Chapter 36 – He Died Because I Shook His Hand
They'd limped toward the weekend, with Violet largely self-absorbed and Sherlock brooding about the case. Violet was grateful for Sherlock's embraces later in the evening even though she was silent in the cab on the way home after visiting that disgusting excuse for a human being. She showered and changed into pyjamas and her dressing gown while Sherlock ordered food from his favourite Chinese restaurant.
They had eaten in relative silence. Violet turned on the telly because she couldn't stand the quiet, but nor did she want to engage in any kind of conversation with Sherlock. She wasn't upset with him at all and she knew he was at a loss for what he could do for her. She just didn't want to vocalise what she was feeling, and there was nothing she wanted Sherlock to do or say.
When he was rinsing the plates and putting the leftovers into the fridge, she approached him. He seemed surprised at her close proximity. But when she slipped her arms around his waist, he enveloped her in his own arms and rested his chin atop her head. After a few seconds, Sherlock uttered just one word. "I…"
Violet thought he wanted to say, I don't know what to do, or I don't know what to say. In response, she said, "Just hold me. That's all I need from you." And he seemed satisfied with that.
Violet spent Friday shopping with her ex-Regency Road co-stars, Chenoa and Priyal. She was relieved Chenoa was keen to leave her flat with the support of her friends, but the blonde actress didn't want to talk about the assault any more, understandably. After her heart to heart conversation with both Violet and Priyal when they had visited her previously, the soap star seemed keen to get on with activities to keep her distracted. Violet felt that her personal feelings toward her own assault were fraudulent in comparison.
She would go through phases of anger, then confusion. She didn't want to remember Grice's assault, but neither did she want to shrug off the incident as if it had never happened. She felt she ought to react in some way. Bullying Grice Johnson into apologising hadn't helped one bit.
How much would she have hurt him, she wondered. How much damage could she have inflicted if Sherlock hadn't pulled her away? She knew she had given him severe injuries during their first visit. And horrifyingly, Violet found that easy to do. But on that occasion, it was a role she assumed, using emotions she felt she ought to have, and using offensive tactics she rehearsed in her mind. This time, the anger came from within. It consumed her, frightening her in the process.
Violet felt that her life with Jacob Venucci had been some sort of alternate universe. Of course, there were plenty of good memories, but their lifestyle was completely different to any she experienced before she met Jake, and any she lived since breaking up with him. In recent times, there were too many incidents that seemed to put her back into that sleazy underworld existence—having Sherlock work on this case, visiting Emily and Riley in Manchester in that hovel after Sherlock had solved the Holder case, and most recently her violent encounter with Grice Johnson. It clashed with her blossoming acting career, with its false celebrity and self-congratulatory events. And somewhere in the middle, was her home life with Sherlock Holmes.
Yesterday she was beating up a low-life rapist, interrupting her boyfriend as he negotiated terms with the fucker to give evidence against a ruthless gangster in exchange for Violet Hunter not smashing his fucking sleazy face against a brick wall on some future occasion. Today she was shopping for a new outfit to wear to a breakfast television interview on Monday morning. She lived two lives.
Her upcoming scenes on the TV soap were airing next week—Christa's final scenes where the father of her baby was to be revealed, not that she could comment on the specific details of the episode beforehand. They'll also ask her about her role in the period drama, the Catherine Hilderness mini-series. And Violet will talk about how excited she is to work with acclaimed director Damian Oakeshott, opposite the award-winning actor, Sir Henry Masters. Perhaps they'll just ask her to tell them what she'd been doing lately since leaving Britain's favourite street? What would she tell them?
Violet knew, while sitting on the damask sofa on the Brekky TV set with Kirsty Willeme's bleached smile, that her thoughts would stray to Grice Johnson, the man who had tried to sexually assault her, and she would remember how much she had wanted him dead.
-o-
Grice Johnson had been murdered.
Of this, Sherlock was sure. But how and when to tell Violet?
He'd just finished talking to Lestrade, but Violet was out of the flat, jogging in her bid to keep fit and healthy. Sherlock didn't mind that at all, because it usually meant she'd strive to curb her alcohol intake. The actress was fully focused on her career this week, in the lead up to leaving for Wiltshire for filming.
His girlfriend appeared on Brekky TV at the beginning of the week, and yes, he'd watched Violet acting as Violet Hunter, the Actor. He didn't particularly like that person. She seemed to get along with everyone and found the hosts' jokes funny. He didn't tell her that though, preferring to comment that it looked like she was enjoying herself.
On Wednesday, she had a panicked last minute audition for a movie that "Andrea Fabenaski has dropped out of, Sherlock, you have no idea what that means." Violet was correct in her assessment. He had no idea what that meant and who Andrea Faber-whatsit was. His girlfriend neglected to add, And nor do you care, because that would've been more accurate. So he helped her pick out suitable attire, yet again, and accompanied her to the casting director's tiny attic office in Soho, where they filmed screen tests. Apparently, this Andrea actress was also represented by Polly Stoper, but another project meant she was no longer available for this particular role. Polly offered up Violet's name as an alternative.
Sherlock waited in a coffee shop to accompany Violet back home again. Her pre-audition anxiety prompted her to complain earlier that morning that she no longer had her good friend Spence available to accompany her to auditions and someone to whom she could rant and rave afterwards. Sherlock realised, after long gaps of silence, that he was supposed to offer himself as a replacement. Or perhaps Violet's words of, "So what will you be doing all day?" clinched the deal for her.
As it turned out, her post-audition monologue simply consisted of, "I don't know how I did. I don't want to talk about it."
Sherlock knew the closer Friday loomed, with her Catherine Hilderness read-through, the more stressed she was becoming. He didn't want to add the apparent murder of her would-be rapist to the mix.
Sherlock had wanted to hurl his phone across the room when the DI casually informed him. Of course, Lestrade didn't have any idea how significant this information was. Sherlock phoned to ask how they were getting on with the surveillance files, having heard nothing over the weekend.
"Yeah, well, things move a bit slower around here," Lestrade said to him, pausing to take a sip of coffee, no doubt. "We've conducted interviews with the staff at Kabuki's. Nothing's come up yet. Some of them seem a bit cagey about saying they recognise Moran, and nobody's identified Adair yet."
Sherlock hesitatingly asked, "So… nobody else has contacted you independently of your staff interviews?"
"Ah… no."
Sherlock exhaled impatiently.
"Grice Johnson," he offered, not being able to stand the wait any longer. "An ex-bartender at the nightclub, and one who knew just about everything about everybody. Has he been questioned?"
"Well… hang on."
Sherlock began pacing while Lestrade presumably consulted some sort of list.
"No… but why would we—"
"Previous employees," Sherlock said. "Surely you've thought of that?"
"No. Not yet. But why are you interested in this…this…"
"Grice Johnson. He's been helpful in the past," Sherlock replied vaguely.
"Right. I'll note that down… hang on… Grice Johnson… Grice… not a usual name."
Sherlock's skin began to prickle and he stopped pacing.
"Grice…" Lestrade murmured again. He was obviously occupying himself with obtaining further information from some computer system. "Yeah… here. Grice Johnson. Date of birth: the 25th of August, 1982. Found washed ashore near Richmond Bridge two days ago." Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat. Lestrade's next lot of words faded into the distance. "Passing jogger found him. Only been there approximately forty-eight hours. No evidence of violence. Port-mortem reveals the poor bastard drowned. His jacket was left on the bank along with his shoes, like he'd placed them there. Cash in his wallet. Must've been no current that night. His body was found a hundred yards downstream from his belongings. Sometimes we never find them for weeks."
Sherlock's mouth ran dry and his head buzzed in confusion.
"Sherlock."
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Suicide. But no. Unlikely.
"You still there?"
Sherlock blinked several times, then cleared his throat.
"Ah… yes," he replied. "Who conducted the post-mortem?"
Lestrade informed him that the body hadn't been taken to Bart's mortuary, unfortunately, so Sherlock knew he couldn't get access to any further information. Molly Hooper hadn't performed the PM then. But it didn't matter. The man was dead. It wouldn't do Sherlock any good to raise the suspicion that it may not be suicide. Would investigations into the man's last days reveal that he had been visited by a shady-looking couple just two days before his supposed murder, and that he had looked the worse for wear after that visit? And what of Sherlock and Violet's initial visit just under two months ago? What explanation had Grice given his girlfriend for his injuries after that one?
The man had obviously fallen afoul of Sebastian Moran's method of removing witnesses. But how did Moran know that Grice had this information?
Sherlock asked Lestrade if the ex-bartender had appeared depressed to those close to him.
"His girlfriend said he'd lost his job the week before. He worked for one of those diet companies. Home deliveries. But she said he frequently changed jobs. Got bored apparently. Nothing new there. And in the couple of days before his death, he seemed… I don't know… happy, she said. Like he'd received good news."
Good news, Sherlock thought. Perhaps the news that Sherlock Holmes and Violet Hunter would no longer visit him if he did this one favour for the detective was enough to change his outlook on life. But had the man told somebody what he knew? Boasted about having information that may help the police with their enquiries into the death of Ronald (Ronny) Adair?
"But, you know how it is," Lestrade went on. "Some people do actually appear happier right before they… you know… top themselves, because they've already made plans… Still, there'll be a Coroner's Inquest in a month. But they rarely uncover anything new under these circumstances."
Sherlock remained quietly contemplative, but when he heard the front door slam shut and Violet's swift tread on the stairs, he bid the detective a goodbye.
"I've just been doorstepped!" she yelled on her way past the living room door. As Sherlock looked up, Violet had already commenced heading upstairs to her room. She called down, "And I support paedophiles, apparently!"
-o-
Fucking Phillip Green and Frances Carfax, Violet thought, fuming as she threw her sportswear onto the floor. And the fucking Met.
It wasn't too hard to make a deduction, she mused as she turned on the hot water and waited for it to warm up. Violet's controversial scene as Christa Barlow had aired yesterday, causing headlines and debate online. It was revealed that her character had previously engaged in a brief, but sexual, affair with her boyfriend's father before they'd arrived in Regency Road resulting in the baby son she was about to abandon. Violet knew the soap-watching public would be aghast, and she was relieved she'd be away filming next week, and was unavailable to be interviewed on Brekky TV. What she hadn't counted on, was some fucking arsehole from the Met—an unnamed source, no doubt—telling the press that she had been Sherlock Holmes's assistant during the missing teen case last year, and supported the highschool student's love affair with her teacher.
So, naturally it was implied Violet Hunter fully endorsed the onscreen affair between her teenage character and one of Regency Road's most loveable dads (until now). The tabloid journalists that were currently camped out on 221B's doorstep asked Violet if she could offer a comment about the paedophile teacher, Phillip Green, and his incarceration and inclusion on the nation's Violent and Sex Offender Register, and did she consider the runaway teen, Frances Carfax, a victim at all?
Violet turned on the cold water tap, tested that the overall temperature was a couple of degrees below lukewarm, and stepped into the stall.
She didn't warm down properly, she thought. She'd pay for that later. Her chest still heaved; she was out of breath from her alternating sprint-jog around Regent's Park. And then she sprinted up the stairs after leaving the journalists with a muttered, "Not answering any questions today, thanks."
This current drama almost eclipsed everything else. Violet's fitness routine these days consisted of her pushing herself above and beyond her limits, punishing herself, and feeling every muscle burn in protest. It seemed to be the only way to get rid of the aggression she felt toward Grice Johnson.
"It'll blow over soon," came a voice from the bathroom doorway. His soothing baritone warmed her immediately. "It always does, once people find something else to talk about."
Violet wiped the steam from the shower screen so she could see Sherlock, who was casually leaning against the doorframe.
"It was one of your Scotland Yard mates who went to the press," she told him, assuming he was up to speed. He was Sherlock Holmes after all. "Probably DI Lestrade, since he hates me."
"He doesn't hate you."
"You said he did, last year."
"Well, that was last year. And I always prove him to be wrong after a fashion. Anyway, Lestrade would never go to the press."
"It was somebody then."
"Of course it was somebody. News would've spread throughout the CID about your panic attack on our way to Phillip Green's hideaway in Hackney."
Violet brooded. Why did the whole world have to talk and gossip? Why couldn't the idle population have their collective mouths taped shut?
Violet turned around and began to lather her hair with shampoo.
"I'll put the kettle on," Sherlock bid her from the doorway.
"They'll start calling you a paedophile soon," Violet said, yelling above the shower spray.
"Why?"
"Because everyone thinks I'm a teenager. That's all I can do, apparently. Catherine Hilderness is nineteen. Christa Barlow was seventeen. And I look like a teenager, don't I?" Without waiting for an answer she stepped back underneath the water and rinsed the suds from her hair. Calling out again she said, "You're dating a teenager!"
Violet finished in the shower still absorbed in her own little world. Sherlock had left her at some stage. She acknowledged that he had been quite patient with her over the past week. She'd been behaving like a… flakey actress, she thought, recalling the words Sherlock had used for her when he had made excuses on her behalf for Detective Inspector Lestrade last year. She felt tiny pangs of guilt about her selfishness. She was leaving on Sunday, so she decided she would be a lot more considerate over the next few days and lavish Sherlock with a lot of attention.
-o-
Violet dutifully typed the dates into a spreadsheet as Sherlock read them out to her. They were trawling through Ronny Adair's Facebook page and noting whichever status updates implied the young man was about to embark on a night out. Sherlock wanted to compare these dates and times with CCTV footage for cameras around Camden, specifically in the streets surrounding the Kabuki Pirates nightclub. Even if Adair wasn't caught on camera entering the club—because he may have used the entrance via the alleyway—he may be shown in close proximity to Kabuki's. Well, Sherlock had thought, it was a start.
Having Violet help him wasn't strictly a necessity. Curiously, she was being quite accommodating in the last day or so. She returned from her read-through yesterday buzzing with excitement that carried on until today. She loved everyone, she'd said. They're all wonderful and sweet! And she was leaving tomorrow, to commence filming on Monday, so that brought along with it a certain amount of nervous excitement as well.
Violet had sat with Sherlock as he scrutinised Adair's social media presence.
"How can you see all his postings?" Violet asked.
"Because I'm a friend of a friend, and his security isn't locked down too severely."
"How are you a friend of a friend?"
Sherlock allowed a tiny smile to form on his lips.
"Because I have a fake account I created a few years ago for the purpose of monitoring clients or checking up on suspects. Twenty-two year old female, profile picture some vague beach setting, and a handful of photos of holiday destinations and painted toenails."
"Are you serious?"
"It's amazing how many men in their forties won't think twice about accepting a friend request from a young woman."
"You're awful!"
"I have two hundred and fifty-three friends." Sherlock smiled broadly at Violet, however his girlfriend wasn't impressed. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I only use it for work. I don't engage with anybody."
Violet appeared to forgive him his social media stalking, and she helped him scan Adair's photos for any clues the victim had frequented Kabuki's. It was difficult to tell. Whenever the flash was used, faces would be bright and usually over-exposed; the background was rendered black and therefore showed no detail of the man's surroundings.
But the profile did reveal a lot about the young Ronny Adair. There was a marked difference in his postings and appearance during his very brief marriage and when he was newly single once more: the haircuts, the blond tints, tighter shirts, ostentatious jewellery—rings and neck chains in particular. Sherlock noted all of the changes, particularly those in the months before Adair's murder. The blond tips had been replaced by a crewcut; the outrageous shirt colours became more subdued; a neck chain appeared and disappeared multiple times; and a chunky celtic ring made a longer lasting appearance, disappearing two weeks before he died. There were many friends in Ronny's photos taken while he was out clubbing, but none featured Sebastian Moran.
"Oh, I know her," Violet said suddenly, as Sherlock scrolled past one particular photo. "She works in Kabuki's."
Sherlock instructed Violet to note the date of that particular status update. Another one for him to check out. Now if only he could gain access to the CCTV footage from those particular cameras without asking his brother for a favour. To do so would place him firmly in the red.
"Sherlock," Violet said, suddenly snuggling into him.
"Mm?" he asked, still distracted by Adair's postings.
"Will you come with me to my dad's tonight?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow. It was already quite late and he couldn't see any reason they needed to visit the Brassworks so spontaneously. Sherlock thought all of Violet's belongings were now in Baker Street.
"Why?" he asked, dragging his eyes from the screen to look down at his doe-eyed girlfriend.
"Because I want to leave for the station from there. I'm sick of dodging the journalists outside, and I have to leave at 11am. They're bound to be back here by then."
Sherlock quietly considered her request. To her credit, she hadn't been annoying and dramatic and moody in the last forty-eight hours, even when she had received news this morning that she hadn't been successful in winning the part Andrea Thingy had pulled out of. She'd shrugged it off as if it was nothing.
Sherlock found this highly unusual for Violet. In fact, once again he mulled over the entire industry and Violet's commitment to it. He didn't think she was at all suited to this career. She was continually putting herself up for approval and constantly left wanting. That was what it boiled down to. This woman, who was vying so avidly for attention from the father who continually rejected her—who had no real parents to speak of—had turned to the one industry that could cruelly and remorselessly cut her down at any moment.
Violet was looking up at Sherlock, her eyes wide and hopeful.
"I've phoned my dad and he hasn't answered. I sent him a couple of messages, too. He's probably not in London so you don't have to worry about him being there."
"Yes, of course I will," Sherlock said. Accompanying Violet to the West End tonight was no hardship, he decided.
Sherlock continued working while Violet packed the last of her things. They left Baker Street just after midnight, with no journalists whatsoever outside.
Sherlock tried not to let the news of Grice Johnson's death bring him down. He found it impossible to believe that a blundering idiotic gangster like Sebastian Moran could orchestrate a murder and make it look like a suicide. The man had spent eleven years in total behind bars for various crimes. He didn't have the foresight and intelligence to plan such a thing. Ever since being given this case, Sherlock had a niggling feeling there was a more powerful figure behind Moran's recent successes.
A small seed of an idea had been planted in Sherlock's mind during the course of the day and in light of Violet appearing eager to help once more. Her step-brother's wedding was two weekends away. In Manchester. It may be the perfect opportunity to use his girlfriend and her connection to Manchester's seedy underbelly once more. It was time for Violet Hunter to meet Sebastian Moran.
-oOo-
A/N: Please comment if you're still enjoying this story! I know I only have a handful of dear faithful readers now that I've split the story from Part 1, so I could really use the encouragement these days. Please review :)