Chapter 48 - Know When You Are Beaten
As Sherlock hung up his Belstaff behind the door, he caught a faint whiff of Violet's perfume, triggering his new default set of emotions: guilt and regret. Her scent, smelling as fresh as if she had been standing in his living room only hours before, was on his clothing so strongly—or so he thought—it reminded him of how much she had clung to him last night, when she was quite drunk. But he couldn't dwell on their evening together, because it wasn't allowed to have happened, at least according to Violet.
Lestrade's summons to attend Scotland Yard resulted in a welcome, if minor, distraction—a four at the most. But he was relieved that John had made excuses to return to his home after they had left the Yard. Sherlock couldn't see any benefit in keeping the doctor's company, having received more criticism than good advice.
Sherlock shed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt as he made his way to the back of the flat and into his bathroom. He was in need of a shower, having decided to forgo one after Violet had walked out on him that morning; he hadn't wanted to stay at the hotel any longer than necessary.
He slipped off his shoes and socks, throwing them through the open ensuite door and into the bedroom, then shrugged out of his shirt, sending it in the same direction. As he continued undressing, his mind dwelled on Violet and what he could do to rectify their situation. He had vowed not to give up on their relationship, he'd told her as she made to leave the hotel room, and he had been both confused and elated when Violet had encouraged him along the same lines.
So she wanted him to keep trying?
What was his next move exactly?
Talk to her of course. He would give her one more night to sleep off her hangover completely, and hope that the morning brought with it a gentle tolerance and an open-mindedness for detective-geniuses who were still learning to navigate the murky waters of relationships.
#
"The renovated Brassworks near Hyde Park," Mrs Hudson recalled after Sherlock began quizzing his landlady on Violet's new address the next morning. "I did tell you that soon after she moved out," she added, before turning back to her dusting.
Sherlock slid on his gloves, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "That information wasn't relevant to me at the time," he retorted. "And I know generally where it's located; I remember that much. But I need the flat number."
"Well, I don't know, dear. Why don't you ring her?"
Why indeed, he thought. But he couldn't. He needed to see her in person to plead his case. A phone call wouldn't suffice.
He left Mrs Hudson humming to herself, and escaped out onto Baker Street, opting to walk instead of hailing a taxi. As it was still early on a Monday morning, Sherlock surmised that Violet may not be awake yet, and he could use the time he spent walking to think about what he was going to say to her.
#
It was far too early for Violet to be awake, but she was keen to get as far away from London and Sherlock Holmes as possible. She had taken off her jacket, rolling it up to prop between the carriage window and her neck so she could attempt to get back to sleep. Alice was having none of that, however.
"You know, you should really dye your hair back to whatever it was. The only parts you'll get offered are the victims of horror movies with that peroxide thing you've got going there."
Violet hummed in agreement, keeping her eyes closed, knowing full well that casting directors, producers and talent agents could see past something as changeable as hair colour. She knew Alice would begin reading out the lamest cast calls to her any second now. It would happen in 3-2-1...
"How about this one for you..."
#
Sherlock stared, with furrowed brow, at the panel of eight intercom buttons, none of which displayed the surname 'Hunter.'
Interesting, he thought, fishing his phone from his jacket pocket and swiftly dialling his brother's number.
All Mycroft did was to sigh into the phone, prompting Sherlock to ask, without preamble, "What's the surname and address of Violet's father?"
"One moment," came his brother's disinterested reply.
Instead of silence, Sherlock was provided with 'on hold' music, an electronic pop version of Bach's Sonata No. 1 for Solo Violin.
"Mycroft," he said, through gritted teeth. Mycroft had never placed him on hold in his life. It appeared that the stuffy bastard was trying to get his own back.
After what seemed like an eternity, when in fact a mere thirty seconds had elapsed, Mycroft returned with the name, "Gregory Oakes, Flat 7B The Brassworks, Frederick Clo—"
Sherlock abruptly ended the call on his older brother. The rest of the address details were superfluous and the detective felt no compulsion to thank the man who had destroyed his relationship with his girlfriend.
With a thundering heart, he pressed the button next to the name "Oakes."
As it was well after nine, Sherlock hoped Violet was awake. He assumed her father would've left for work already, whatever his occupation. The Consulting Detective momentarily reflected on the fact that he knew next to nothing about Violet's dad. Perhaps she had told him something about him, and true to form, Sherlock probably hadn't been listening.
"I didn't order pizza," came a male voice via the intercom.
It took Sherlock a couple of seconds to make sure he had heard correctly.
"I..." he began hesitantly, "I'm not delivering pizza."
This was Violet's dad? "I'm... actually after Violet," Sherlock answered in his most amiable tone.
The ensuing silence had Sherlock thinking that perhaps the voice on the other end had left. The non-response could mean that Violet's dad was either fetching Violet, or composing a more interesting lie. When nothing eventuated after a minute of waiting, Sherlock pressed the intercom button again. He waited another minute, then tried again. He felt like a monumental idiot.
I guess that's the point, he thought.
Sherlock studied the lobby area through the glass door in front of him. The concierge station was empty, so he couldn't lie his way into the building using his tried and true method. He stepped back from the entrance and gazed skyward at the numerous windows that rose up before him, and stretched the full length of the building.
So flat number 7B would be where?
Sherlock was just about to consider navigating the full perimeter of the Brassworks to find an alternative method of entry, when a well-dressed forty-something year old man brushed past him.
"Excuse me, my good man," he said to Sherlock.
Sherlock looked on as the stranger, juggling a large package in one hand, while muttering, "Damn," under his breath, awkwardly retrieved a keycard from his pocket. He swiped the panel beside the door, and pulled on the door handle.
"Allow me," Sherlock called to him, and he strode the couple of metres toward the door, his arm outstretched in an effort to prevent the door closing on the newcomer and his package.
The resident, however, wasn't about to be fooled. He stopped just inside the doorway, blocking the door with his foot, and scowled.
"I don't know you," he said in clipped tones. Then he stepped inside, and waited until the door automatically closed behind him, fixing Sherlock with meaningful glare as he did so.
Sherlock turned away, as if he were leaving. He took two steps from the entrance, then spun around when he determined that a sufficient amount of time had elapsed. The resident had disappeared up the stairs, and was out of view. A smile grew from one corner of Sherlock's mouth. It didn't matter; he'd glanced at the package the man was holding, and noticed that the surname of the recipient matched one of the names on the intercom labels.
Sherlock covered the intercom camera with one hand, then pressed "Sheeran" with the other. When a female voice answered, probably that of Emmeline Sheeran to whom the package was addressed, Sherlock responded in the voice of the resident he'd just encountered.
"Buzz me in, darling."
There was a pause, while Sherlock impatiently counted the seconds, and hoped he'd correctly deduced that Mr Sheeran was the sort to use 'darling' as a term of endearment.
"What's wrong with the camera?" darling Emmeline asked.
"I've no idea, but I've got your damn parcel and no hands left. Now buzz me in," Sherlock replied, perfectly mimicking the speech pattern of a slightly irritable Mr Sheeran.
The lock on the door clicked, and in a second, Sherlock was through and into the entrance of the apartment building.
Now, he thought, hastening up the stairs, Flat 7B. Where are you?
Sherlock hurriedly strode the length of the first floor, noting that there were only four flats on this floor, numbering 1A, 2A, 3A, and 4A. He hastened up to the next floor and found that the first flat was numbered 5B. What an odd numbering system. He concluded that 7B was on this floor, and strode toward the end of the corridor.
Sherlock knocked quite confidently on the solid wooden door. He strained to listen for any sound from within, particularly of the Violet variety, but he heard nothing.
Presently the door was opened by Gregory Oakes himself, and Sherlock masked his initial reaction, which was surprise. Clearly this man's DNA did not make it into his petite Violet. Her dad was a couple of inches taller than the detective, and his eyes blue, while hers were hazel. Sherlock had noted some time ago, the similarity between Violet and her mother from an old photograph he had observed in her bedroom. So she didn't take after her dad in any way, particularly his odd sense of humour.
Greg Oakes looked at Sherlock with some amusement in his eyes.
"Wow, you're a magician. Can you do that again, but this time go in reverse?"
Sherlock pushed hard against the door that Violet's dad was holding, and stalked into the room.
"My apologies, Mr Oakes. I have no time for your quick wit."
The detective strode confidently through the room, his eyes swiftly scanning the layout, before he turned right and headed determinedly along the passageway. He heard Greg Oakes tut as he closed the front door.
Sherlock half-expected to receive the man's threats to call the police, or at least to be pursued through the flat, but Violet's dad seemed to have lost interest. Sherlock glanced into the first room along the corridor and concluded that it was a home office. He hit a jackpot of sorts with the second room to the right. He recognised a couple of the cardboard boxes that held Violet's vast collection of novels, but the room was far too neat and sparse to be currently occupied by the young actress. A rug was the sole occupant of the floor, as opposed to the piles of clothing she usually maintained.
Sherlock entered anyway, his eyes raking the room. He could smell Violet's perfume and deodorant, confirming in his own mind that she used to occupy this bedroom. Sherlock opened the wardrobe and found it empty. He walked through to an ensuite off to one side. There were no products left in the shower, and the cabinet beneath the sink was practically empty, save for a couple of spare towels and soaps.
With a heavy heart, Sherlock walked back to the living area.
"Where did she go?" he asked Mr Oakes, who had settled onto his sofa, with his computer perched on his lap, and an iced doughnut in one hand.
"She moved in with a friend who lives in the Aylesbury Estate," Violet's father replied disinterestedly. "A redhead, from Manchester. Annoying." He looked up at Sherlock and quipped, "Oh. I assume you're her ex-boyfriend, and not some creepy stalker guy. Or you could be both, in which case, forget I said she moved into the Estate. Although over seven thousand people live there, so good luck in finding her."
Sherlock heaved a sigh in frustration as Mr Oakes turned back to his computer screen. Sherlock could see that Violet's dad was only half-listening to a video conference on his computer, since he had only one earbud inserted.
"Did she leave a more specific address?"
"No," Oakes replied, without looking around again.
Sherlock was having a hard time believing that this man was Violet Hunter's biological father. How on earth did Violet relate to the man? The Consulting Detective had already made a multitude of deductions about the I.T Consultant, who always lived alone, was misanthropic in the extreme, never laying down roots as he was always on the move, highly intelligent but possessing a devil may care attitude, and was obviously not a father figure in Violet's life. But now was not the time for critiquing someone who had information about Violet. And Sherlock concluded that insulting the man who stood in front of him would have little effect anyway.
Without saying another word, Sherlock about-faced and stalked out of the flat.
#
Violet regarded the council house in front of them. It was hardly the comfortable living in Chorlton she had previously been accustomed to when she had escaped to Manchester after dropping out of drama school. Nor was it the luxury serviced apartment in the city that Jake had once provided. Alice had a couple of friends, twin brothers, who lived in Cheetham Hill and who were happy to accommodate a couple of actresses for the week.
Alice had wanted to arrive well before their audition day, which was on Thursday, because she had received a cold call from a producer who was casting the lead role in an indie film to be shot in Manchester in the next month or two. She thought both she and Violet could attend the audition on Tuesday, which was tomorrow. If either of them won the lead, the other would surely get allocated a secondary part, Alice assured Violet. It was that kind of relaxed independent production company, she'd said.
Violet didn't know why she put so much faith in her actor friend's advice. Was it because Alice had graduated from drama school when she hadn't? And Alice's CastCall page listed so many more credits than Violet herself possessed. Violet was still one more paying job away from being able to even get listed on the CastCall website. Still, she mused, more chances to work in Manchester and not London was an attractive prospect.
After Violet had been introduced to the unfortunately named twins, Alec and Xander, and had tea and what passed for an apple tea cake in the tiny dining room, Violet made excuses about needing to lie down. She hoped Alice wouldn't join her, as they were both expected to share the spare room that contained a set of bunkbeds for the week. Violet was exhausted and not in the mood for any more of Alice's acting industry advice, besides, she had a document she needed to send to her co-star Spencer Munro, and she didn't want Alice to see.
Violet had received a text from Spencer, while she was on the train, urging her to send her CV to the Stoper Westaway Talent agency. He'd just been signed to the agency after Polly Stoper, their lead agent, had attended two performances of Kara's War.
And for fuck's sake, don't email it. They hate that, he had advised her.
When Violet informed Spencer that she was on her way to Manchester and wasn't able to send in her CV just yet, her ex co-star offered to print it and mail it for her. Violet recalled that she hadn't sent her CV to this particular agency on her earlier bulk mail-out, as she thought they specialised in soap stars, but Spencer advised her that the agency had a far broader selection of talent than what appeared on their homepage. Violet had saved her CV to her cloud storage account, but she needed to write a cover letter to Polly Stoper specifically and change her postal address from Baker Street to Mandi's address, before emailing both to Spencer.
#
Sherlock's mouth broadened into a smile. canningtown. Poor predictable Violet. That Sherlock actually remembered the title of the novel Violet always held in her hand was quite an achievement for the detective. How important the book was to her, enough for her to use the title as her email password, was another outstanding deduction on his part. No uppercase letters, numbers or special characters. Words was what Violet liked. Everything else was meaningless.
Sherlock felt just a tad guilty about hacking into Violet's email account, but it had to be done. He didn't know the surname of her friend Mandi, and therefore that made it practically impossible to find the redhead's exact address in the Aylesbury Estate. Yes, there were over seven thousand residents that lived there. Greg Oakes was correct in his estimate.
Sherlock vaguely recalled an email exchange between Violet and Mandi over perfumes that Violet would like to sample, on a particular day that he had picked up Violet's iPad so he could conduct an internet search from the comfort of Violet's bed. Her email account had been open on the screen, so what else was a bored detective supposed to do when his girlfriend was spending far too long in the bathroom, other than to snoop through her email account? How dull that exercise turned out to be.
Sherlock knew that he would be able to uncover Mandi's surname from the email conversation. Mandi had been messaging Violet from work, and that meant her proper name was in use, not some cool pseudonym she'd thought up for something like a Hotmail account.
And there it was: amanda doniellson, at cleo-de-thebes. com
Sherlock steepled his fingertips together as he sat in front of his computer. A name, and a vague location—that was all his brother's people needed. Time to give that interfering ponce another call. He knew that Mycroft was aware of how much he owed his little brother. Sherlock was going to milk his brother's guilt for all it was worth; he would be able to have Mycroft do his bidding, no questions asked, for years to come.
#
Violet had risen early on Tuesday morning in a bid to shower, dress and apply a light covering of make-up in preparation for her audition. She had just finished drying her hair, while she muttered one of three monologues she had been memorising for months, and had switched off the appliance, when she realised someone had been knocking on the door.
"Yes?" she called out.
Xander yelled out that she had a visitor. Violet paused, perplexed. She knew quite a few people in Manchester, but she hadn't let anyone know she was in the city, much less her precise location.
As she entered the living room, she felt her stomach drop a couple of inches when she caught sight of the well-dressed young man who looked very much out of place standing in amongst the council house's otherwise sparse furnishings. Danny.
Alice was idly leaning against the kitchen counter, fluttering her stupid eyelashes at him, Violet noted. Xander was glued to the Xbox, but his brother Alec had already left for work as a service station attendant. Alice and Danny both turned to Violet as she walked through the room toward them. Alice raised her eyebrows in interest, while Danny grinned broadly.
"I see you've introduced yourself to Alice, then," Violet asked, her face impassive, and masking her rising anger.
"Kept this one a secret," Alice teased.
Danny took note of Violet's rather familiar expression and said to Alice, "Excuse us."
He followed Violet through the kitchen and out into the tiny rear garden.
"No," Violet said as soon as the screen door had bounced shut behind them.
"No what?"
"I'm not going to see him."
"Hello, Vi," Danny said in his warm, soothing voice, his eyes glistening with a deep affection for the actress once again. "Nice of you to let us know you were coming home. We've kicked the tenant out of the apartment in the city, just so you can have your river view. I've even bought mint chocolates to place on your pillow at night."
Violet folded her arms in front of her and glared at Jake Venucci's right hand man. "How did you know I was here?"
"Why are you here? It's fucking Cheetham Hill, Vi," he replied, still smiling.
"I'm in town for a couple of auditions. But it's really nobody's business."
"It conveniently becomes our business when you get yourself into strife, hmm?" he said, reaching for her, and speaking down to her as if to a child. "I happen to know this area," Danny continued. He placed an arm around Violet and leant in close, as he pointed across the garden. "See the roof of that house over there? It was raided by police because the residents were part of a money-laundering racket." As Violet sighed, he pivoted her to the left. Pointing again, he said, "And over this way, Choppy Bobsen stabbed his mother—"
"Who?"
"And five hundred metres that way," he said, pointing toward the east, "Members of the Scuttler Gang bound and gagged a rival gang leader's girl. Not sure if they raped her or not, but nine months later, she's hanging nappies on her clothesline."
"And over there," Violet added, pointing vaguely in a random direction, "was where Mary Edgecombe Bartlett lived when she wrote The Tale of Mary and Dickon."
"Who?"
"What's your point, Danny?"
"You can't come to Manchester and not accept our hospitality, Vi. Now that would be rude. And no one that Jake Venucci cares about, is going to stay in Cheetham fucking Hill over night."
At the mention of Jake's name, Violet removed herself from Danny's half embrace, and stormed back into the house. She knew Danny was following her, but the discussion was over as far as she was concerned. Jake wasn't going to muscle his way back into her life, of that she was sure.
She grabbed her handbag from the guestroom, and walked back to the living room where Alice had joined Xander on the couch to play the Xbox.
"Are you sure you can't come?" Violet asked, addressing Alice.
Without turning around, Alice replied, "I can't. My agent said I'm not to take jobs that don't go through them. I guess I forgot that." Alice dropped the controller to her lap and turned her attention to Violet. "Don't worry. You'll probably get the role now, without me going for it as well. I reckon it's more suited to you anyway." Her eyes quickly scanned Violet's hair, still a white blonde from her role in Kara's War, and she gave Violet a half-wink before turning back to the large screen.
Violet wondered why her friend had talked up the independent movie project if she had no intention of auditioning for it. I should see this as a blessing then, Violet thought. She said farewell to the pair, and made for the door, where Danny had been hovering.
"I can't talk any more," Violet said, as she brushed past him. "I've got a bus to catch. I'll be late otherwise."
She shot through the front door and strode to the kerb where she gazed in both directions, trying to remember which way one of the twins told her the bus stop was located.
"I'll give you a lift," Danny said, as he came up alongside her. "It's mad you taking public transport when I'm here."
Violet knew his statement to be true. She had already determined that she'd have to change buses at some point, and the entire journey would probably leave her tired and flustered. Not the ideal pre-audition conditions. Besides, Danny used to drive her just about everywhere she needed to go when she previously lived in the rainy city. He knew Manchester intimately and there was a good chance Violet would catch the wrong bus. It would be like old times, she convinced herself, and Jake didn't have to know.
"Okay," she replied, exhaling in resignation.
#
