Jim

"So who am I talking to? I've been dealing with a Michael Steele up until now, is he about?" Rather than just introduce himself, the man on the far end wastes time swearing at me. Well, I say wastes, but then again, I get a lot of out of it. For instance, I can hear the racket of the flightpath in the background on his end. All the profanity makes Danielle laugh, so I know she's there and at the very least she's still defiant. And in the meantime I'm connecting Steele's laptop to the hotel network and finding this supposed factory they're keeping her at. There's a note for all you would-be kidnappers out there. Don't waste any time during the negotiations; likelihood is the other guy isn't wasting it at all.

"Your parents must have had a sense of humour, Mr Goddamn Cunt…"

"…Stryker."

"Steele and Stryker… You two made that up, didn't you? Christ Jesus, I think I might just stick with Mr Cunt, I'll feel less stupid. Anyway, let's not fuck about; put the lady on the line."

"Hold your fuckin' horses. Who are you?"

"Well, seeing you're Mr Cunt, I'll just be Mr Cock and then you'll be under no illusions as to the fact that you're fucked."

But in the background, you can hear dull, fleshy noises; blows landing, and words muttered too low to make out being spoken.

The response, though, I hear the response; that's quite loud. "Such fucking language! What would your sister and the kids say, farm-boy?"

And I hear his response, which isn't quite so reliant on words. It's another one of those fleshy noises. Bit louder than the other ones.

"Mr Cunt, I'm getting very annoyed at what I hear going on over there-"

"You know the score. We're just running her through the usual; don't use our names, don't issue any warnings, don't tell him where you are-"

"You think I need her to tell me? You lads are easier than that. Now put her on the fecking phone before I get proper pissed off."

He swears at me some more while all the shuffling goes on, while the phone gets passed over, while I get put on speaker. Then, a voice all thick and breathless and relieved, "Jon?"

"No, s'me, but don't worry, he's on his way."

Imagine, if you will, all those stupid yanks smiling all over their faces because Darcy's on his way. They'll collect the pair, deliver them, and five dead comrades, well, that's just five ways they don't have to split the fee anymore.

"Tell him tiger-tiger-tiger lots of times."

Translation: not managing this myself, need him now, urgently, this hurts. Which is to be expected. It wasn't like they were going to tickle her with feather dusters. She killed one of them for definite and maybe the other four; she was a target to start with and now they're annoyed. If it was me, Goganye could go and whistle; I'd have bumped her by now. Thing is, it wouldn't happen with me. I don't keep people about me like that, don't do that whole team spirit bit. Which is why it's strange how angry I get when I hear her in distress.

"It was so stupid, Jim… You said you were sending a car and they pulled up and I was hurt and wrecked and I didn't even look, I just got in and I was so fucking close and-"

"Dani, are you reminded at all of Treadstone where you are?"

"Yes." She gets it right away, and it's all the confirmation I need. When she says it, when she knows Darcy's on his way and the Americans have no idea what we just discussed, she sounds almost like one about to fall asleep, almost safe. "The whole thing stinks of Treadstone, thank God… But Jim, there's one other thing before they take the phone away."

"Shoot."

"Don't give them ideas. But Jim, I hid the drawings. This lot don't care or even know what I'm on about so I can tell you. I was being followed before I even got to the hotel. They were there as soon as I got out of the cab at Wardour Street, so I hid them. Left them with a shopgirl I know personally. But the spooks are all over the area and I-"

"Understood; say no more." If she tells me exactly where they are, her captors will go and get them just to spite her. Just because she thinks it's important. But they won't waste time looking.

"You'll know the shop. You'll recognize what's in the window. But Jim, be really properly honest with me – is Jon really on his way?"

And this is a different kind of question. She doesn't sound distressed anymore. She sounds hard and empty, like she's steeling herself for the worst still to come. This is the question that makes me think twice about answering. "Why do you ask?"

There's a pause. Too long of a pause. All of a sudden I know what she's about to say and what it means and what they'll do to her for saying it.

Very quickly, even as the phone is taken from her, screaming to be heard, "Tell him not to! Tell him they're ready for him this time and they'll fucking ki-" I don't get the rest. They gag her, and then they hang up.

It leaves me sitting there for far, far too long, feeling hollowed out, feeling like I don't know what I should do anymore. Because this doesn't happen to me. This part, this all comes afterward, by which stage I'm not even a shadow on it anymore. I keep telling myself I should leave them to it. That this never needed to be any of my business and nobody's going to come looking for me, so why shouldn't I walk away?

Then I call Darcy.

"Did you get a place?"

"Yeah, but listen to me for a second-"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said no. You're going to tell me I shouldn't go because it's a trap."

"No. Well, yeah, but everybody knew that."

"So what then?"

"Danielle. Danielle knew that and Danielle still said don't let him come. Now does that not tell you something?"

"It doesn't matter whether it does or not." I don't understand. I don't know how to tell him that, so I wait, and he says, "It's this or leave her rotting. Unless you've got a better idea. Maybe they know that and maybe they're playing it but it doesn't make any difference. If they're doing it to give me no choice then well done them. Because I've no choice."

"…Do you want me with you?"

"No offence, mate, you'll be worse than useless."

"None taken."

I give him the address and tell him good luck.

Me? Probably go and get the drawings. Make myself useful to somebody… Weird…

Sherlock

Apparently, when a coroner has a trainee, he does actually have to be there to train her. Or to do any work. Honestly, you wonder what chance poor Molly Hooper will ever have in the real world. She'll probably never sit her final exams, never mind pass them. But I suppose she's doing her best and so long as she can pull out the right slab I don't really need for much. Seems a capable girl, sure she can manage.

She balks when she sees me. But I've got a real bona fide copper with me now and she can't say anything except, "What are you doing back?"

"It's alright," Lestrade fills in. "He's with us this time."

"I'm with them this time," I echo. "Thought I'd save you the trouble of phoning them up after I leave."

She straightens her back, manages to look passably offended, something like a bird fluffing up its feathers. "I just don't take kindly to people breaking in on my watch, that's all."

"Even when they help you catch a potentially disastrous mistake made by your superior, helping you protect his job and earning you all the brownie points you could stitch to your little sash?"

She eyes me with hate, ready to speak again, but Lestrade steps in, one hand held out, requesting peace. "We just need to see the jumper that came in last night."

Molly Hooper stands up sighing, "Again? The autopsy's not even done yet."

"What?" Lestrade asks. He's quick; I was about to say the same thing.

"Well, I'm waiting for Mr Holloway to come in."

"No, what do you mean 'again'?"

"I had one of your lot in early asking about Steele. A D.I. Jameson? All very urgent."

I look to Lestrade, who looks gravely back and slowly shakes his head. "We don't have a Jameson." She glares at him as if he might be joking and it's just not funny. Then it dawns on her and she sinks down on her stool.

"Not again, Molly," I say, dully.

But it makes her angry, snaps her out of the imminent depression to throw up a hand and cry, "Well, he was a damn sight more convincing than you!"

Lestrade cuts in with the normal questions. What did he want, did he take anything, did he touch the body, but none of this actually matters. What matters is the body, how he died, what we're supposed to have learned from it. While they're talking and he's getting her gradually more wound up and useless I consult the list hanging by the door and wheel out Michael Steele, 53, the 'jumper' who, I know as soon as I see him, never jumped.

"Single blow to the head," I announce, if only to shut up the constant barrage of pointless questions from Lestrade.

"Couldn't have been delivered by the ground at all?"

"The ground is rather a brute, Lestrade. Tends to go more for the smashy-smashy approach, rather than taking its time and a very careful aim to deliver a quick, stopping burst to a particularly sweet though awkward spot at the base of the skull."

Molly Hooper, having probably done quite enough to break the rules already this morning, thank you very much, comes over when I lift up Steele's head. I can look, apparently, but not touch. That's too far. Which tells me that this 'Jameson' did no such thing. He didn't come for the body itself.

Or the body held no mystery for him.

But I'll get back to that in a minute, when Miss Hooper isn't trying to push the Steele tray back into its slot. "I really can't let you do that. The autopsy hasn't even been done yet, I'm waiting for Doctor Holloway and-"

"Good. You can correct him before he begins his cover-up this time."

"You really don't understand-"

"Neither do you. If you push any harder and I drop this man's head with any force it's liable to explode." She jumps back, yelping. Lestrade swears and staggers. And I very gently set down Michael Steel's hyperpressurized coconut, take Hooper's proffered lab coat and use it as a pillow for him. And while she's standing there, wringing her pale hands… with the fine, papery skin showing the ridges down the back…

"Molly, how long have you been here?"

"What?"

"Here. In the lab. How long? I only ask because you haven't slept. That much is clear. Nightshift extending into the morning, waiting for the boss, but the lab, Molly, when was the last time you left the lab?"

"Well, I had to take responsibility when they brought Steele in, suicides are special cases, and Mr Holloway took the keys last night by accident and the place can't be left unattended so-"

"…Lestrade, Miss Hooper's been stuck down here on her own all night." He doesn't say anything. Shifts foot to foot trying to think of something. Useless thing… "Don't you think somebody had better nip up and get her a coffee from somewhere, Detective Sergeant, in the industry of public service, defending your support staff, quickly, please."

He is almost laughing, "I am not leaving you here with the body."

"Of course you are."

He actually turns. Must admit, I didn't expect that to work. Off he goes, white knight, to provide for the damsel, who despite my intervention is still glaring nervous daggers at me as I lift up the head again to get a look at the strike point. Very soon though, she just can't help herself. Morbid fascination, you see; it's practically a prerequisite of the job. Leans in like a child and quietly, carefully, "When you said 'might well explode'?"

"Mmh. Would have been a lovely surprise for you, when you took the circular saw to the skull, and the whole thing just burst. Pressure. The brain inside is practically mulch. The strike created a seal around the brain stem. The killer popped Mr Steele's brain. You can tell from the eyes. Look at the crazy angles. Same as a gunshot to the back of the head, but without the gun. And the brain matter leaking out through the perforated eardrum is a dead giveaway. You should eat something."

"Brain m… But it's so… runny…"

"Liquidized. It popped, remember? Here-" I've got a KitKat, one of the ones I stole from Mies' fridge, still in my coat. "Take this. It's been in my pocket a while but it's not all the way melted yet."

She takes it. Unwraps it from the end, treating the paper wrapper and the foil alike, which is strange and I've never seen that. Leaning over the body she bites off the end, ravenous, and asks "Then what? They threw him off a roof to cover it up?"

But they didn't throw him. She has no way of knowing about the angle he was found at, but she can clearly see that all the damage is below the waist. The spine is broken, but below the ribs, not at the neck. He was dropped, as if from a two-footed hop off the edge. It's not how jumpers jump. His legs are crushed to crazy angles, but if the skull is not fractured, and that skull is just dying to fracture. There could have been almost no impact at all at the head end.

They were preserving the fact that he'd already been murdered.

And you can say whatever you want about criminals not being that clever, about the clever ones wanting to be caught, it still doesn't make any sense.

You're still thinking, aren't you? You're trying to find the other angle, the one I've missed. And that's alright, because so was I for the first few seconds. Of course you're still thinking. You need everything to have an explanation. That's natural, so does everybody. That's the instinct that gave us science and psychology and an understanding of the facts that used to be base fears and superstitions. It gave us medicine, gave us pathology. There must always be a cause and there must always be a cure.

It's alright that you're still thinking.

"Molly, this Jameson-"

"Oh, look, don't start-"

"No, did he take anything when he left?" Lestrade's already asked this question, but I wasn't listening because I didn't think it was important.

"No. He just asked to see the… No, wait, there was a piece of paper. A note with a blue letterhead, but I couldn't read it. It looked like an address."

"Alright, so that's still not important. I need to see those things, though, where is it all?" You can tell a lot from the corpse, of course, but more from what he was wearing, what he had with him at the time. Molly's not moving though. Not fetching me anything. I got Lestrade to go for coffee and she's not fetching anything. That's hardly fair now, is it? And it's not that she's still wary of me. Well, she is, but that's not what's stopping her. She's looking at me with a sort of curiosity this time, and a touch of repulsion, as if she wants very much to look away and can't. Morbid fascination. "What?"

"Who are you?"

"Not a good question."

"Excuse me?"

"Too much on, too much to do. Too many much more prudent questions to ask and have answered. That information wouldn't serve the purpose right now, we'd only be wasting time getting into all that. Not a good question. Ask another, Molly. Ask a better question and maybe we'll find answers."