Periodic Tales

Krypton (Part Four)

To commemorate the 70th anniversary of the publication of Superman by DC Comics, the University of Leicester presented the Geological Society with "mock kryptonite", which was a form of Krypton difluoride. The material in the Superman stories is a radioactive, glowing green ore from Superman's home planet, called Krypton. The established premise is that Superman is susceptible to its radiation while Earth's human inhabitants are not, which has created its popular culture usage as a reference to an individual's hidden weaknesses and vulnerability, irrespective of its effects on other people.


"Sir, the test results are back."

Mycroft looked up at Ketavan. She was good at masking her innermost thoughts- years of service in his company had clearly taught her something. But, he could still see ambiguity and uncertainty in her posture. So, the results must be confusing to her, and that added another layer of anxiety onto his shoulders.

The severed skeleton hand from the bomb hoax nine days ago had clearly not been a priority for the Met's CTC; the bomb squad's excitement always fizzled out when a suspect package was not actually explosive or poisonous, so the DNA identification of the bones were not deemed a priority. Mycroft would have preferred to have had the tests done by his service, because for him, the identity was an important part of what his half-brother had sent him. And the results would have been kept private. Unfortunately, the police had become involved. But to cause too much fuss would have raised suspicions that Mycroft preferred to keep hidden.

The hand bones in the box had been shaped to form a rude gesture, with the addition of a turquoise thread wrapped around the single extended digit. The message from Ford was clear, but until Mycroft knew whose hand it was, the full meaning had not yet been delivered.

He took the slim file she offered, and read quickly. The fourth to the sixth paragraphs contained the important points.

A successful extraction of DNA was obtained from the bones. The DNA has not been identified in terms of a named individual, but a match has been made with a sample taken from a crime scene in May 1996, located in North Finchley. On the 23rd of that month, the police were called to investigate at 27 Woodside Park Road, where the landlord had discovered large blood stains on the floor and carpets of a flat. The flat was rented by Mr. Clifford Ackroyd, who was believed to have emigrated to Brazil, but no record of his arrival in the country has been found.

A sample of his DNA taken at the time confirmed that one of the blood pools was his, which formed the basis of the subsequent homicide investigation. The DNA examination done this week shows that the hand bones do not match the DNA of Mr Ackroyd, but do match the DNA of one of the other three unidentified blood samples taken at the crime scene.

Given that the National DNA Database was only set up in that year, the number of records was much smaller than at present. The case was closed in 1999, when no further evidence leading to a possible prosecution had been found. We are considering whether to re-open the case in light of the new evidence found in the box sent to Number 7, Carlton Terrace.

Ketavan's discomfort could no longer be contained. "The commander of the CTC investigation team would like a word with you, sir, to see if you can shed any light on the identity of the victim."

Mycroft drew a breath. "I'm sure he would."

So, it begins. The hand was either that of Philip Ranger, the CEO of Research Associates, or Euan Jenkins, a private detective who had been hired by Ford to organise the assault on Sherlock at the Priory. Whatever Ford had done with their bodies along with that of Clifford Ackroyd, he obviously still had access to at least one of them. Or perhaps he had just taken souvenirs. It was likely that the third unidentified blood sample was from Mycroft. Ford had hit him with the pistol he'd used to kill Jenkins, giving him a mild concussion and a gash on his temple. He would have wanted to leave the blood evidence, knowing that the service would protect Mycroft's identity- until Ford chose otherwise.

Mycroft had thought the threat of that disclosure safely contained in a cell in Tbilisi, but now knew that his bastard half-brother had been loose for at least two years, maybe even three. Plenty of time to plan his revenge.

Ketavan was waiting for instructions.

"Get me the Commissioner on the phone."

Ninety minutes later, Mycroft had spent some considerable personal capital making sure that both the Metropolitan Police Commissioner and the Commander of the Counter Terrorism Command were in no doubt that it was not in the public interest to continue the investigation. What had happened nearly two decades ago had been dealt with by a higher authority than theirs, and the culprit had been dealt with, albeit outside the English judicial system. He thanked them for their efforts regarding his private office and the information regarding the package, while assuring them that there was no further investigation warranted, at least not under their jurisdiction.

He left New Scotland Yard in a foul mood. He hated having to resort to such a naked display of his authority and power. It would not become public, of course, but the facts about Ford's escape were now known by an inner circle of people that he would have preferred to keep in the dark. The Parliamentary Scrutiny Committee would need to be informed of his being at large, if they had not already drawn the obvious conclusion based on the information that would have found its way to them through sources such as the DG of MI5. Mycroft would have preferred to sit on the information for longer than the ten days he'd had since his trip to Tbilisi. But, perhaps for that very reason, Ford had used this flamboyant gesture to force his hand.

No sooner had he thought this than his phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he recognised Elizabeth Ffoukes' private line.

"Hello, Elizabeth." He tried to disguise the weariness in his voice.

She dispensed with any pleasantries, and went straight for it. "Is it true? Has he actually been free all this time and we didn't know?"

"I am afraid so."

"Fucking hell."

"Crudely put, but perhaps appropriate under the circumstances."

"And the bomb hoax at the Diogenes? His declaration of war?"

"Indubitably."

"The timing worries me. If he got out three and a bit years ago, is it conceivable that he was the one who hired Moriarty to take you on?"

"The thought has occurred to me, but I have no evidence." It was true. Moriarty had been a person of interest to the intelligence services of thirty two countries, but no one had really understood why the Irishman chose to take such a determined interest in Mycroft- and then by extension, Sherlock. The man's motives- his willingness to risk so much by coming out from the shadows where he usually operated- well, Mycroft had always wondered. Why me, why us? Being prompted to do so by Ford would have been a possible explanation.

"Christ, Mycroft. Watch your back, will you? Can I do anything to help?"

"Do your best to locate him, my dear. I am trying to do the same, but I am afraid that it is all hands on deck."

"Any ideas on where to start?"

"I am investigating all medical facilities and ENT surgical teams capable of doing a vocal cord transplant."

"Sensible. Yes…he is vain enough to want to recover what you took away from him."

"Practical, too. He'd find revenge more enjoyable if he had a voice with which to gloat."

There was a brief hesitation, then Elizabeth asked, "Does Sherlock know?"

"No. And the conditions I set when Ford was extradited still apply, Elizabeth. Under no circumstances is Sherlock to be told, not by anyone." Mycroft put every ounce of authority in his tone.

"Is that really wise? Two of you fighting on the same side would be hard to beat."

"No, absolutely not. Do not presume that I would tolerate any betrayal of trust on this matter. No one, not even you, Elizabeth, is allowed to tell Sherlock about Ford's existence. Quite simply, I will ruin anyone who even attempts it."

There was an intake of breath on the other end of the conversation. "Mycroft, I don't think I have ever heard anything from you before that reminds me quite so much of Ford."

"I am surprised, Elizabeth, that you would need reminding just who taught me the trade."

He ended the call before she could respond, and dropped his phone back on the leather seat. He loathed having to make such a blatant threat. It lacked his usual finesse and subtlety. That he had been pushed into such crude measures was a sign of just how vulnerable he was feeling at the moment. With the evidence that could destroy both him and Sherlock sitting somewhere in Magnussen's care, he wondered for the hundredth time since his visit to Tbilisi just when and how it would be used against him.

He needed to find something that could be used to dissuade the Dane from listening to any request from Ford. Such a meeting would need to be very carefully planned.

Mycroft leaned forward to open the intercom to his driver on the other side of the soundproof privacy screen.

"Sir?"

"I've changed my mind. Take me to Parham."

He had some serious thinking to do.

oOo

Greg watched as Sherlock stood motionless in the centre of the room. They were at the Essex Chambers on Chancery Lane. Andrew Bairstow, the barrister who had called the crime in, was also looking at the consulting detective. After an initial almost frenzied ten minute circuit of the room looking for evidence and clues, Sherlock had ground to a halt with an expression on his face of both confusion and worry.

"You're sure nothing else was taken?"

Bairstow was a Yorkshireman, built like a barrel, with freckles everywhere and a wiry thatch of red hair that he probably found difficult to cover with a wig when a court appearance required it.

"I'm sure. That file is always kept in the safe; it's been in my care for the past sixteen years, and I keep upgrading the safe regularly to keep it secure."

The safe in question was to the left of the desk, built into the wall and bolted to the floor. Unfortunately, the safe door was now gaping wide open.

Sherlock went back to it, to examine it again.

"It's a Planet Fire."

"Yes- the HS6052ef. Our practice takes security seriously."

"A dual locking mechanism."

Bairstow nodded. "Certified double key and a Vds Class II electronic combination lock. I change the PIN code every week."

Lestrade had been called by Sherlock to come unofficially. A burglary wasn't his division. Homicide and Serious Crimes had threshold limits, and a private law firm wasn't likely to reach it. But, because Sherlock had asked, he'd come. Now he had to ask the barrister the obvious question.

"Why didn't you report this to the Holborn Police station?

Bairstow sighed. "There was no sign of forced entry into the building. No breach of our security systems. This is a modern building, Detective Inspector. We all have codes and passes, and there is CCTV on the entrances, as well as 24 hour security on the premises. I found the safe door open like this when I came in this morning, and then looked to see what was missing. Given that it was Mister Holmes' file and only that file, I thought he'd want to be informed first. There's not a trace of anything untoward on any of our CCTV footage or security door data files."

Sherlock broke his silence. "What else is in the safe?"

"Papers. No valuables. Just files that my clients want to keep very confidential."

The DI glanced at Sherlock. "And it was only the one file that's missing?"

Bairstow nodded.

"What's in it?"

"None of your business." The consulting detective's answer was snapped.

Lestrade sniffed. "You're the one who asked me here, Sherlock. I can't help much if I don't know what's been stolen."

"I don't need that kind of help, Lestrade."

"Then why am I here? Do you want me to put in a word to the Holborn nick to see if they can expedite their investigation?"

"No. We both know that the Met only managed to solve 9% of all reported burglaries in London last year." Sherlock gestured at the safe. "Whoever did this won't have left any trace that could lead to a conviction."

The DI was not impressed. "No forensic evidence, and an owner who won't identify what the stolen property actually is. Well, it's unlikely that the police would even bother to register the theft, let alone investigate it. Do you have a suspect in mind? Who would want whatever it is that's in the file?"

"That is a good question, Lestrade. I don't know the answer."

Bairstow shrugged. "As per your instructions, Mister Holmes, the package has always remained sealed. I don't know what's in it any more than the Detective Inspector here."

Sherlock steepled his hands. "Before last night, apart from you, there were only four people in the world who knew that the papers even existed*, and I'm one of them. That leaves three others - my brother, John Watson and Doctor Esther Cohen."

Greg visibly blanched. "You don't suspect any of them, do you?"

"Not John. And not Doctor Cohen- both of them actually know what's in the file, because they've seen it. Only Mycroft hasn't, which makes him the prime suspect, don't you think?"

Greg now knew why he'd been asked to come- when things deteriorated between the Holmes brothers to this sort of level, in the past he'd been willing to intermediate. Before he could say anything to that effect, there was a quiet tap at the door. Muffled by the thick wood, a woman's voice was heard. "Mister Bairstow?"

The barrister exchanged glances with the two other men. "My secretary."

When Sherlock nodded his assent, Bairstow opened the door.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but this was in your pigeon-hole, sir."

"Thank you, Miss Pettigrew." The red haired man took the package and shut the door.

"Let me see it." Sherlock's blue latex gloved fingers snatched the little parcel out of the barrister's hand before he'd even turned away from the door. It was a small narrow object, wrapped in turquoise tissue-paper. It was about the diameter but shorter than the length of a pen, and the package had a simple white bow.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade's warning growl made the younger man look up at him. "If you think that's been left by the thief, shouldn't it be investigated before you handle it?"

The Consulting Detective smirked. "Too small to be a bomb of any significance, Lestrade." He raised the package to his nose and drew a deep sniff in. "And no explosive or acid, if scent is anything to go by. Besides, if my brother wanted to do me in, he wouldn't have to resort to anything so dramatic. Not his style."

Nevertheless, he put the package down on the barrister's desk and reached for the brass letter opener on the blotter. He used that and the pen from his own pocket to pry the ribbon off and manipulate the tissue paper away from the plain cotton wool inside. Wielding his makeshift tools with surgical precision, he unrolled the cotton wool, to reveal a small item about two centimetres long and just over one in diameter, which had a turquoise string tied around it.

Lestrade and Bairstow had watched from the other side of the desk. The silver-haired DI spoke first. "What's that?"

Sherlock had picked up the small object and was using his pocket magnifier to examine it closely.

"Bone…more specifically, the proximal phalanx bone, possibly of the index or middle finger by size." He seemed to consider that for a moment before continuing, "…most likely from an index finger, given the position of the string."

The barrister interrupted, "why does that matter?"

"Tying a piece of string on the index finger is a memory technique- a reminder that something should be remembered when it is needed. It's only ever done on the index finger because it is the digit with the quickest connections to the part of the brain responsible for memory. The texture of the string on the finger continuously activates the nerves and keeps that part of the brain stimulated." Sherlock rattled this off as if on auto-pilot; his eyes were focused on the bone itself, which he was examining up close. Then he rolled the bone between his blue gloved fingers, testing the weight and feel of it. When he sniffed the bone, Sherlock looked puzzled.

Greg tried to catch his eye to ask the obvious question without having to actually say it.

Sherlock pursed his lips in contemplation. "It's old. Bone decays more slowly than most parts of a body because the calcium is resistant to the normal processes of decomposition; even after the organic materials have disappeared. But modern embalming processes change the chemical signatures of the skeleton- and their scent. If I were one to hazard a guess, then I would suggest that this bone is from a victim whose body was not embalmed. Yet, it's survived well. If it had been buried directly in soil then there would be evidence- bacteria and fungi in the earth attack collagen protein in the bones, meaning a skeleton buried in soil will crumble over three to five years. Calcium phosphate isn't attacked by micro-organisms, but the acids in soils will accelerate the process. Well aerated, peaty soils would have decomposed this completely."

The barrister looked confused. "So, it's a fossil?"

"No. fossils are not actually bones; they're what remains when minerals leach into bone and replace the organic material with inorganic; that's why you find dinosaur bones." He held up the bone to the light, so the two men could see it. "This bone has either been buried in a hot, dry climate where there are limited micro-organisms and no acids, or it's been preserved by freezing. I'll need to examine it; histological differences will tell me which method of preservation- and it may just be possible to extract DNA, although the sample is rather small for that."

Greg nodded. "And what do you want me to do, if anything, in the meantime?" He was trying to remind Sherlock gently that if he wanted him to take on Mycroft he needed something more than a missing file whose contents he didn't know and an odd bone. Greg looked from the string around it back to Sherlock. "What do you think the thief wants you to remember?"

"Haven't a clue. But I know exactly where to start finding the answer- Mycroft. If there are consequences, I'll let you know."

Author's note: * If you want to know what's in these files, and who knows about them, check out SideLined, Chapter 15.

oOo

"What do you mean, he isn't available? I need to talk to him."

She stifled a laugh at the rather petulant tone, but knew her amusement would still be detected. "He's left strict instructions not to be disturbed. And yes, Sherlock, that includes even you."

"Ketavan…"

Despite the fact that he should not be using that name, she found the baritone delivering it was seductively silky, almost caressing. He gave it the correct Georgian pronunciation, too. Perhaps because her job and her identity were something she could not share with anyone else, it gave her a guilty pleasure that Sherlock not only knew it but used it, too, in defiance of his brother's instructions. But, she allowed her tone to become icy. "There is no one hear by that name," as she started to reach for the button on her desk phone that would terminate the call. It was a risky game that Sherlock was playing.

As if he could see her action, Sherlock interjected, "Don't hang up. Anthea, or whatever name you prefer. Fancy a naughty weekend away? Shall I buy us both a plane ticket to Tbilisi?"

"No. He's not gone there."

"I'm not suggesting that he has."

Ketavan smirked; he was playing the innuendo very well. Sherlock's acting skills had enabled him to take apart Moriarty's network, so she no longer underestimated what he was capable of doing. She'd been keeping her distance since Sherlock had taken her hostage in his attempt to get to the bottom of what had happened in Tbilisi. Those thirty six hours locked in one of his bolt holes had taught her a great deal of respect for the man she had once dismissed as merely her mentor's little brother. Unlike his brother, Sherlock could and would play on his sexual appeal to get his way.

"Stop trying to manipulate me, Sherlock. I am immune to your charms."

She hoped that he would be able to deduce from her voice that she was drawing a line across which she would not go. Their phone conversations recently had become slightly dangerous exchanges, a sort of teasing flirtation on the edges of what was acceptable.

Sherlock confirmed these conclusions by continuing, "However, these days just buying a ticket for the two of us would rattle the bars of his cage enough to get him to return my call."

Sherlock's threat was just the sort of thing to get through to Mycroft, and she knew that he would be relying on her to be his first line of defence. "There's no point, Sherlock. I know as well as you do that if you try to leave the country, he will spot it, and action will be taken."

"Oooh, you're getting good at threatening; almost as good as he is. Well, I suppose being around that kind of abuse of authority has a tendency to wear off on you. You can spare him from interruption just by telling me the truth. I know you know, so let's just cut to the chase." He'd lowered his baritone, and the effect was to make his voice even more seductive. It brought back the memory of his pinning her to the door of her flat, when he deduced the existence of the code book, the Shahnama.

"I can make no promises, but I will pass on the message that you want to talk to him."

There was a silence that somehow felt awkward to her.

"There's more, Keta, and it's important. Tell him my solicitor's office was broken into last night. A file was stolen, one that relates to …me."

He'd dropped the silky tone, and Ketavan heard the slight hesitation, wondering how to interpret it.

Then Sherlock continued, "I told Mycroft about this file three years ago; it's evidence regarding a decision taken by our parents. I specifically need to know if this theft was his idea, or whether this information is now in the hands of an unknown third party."

She thought that comment through, and decided to probe a bit deeper. "Do I take it that such a discovery would prove… difficult for either or both of you?"

"I don't know why it would be of interest to anyone other than the two of us. But, the fact that it alone was stolen out of all the contents in the man's office is…" He stopped, as if unsure what words to use, "…something he needs to know about, unless he was the perpetrator."

He hesitated again. "If so, if he did organise the theft, you tell him that I don't get the joke. The thief left a souvenir in the shape of a finger bone with a piece of turquoise string tied around it. So, if Mycroft wants me to remember something, he'd better tell me himself."

Knowing what she already knew about another turquoise string, Ketavan couldn't help but take an involuntary intake of breath at Sherlock's statement.

"I'll pass on the message, immediately."


Author's note: If you want to understand the significance of turquoise in Ford's message as well as why he would use turquoise ink in his fountain pen, then read Ex Files Chapter 9 Explosive.