Chapter Twenty One
Sulphur (Part Two)
Known since ancient times, biblical references refer to sulphur as brimstone, or burn stone in English, since 1777, an important ingredient in black gunpowder, which is a combination of potassium nitrate supplying oxygen for the combustion, charcoal which provides carbon for the reaction and sulphur, which, while also serving as a fuel, lowers the temperature required to ignite the mixture, thereby increasing the rate of combustion.
Frank Wallace lifted the Purdey .410 over-and-under shotgun. At four and half pounds in weight, it was perfect for the twelve year old boy now standing a little nervously in front of him. "It was your mother's first Purdey, made for her she was sixteen. She was a good shot, in fact better than your father, but then she'd been shooting over this ground all her life."
It was mid-September, and in less than two weeks, the pheasant season would open. Already partridges had been taken on the estate. Richard Holmes was a keen enthusiast, and almost every weekend from mid-September to the end of January, he brought down to Sussex his clients and contacts important to his business interests. Saturday corporate shooting days on the estate were eagerly sought; the invitations were almost always accepted.
In sharp contrast, on Thursdays during the season the estate's A syndicate had offered a different kind of experience for some of the finest shots in the country. This had been the preserve of the Viscountess, who cared little for the sort of men who were her husband's business contacts. Those people liked to look the part, in their brand new country tweeds, but they were more interested in business than sport. An invitation to join her Thursday syndicate was one of the most sought after in the shooting fraternity, and openings were as rare as hen's teeth. These people were dedicated, and they still shot despite her death two years ago.
Mycroft had asked the gamekeeper to see if Sherlock was interested and able to take up the pasttime. "The noise may alarm him, and the scent of the spent cartridges might be a bit overwhelming at first. If he can cope with it, however, he might find it an interesting challenge. It will help his eye-hand coordination."
The staff on the estate knew the younger boy to be developmentally challenged; "not quite right, but harmless" was how most of the staff thought of Sherlock. But the gamekeeper had always made time for the young boy, because he was so curious about the wildlife and the estate grounds. For the past five years, he'd been willing to have the youngster follow him around on his daily duties, tracking foxes' dens, putting the young birds down into the pens before they could fly, daily rounds of feeding and watering them, as well as the more physical work, clearing the rides through thick cover, making sure that the pegs where the guns would stand were ready for the season. He never talked much, but he did ask questions, which Frank was happy to answer. Above all, Sherlock enjoyed being with the dogs, working the spaniels with the other beaters to flush birds out of cover during last year's season and even helping to train the retrievers during the summer. He liked being outdoors. His brother was more interested in books than birds, so Sherlock gravitated towards the gamekeeper far more than Mycroft had when he was the same age.
For the past week, Frank Wallace had spent an hour or so a day with Sherlock, showing him how the gun worked, and letting him get the feel of it unloaded. He'd been amused to find the boy had pocketed a cartridge without him knowing, and then took it apart to see how the pellets, wadding and gunpowder worked inside. The gamekeeper noted the difference between the two brothers. Mycroft had been taught to shoot by his father, but it was the Viscountess who insisted that the elder boy come to Wallace for lessons- "you need to un-teach him; I fear he has picked up a few bad habits from Richard." Now Mycroft was a good enough shot, and if he could manage to get away from university on the weekends, he was a regular on his father's line-up of guns- in part to build the boy's network of influential contacts.
Sherlock's interest in shooting was in the mechanics and the science. He wanted to know how things worked- what was the chemistry in the cartridge that made the explosive thrust that spread the shot out? How did the gun initiate the procedure, what was the role of the firing pin? How was it connected to the trigger? Under Frank's tuition, he had taken one of the gamekeeper's old shotguns to pieces and then put it back together again, so he would understand how it all fit together. In between sessions, Sherlock was reading in the library and learning everything he could. So many questions to be answered that it was only now, a week later, that he was actually going to fire the weapon.
Frank took him to a section of the woods, a natural amphitheatre some twenty feet into a hillside. It was an area that was used for clay pigeon shooting out of season, secluded and safely away from where anyone might stray into range.
"So, Sherlock, remind me how it works again?"
"The firing pin strikes the primer in the cartridge, the primer ignites the powder, the powder has sulphur in it that burns and turns into a gas, the gas propels the shot down the barrel, the shot exits the barrel and then the column of shot gets affected by gravity and begins at seven meters to string out and form the circular pattern." This came out at in one breath.
Frank smiled and handed him the weapon. "Show me the stance."
Sherlock had spent the past week watching exactly how Frank stood when he fired the gun. It was all part of the process of getting the lad used to the sound and the smell of the gun going off. Even with ear defenders, the noise was startlingly loud, but he'd eventually been able to relax and not flinch every time the gun went off in his vicinity.
The twelve year old was still a bit weedy, starting to put on some height, but nothing like his brother, who had taken after their father. Mycroft was bigger-boned and with a sturdier build when he was twelve, taller, too. The younger boy now put his left foot slightly forward of his right, lifted the Purdey and placed the butt of the shotgun tightly into the inside of the pocket of his shoulder, resting slightly on the pectoral muscle. He made sure his cheek made contact with the gun, lifted his right elbow straight out and leaned forward slightly, ready to compensate for the kick when it came.
Frank checked the stance out, and then nodded. The boy was a natural mimic; he seemed to have spotted the essence of the position just by observing Frank earlier. That made it easier to teach him.
"Okay, load the gun."
Sherlock brought the gun down from his shoulder, pushed the lever that opened the breach, and inserted the red cartridge that Frank handed him. He resumed the stance, and pulled the gun in snuggly to his shoulder.
"Click the safety off, point the gun at that larch tree on the middle of the hill. I want you to aim carefully with your eye at a point about two meters from the top of the tree."
Sherlock asked "Is that point where you want the shot to hit? If it is, then I have to aim higher to compensate for the distance."
Frank smiled; the lad had caught on to the mathematics of trajectories very quickly. "Just aim where I said, Sherlock, and let's see if we notice where the shot actually hits. When you are ready, pull the trigger smoothly."
A moment of silence passed and then the gun went off.
"OH!"
"Yes, it does pack a bit of kick, doesn't it- which is why it is important to keep it firmly into your shoulder. Did it hurt?"
"No, it didn't hurt. It was BRILLIANT. Can I try again? This time, can you watch to see if I actually got anywhere near the target?" His eyes were wide with excitement.
"Okay, open the gun and eject the cartridge. Reload- this time you can try both barrels."
By the end of the second week, Sherlock was shooting clays like he'd been doing it for years. Frank was very pleased. Mycroft was due to come down from Oxford at the end of October for a Thursday half-day shoot; Frank was certain that he'd be able to convince him to take his brother out for his first attempt at live game.
"What do you like most about shooting, Sherlock?"
"The chemistry. Gunpowder explosions are fun!"
oOo
John was examining the third such body in a night- all victims of a close-range shotgun blast. When he had been in Afghanistan, his surgeon's skills were used to patch people up who had been shot- but every patient he'd treated who was a victim of gunshot, it was from a bullet, not the pellets of shot. While high velocity, high powered sniper weapons left their own trail of devastation, shotguns were an entirely different proposition. No one of the tiny pellets was as potent as a bullet, but given the number and the spread of wounds inflicted, a shotgun blast could be just as lethal.
The three men killed were all security guards at lock-up warehouses. Sherlock was pacing about the crime scene. They'd viewed the CCTV footage which showed two men bursting in and shooting the security guard at his desk, a good forty feet from the entrance. The two men were dressed in black from head to toe and unidentifiable. The shooter calmly picked up the ejected cartridge and then disappearing with his colleague into the warehouse. The same scenario had been played out at each of the three warehouses, separated by no more than five miles, and an hour between each attack.
Sherlock was pacing. Every so often, he'd stop and glance at the dead body. Finally, he asked John to remove the victim's uniform shirt. He crouched down and pulled out his pocket magnifier, examining the spread of wounds carefully.
Lestrade was watching the pair, whilst getting the details from Sergeant Donovan. "It's just like the others, guv. According to the warehouse manager, the guard has been working for only a month. Reliable, impeccable references, the CCTV shows him getting blasted the second he released the electronic lock on the door to let the thieves in. I don't get it. Why would they shoot their own inside man?"
The grey haired DI didn't answer, just strode over to Sherlock and John. "Come on, Sherlock; I need to know what's going on. Three in a row, all the same MO, but nothing gets taken. Why is it happening?"
Sherlock stood. "You say nothing was taken, but in every case, you have only the warehouse manager's word for it. True?"
"Well, yes, of course. But why would they lie? I mean, if something was stolen, then it would be in their best interests to report it, so they could claim on insurance. In fact, that's one of the issues with this kind of theft. All too often, the warehouse operators chuck in a few extra things, claiming that they've gone missing when in fact they just want the extra insurance money."
"Lestrade, you're being an idiot. What's a theft, when it doesn't involve taking goods?"
Greg frowned. "You're talking in riddles, Sherlock. Just spit it out, if you've actually got something useful to contribute."
The brunet shot him a filthy look. "It's not theft; it's extortion. You are looking at this all wrong; think protection racket. These three warehouses that have been targeted are being shaken down. Maybe they didn't want to pay, maybe they thought by beefing up their security, they'd be able to refuse the attempt to extort money."
He let that sink in, as he bent back down over the body.
The DI sighed. "Well, that makes life even more complicated. At least with stolen goods, there's a chance to track where they turn up again, who's handled them and chase it back to the actual thieves. With extortion, none of the warehouse operators is going to say anything for fear of being targeted again. We're stuffed."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Abruptly, Sherlock stood up again. "I'm off to Barts. I need to see the three bodies side by side. And an example of the pellets pulled out of the wounds. Can you get this body transported there as quickly as possible?" He was already half way out the door by the time Lestrade said yes. John followed just in time to fling himself into the taxi that Sherlock had magically conjured up out of thin air.
"How do you do that, Sherlock? We're in the back of beyond in a run-down East End industrial estate and you find a cab."
"New app." Sherlock showed the doctor his phone- GetTaxi for Blackberry. "I called one here as soon as I saw the body, didn't think it would take me more than fifteen minutes. At this time of night, they are desperate for a good fare, and I've got an account with them. That, by the way, is also to deal with the fact that you are always complaining that I leave you to pay. When I'm on my way to a crime scene, this will save time. And being an account holder means that when they check the request, they see it's from me and that it comes with a guaranteed 20% tip to what's on the meter. Works every time."
When the three bodies were side by side on the tables at the morgue, Sherlock sent Molly off in pursuit of the evidence bags into which she had deposited the shot pellets she had removed in the course of the first autopsy. Then Lestrade joined them.
"I do hope you've got some way to figure this out, Sherlock. There's just nothing coming out of the warehouse owners- too scared, I think."
"With good reason." John was looking closely at the previous two victims, now lying on the table.
Sherlock paced. When Molly re-appeared, he grabbed the evidence bag and held it to the light. He smiled.
"Right. All three guards have been killed by someone using a sawn-off double barrelled shotgun- that much is clear from the CCTV. But, the pellet spread shows the gun to have a quite distinct character. Normally, a sawn-off has had up to fifty per cent of the barrel cut off, which loses the choke. That means the pellets spread out very quickly, limiting the range. But these guns have a choke, so not a 'sawn off' but more a made-to-order, with a full choke to ensure that they can used be at a reasonable distance."
Lestrade made a face. "Does it really matter what sort of gun?"
Sherlock glared at the DI. "Of course it matters! The second clue is in the shot. Most gangs using sawn-offs use cartridges with steel slugs rather than pellets- they're cheap and easy to obtain. Humans are bigger targets and not that fast, so pellets are actually inefficient. These pellets in the bodies are NOT cheap; it's birdshot used for water fowl, where no lead is allowed. Did you see from the CCTV footage? They are very careful to pick up their ejected cartridges- that's because the cartridge case would give something important away. Given the distance involved and the patterning in the wounds, I believe they are using Gamebore- that's a British manufacturer producing a three and a half inch steel cartridge, with a 42 gram load of 1 sized pellets. It's used for taking goose on the marshes."
Now he held up the evidence bag in front of Lestrade's face. "This is steel, not bismuth, so not the American-made Winchester Drylock. This is expensive- ten pounds or more per box. "
He consulted his phone. "You're looking for some people who have a legitimate reason for having this kind of gun and ammunition. A sawn-off can be used in fowling for shooting from a boat, not a blind. You are literally in amidst the landing geese, so a full length just gets in the way. Given the location of the warehouses in the East End, odds are that your villains are using this kind of weapon and ammunition on the waterfowl shooting grounds to the east- most likely on the Rivers Crouch and Blackwater in Essex. There are half a dozen syndicates working those areas."
Lestrade now looked puzzled. "Okay, so we have some place to look for leads, but there could be hundreds of people in those syndicates."
Sherlock rolled his eyes."Use your brain, detective inspector. All three of the dead bodies lying right in front of you are Eastern European in origin. Even if the CVs are a lie, you can't cover up the accent that well. So, someone involved in one of those shooting syndicates is going to have a business bringing in labour from Eastern Europe. Norfolk, Sussex and Essex agricultural harvests depend on these migrant workers. Alongside the legitimate employees, I'll bet the gang master is bringing in the occasional illegal- and setting them up as security guards. The CVs for the guards are obviously fakes- these people were planted by the gang so that they would pass them information about the warehouse companies and let them in when the time came. Do all three on one night, remove the only people who could link the killers to the gang, and we have motive for their death. Do all three in one night, so as to minimise the chance of the guards getting scared and talking. It's logical."
Lestrade looked perplexed. "So, you want me to get the names of the Essex marshes shooting syndicates, check them for anyone who has a gang master's license and …he's the one behind the warehouse jobs?"
"Yes, that much is obvious, Lestrade, isn't it? What part of the deductive logic has escaped your tiny mind?"
John smirked.
"And you got that from a single pellet of shot."
"Yes, of course. I do know something about gun powder, shot and shotguns, Lestrade."