

'It's a little country station, you fucking moron, not bloody King's Cross Saint shittin' Pancras!'

'Yeah, awright, awright, don't bust a bollock! So, what time will it get there?'

'How the fuck should I know, for Christ's sake? Just take the usual transport, make sure you're there by three o'clock and wait til the currier arrives. Then you take the merchandise and deliver it to the safe house, OK?'

'Yeah! OK! Gotcha! What sort o' vehicle am I lookin' for?'

'Tanker. Hazardous waste. You can't miss it, not even a dumb fucker like you.'

'Oi! I ain't dumb! An' I ain't a fucker, awright?'

'Yeah, whatever. Just don't fuck this up, Needham. There's a lot riding on this shipment.'

'I ain't fucked it up yet, 'ave I?'

'No, but that other stuff was just a trial run – checking to see if you were up to the job. This one's the real deal. You get this right and, well, your future's bright! You'll be playing with the Big Boys!'

(Enthusiastic laughter from Needham.)

'I'm ready for this, Wilshaw! I'm really…'

'NO NAMES, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! We told you, no names!'

'Yeah, yeah! Sorry! I just got a bit excited. But don't worry, there's nobody here. No one can hear me!'

'I don't care! You just remember, in future, right?'

'Yeah, awright.'

'Right. See you Thursday.'

(Line closes.)

Once the tap was in place, it had been a simple case of waiting for Mr Needham to incriminate himself - and his friends. These things were often only a matter of time and Mycroft was a very patient man. But, on this occasion, patience had not been required.

'Wilshaw,' Mycroft mused. 'Mr Wilshaw, delighted to meet you!'

ooOoo

When Sherlock entered the Reception Area of the Cardiology Outpatients Department at St Mary's NHS Trust, he was surprised to see John Watson sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, dressed in his hospital scrubs, perusing a magazine. Sherlock didn't like being taken by surprise. It was bad for his image – and his self-esteem – so he strode past his friend, en route to the Reception Desk, uttering a casual, 'Good morning, Dr Watson,' as he passed by.

John looked up from his magazine, a little flustered, and turned to see Sherlock's rear view retreating to the far end of the room. He put down the magazine, jumped to his feet and joined his friend at the counter.

'Kind of you to come, John, but I think I can manage this mission by myself, thank you,' Sherlock remarked, acerbically.

'What mission?' John asked, much to Sherlock's increased annoyance. The Consulting Detective merely rolled his eyes and waited, impatiently, for the Receptionist to finish her phone conversation so that he could unburden himself of the heart monitor and get the hell out of there.

John leaned an elbow on the counter and hummed a little tune to himself, while Sherlock tried – unsuccessfully - to ignore him. Eventually the phone conversation ended and the Receptionist turned to Sherlock and smiled.

'Mr Holmes?' she said.

Sherlock furrowed his brow at the recognition but then dismissed it – his image had been in the newspapers often enough; of course people would recognise him, occasionally. It was an unfortunate by-product of being the world's only Consulting Detective.

'I've brought this thing back,' he said, rather unnecessarily since the object in question was now sitting on the counter top, in plain sight.

'Lovely!' said the lady. 'And did you bring your Episode Diary, too?'

Sherlock had been hoping to get away with not having to produce that particular document. It was sitting in his pocket, practically burning a hole in the lining of his coat with its infernal presence. But the Receptionist's expression, though superficially benign, barely concealed an underlying ruthless determination. She would have the diary, come hell or high water. Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled out the A5 booklet and placed it on the counter top, next to the heart monitor.

'Thank you, Mr Holmes,' smiled the lady. 'Now, just take a seat. The doctor will see you in a few moments.'

'What? No…!' Sherlock spluttered. 'I don't need to see the doctor, I just needed to return the machine. And I have, so good day to you, madam…'

'Ah, that's where I come in,' said John.

Sherlock looked at his friend – for want of a better description - with shock and suspicion etched in every line of his face.

'What do you mean?' he asked, suspicion deepening to a sense of foreboding.

'I checked on the hospital computer and found out what time your appointment was and then I called my colleague in Cardiology and pulled in a few favours. They're fast tracking your download and analysis. They're going to give you your results today,' John explained. 'So come and sit down.'

Out-thought and out-manoeuvred, Sherlock felt betrayed.

'Did Molly put you up to this?' he seethed.

'No, mate. I put me up to this, all by myself – with a bit of Queen's Counsel from Mary. We thought, knowing you as we do, that once you left this place we'd never manage to get you back in here so…we hatched a plan. And this is it! So, after you…' John gestured in the direction of the waiting room chairs and Sherlock, with a huff of annoyance, preceded him to a seat and slumped into it, folding his arms in defeat and pouting petulantly.

John took a seat on the exit-ward side of his friend and gave a nod of satisfaction. Mission accomplished.

ooOoo