Sherlock

It's not a delusion of grandeur. Not by a long shot. It's a delusion of servitude. The same sort of psychological imbalance found in high-ranking members of established cults. The master's favourite, chosen for better things, a purpose, ready for heaven. Don't think I'm getting all this from those few lines, either. The killer's language is full of his susceptibility to that sort of thinking. His burning desire to impress should have been clear to anybody from the time when we first spoke, and it has already been noted from the murders themselves that he lacks the creativity to match his care. The more I learn, the more it seems like he might have waited years for the right idol to express some mock admiration, to offer the right challenge. And now here he is, with a higher purpose and, for my money, probably starting to survey his next night's work.

There's no way he'll slow down. He's doing too well, or thinks he is.

I want the analysts to go away. I want to talk Lestrade through the next phone call. I could get something. Not necessarily anything to do with identity or location, nothing direct, but I could get something, I know I could. But I suppose there's no chance of that happening anymore.

The only other thing I have is the photography. And although I'm loathe to admit it, the more I look, the more it looks like Lestrade might have been right. Maybe I don't know what I'm looking for. Maybe there's nothing here to see.

I'm about to put them away when the unfortunately-usual thing stops me. The little girl's bed. No covers on it, but the sheet was put back on the mattress, and you can see, of course, where she slept. That was the intention, anyway. But she never slept on that fresh-made bed, she was already inside it. So why, then, is there a hitch in the sheet that could only have been made by a foot stretching out towards the corner? That's fact number one. Fact number two, that dent is far, far bigger than any child I've ever seen.

And now that I look at it, the same hitch is in almost all of the sheets, the same size and shape of a dent.

Of course. This is what I was starting to get at, thinking about the beds this morning. I was almost there, except that the phone rang. Speaking of which, better give Lestrade a ring now, let him in on this. I don't actually believe it's too long a shot to suggest that this could be a case breaker. Such an obvious thing to have missed, and right in front of us, and... But I've got it now, it'll be alright.

"Hello?" The voice that answers me is tense, nervous.

"Lestrade?"

"Oh, God," he moans. So apparently I'm back to being a nuisance, an annoyance again. We need a codeword, some way for me to know where I stand as soon as he answers the phone. "Listen," he says, "Bad time, Sherlock, alright? I'll call you back."

"No, but you don't understand-"

"Oh, I do, I really do, but I'm right in the middle of a very shit sort of evening and-"

"And if you'd just pay attention to me for twenty seconds, I could-"

"Listen!" he says again. Then, softer, more insistent, "Listen." Listen. Oh, well, yes, quite; his is the phone number being used by the killer. They are listening in on his phone. I'm not supposed to be involved, not supposed to have all these things spread out in front of me on the breakfast bar.

"Call me back."

"Yes."

I text him the landline number as soon as he hangs up.

Jim

There's no talking to Moran sometimes. For instance, I've told him, more than once now, that I'm absolutely fine and require no assistance whatsoever. What happened at the door earlier on was a blip. I was on edge and it's really rather embarrassing, and if he would just shut up about it, we'd be cooking on gas here. But he keeps saying, keeps asking, keeps talking.

"If you're really worried," he says, again, starting again, not knowing how close he is to just getting murdered, "and I understand, because why shouldn't you be, but if you are, it's no problem, I'll sleep in the spare room. I've nothing on tonight."

"I'm quite alright without the full Kevin Costner treatment, thank you."

"You'd need to be a lot nicer to me to get the full-"

"Don't finish that." God forbid he starts going down that sort of road. One Danielle is more than enough, thank you very much.

"Sorry, couldn't resist."

"Getting too late in the day for that sort of humour... Reminds me; put the telly on. I want to see if we're on the ten o'clock news."

He's an easy-going sod and all. My watch, which was set by rolling news channels and is therefore unimpeachable, said nine-fifty-nine when I asked him that, and by the time the TV comes on we've still missed the headlines, the Big Ben bongs. Moran's just sitting down, saying, "They won't put a serial killer on the news until they've nearly got him. Or until he does something stupid. They don't want them getting any fame or recognition."

Poor Creep. He really did land the wrong vocation, bless.

But it's not him I'm looking for anyway. The news comes out of its flashy opening sequence, and while the anchors introduce themselves all over again, I wait, hardly able to, hardly breathing. Waiting to hear, 'And tonight's top story is-'

"-the breaking news that Thames Water has found itself at the heart of the latest whistle-blower scandal-"

"Yes! They bought it!" I've had Dani's number cued up on my phone since nine-fifty-eight. Now I hit call and wait for her to pick up. "You watching the news, love?"

"Yeah. Did alright, didn't we?"

"Can't turn your nose up at top spot. Now listen, what I need you to do is go back to the reservoir and get a sample that we can tox up. Have some little con type deliver it looking all scared and snivelling to BSkyB soon as, and we'll-"

"Wonderful idea, love, but send Seb."

I look over at him, then back to the phone like she's there. "But Moran is a purifying influence. You're the poisonous one."

"Poisonous one just leaving on a very important date. I am unavailable until tomorrow lunchtime, alright?"

"If this is anything to do with the Creep, I'm so on to you."

"Is Seb there? If Seb's there tell him I'm going to murder him with... with something vile. Make it up, you're so much better at it than I am."

Sherlock

It's more than an hour before Lestrade becomes free again, or at least before he finds the time to call me back. It's a hateful thing, waiting, now that I have information. I don't even know if it's worth anything yet and I never will if he doesn't call and I can't pass it on. This is no way to work. If I'm ever to consider continuing in this pursuit we have to find some other way to communicate, something more conducive to... to actually communicating, really. Putting out the butt of my fourth cigarette since the initial call, the phone finally rings. I answer it before that first sound has finished.

"Lestrade-"

"Yeah. They're listening to the mobile and... Well, you're not exactly the favourite topic, right now."

"By which you mean-"

"I haven't lost my job yet, but as far as anyone here is concerned, I'm ignoring you."

"Understood. I have news for you, though. Are you in your office?"

"Yes."

"Look at the crime scene photographs. The beds, in particular." I spend a minute explaining to him about the sheets, until he confirms he can see what I'm saying. "Tell me all that bedding is still with the evidence."

"Why?"

"Because the killer was the one who lay down to make those indentations, after the beds were made, after the murders, after putting the mattresses back in place. Skin cells, Lestrade, sweat. If he's ever been arrested or had a swab taken for any other reason..."

"You're right... Looking at the evidence manifests it's all still there, I just don't have any results for it yet... So could be... My God, you're right."

"And you're very bloody welcome."

He corrects himself then, albeit with dry sarcasm, "Thank you very much, Sherlock." Then goes on, muttering to himself, "Now, let me think, how do I do this?"

"I'd imagine you just walk out into the office and tell somebody to get it done? Check the shoulder patches on your dress uniform, see what rank we left off at."

"Don't be a prick. I'm already going to have to lie about who was on the phone. If I charge out there talking about the pictures all fresh and new and having just hung up, they'll know there's something going on."

"Well, show it to somebody else then." God in heaven, do I have to do everything for the man? "Explain it the way I did to you. Use Donovan, she's smart, they'll believe it from her."

"Who? Sally?"

"Lestrade, is there a single other officer in your department you refer to by their first name?"

A terse, grimacing pause. He tells me, "You get awfully judgemental sometimes, y'know that?"

"Call her in like you've spotted something but can't put your finger on it. If you'd like, I could stay on the line until-"

"I'll manage, thank you."

"You're welcome."

Jim

I got the International Woman of Mystery (for so she seems determined to be) via her GPS again. She doesn't always switch off her phone if she's being sneaky, especially not if she thinks she's fobbed me off already. And to my surprise (worry, fear, terror, insert adjective of ill-feeling here) she's nowhere near Carl the Creep, or anywhere His Murderousness would hang around. The man is gleaming proud he works in a sandwich shop, fuck's sake; I don't think he'd be hanging around the casino at the Vic, do you?

So me, not thinking, being myself, I go to walk in. The plan, naturally enough, is to find her, ask her what the hell she thinks she's doing playing poker, which is the only reason she comes here when she's not cop-hunting, when I have work for her to do. Naturally, of course, I am stopped at the door,a nd reminded in a very discreet and admirable way that I was told not to come back, the other night, when they threw me out.

Now the plan is to find a way in and murder her across a roulette table. Just spin her round maybe, until her head pops.

But the first thing to do is fair warning. Y'know, I think I change my mobile so often, not for work or security or anything like that, but because I get so fecking sick of just looking at it.

"Really, James," is what she says instead of hello, "I'm trying to be irresistible here. We're talking about a happily married man who could prove really rather useful and-"

"What is he? Keyholder at Windsor Castle? No, no, bank manager down Threadneedle Street, that's it... Or is it another fashion designer, because I seem to remember on famously, flamboyantly gay gentleman having a tabloid nightmare over-"

"That was an exception," she warns, sternly. "I don't usually do that kind of thing. I take it, by the way, you're standing on the street outside cold and alone and feeling embarrassed?"

An unnecessary, somewhat desperate gambit, wouldn't you agree? "Not for long." No, I'm going round the back. Service entrance. And while theoretically they're supposed to pay the same kind of attention, one fake tale that I'm the scout for a high-rolling celebrity who wants to sneak in and a little bit of bribery, I'll be with her soon as. I can hear glassware, so she's probably in the first floor bar rather that up in the poker room. I'll catch her while she's down drinking between hands.

Bet she thought she was dead clever too. Whatever she's covering up, to have thought ahead and gotten me barred. Bet she thought she was something else, alright.

You want to see the look on her face when I tap her on the shoulder. She's at the balustrade, overlooking the tables. At the very first glimpse of me, she turns faster than human and tugs me away with her, breathing, "If he sees you-"

"I don't know; male attention makes you look like you deserve male attention, doesn't it?"

"Makes me look like a slag when I'm aiming for mistress, yes, yes it does."

"Mistress? Sounds a bit serious for you."

Danielle rolls her eyes, nods back over her shoulder. "Don't get spotted. Same table you were looking at the other night. Dark, very tall, younger than the others, thank God." So I wander back over there, real casual. Clock him among tonight's selection of bored coppers. Their numbers are depleted; comrades must be dealing with the Creep. Dani stands at my shoulder, facing the other way, saying quietly, "The Assistant Commissioner in charge of the Specialist Crime and Operations Directorate." A department including such delights as Serious Crime and Homicide, Serious and Organized, Covert Policing, police intelligence operations... This is, very likely, why she'd rather I didn't show my face again. That's the wrong person for me to get to know.

All she has to say on the matter, "Lovely gent."