CHAPTER 17: GOOD M...URDER!

* * * Quick Author's Note. A little advice: if you can, listen to Lacrimosa, an amazing piece from The Requiem by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I'd recommend the Youtube video of David Garrett performing the piece on the violin. It would let you immerse in the atmosphere of the beginning of this chapter.

Several days later, Giulia enters the flat following the plaintive violin tune coming from upstairs.

"Good morning!" she cheerfully exclaims as she steps into the living room and waves at John sitting in his armchair.

"Look who's in a good mood!" she ironically adds nodding at Sherlock who is playing the violin standing near the window, with his back facing her.

The heart-wrenching notes of the Requiem composed by Mozart fill up the room making the atmosphere gloomy and sorrowful. She bends down to whisper in John's ear, "What happened?"

He shrugs and looks up at her, "He's simply depressed. He hasn't had a proper case in a week and this is driving him crazy. So, here he is: officially celebrating the death of his own mind," he replies sipping his tea.

"Oh, I see," she looks at the absorbed violinist seemingly unaware of their presence. "And what will happen when a big case finally pops up? Will he spring across the room playing the Ode to Joy by Beethoven?" she jokes.

John chuckles, "Probably."

At that moment, the bow slides harshly along the strings, and the music immediately stops. Sherlock turns around and whines, "You two distracted me!"

"You were the one who turned breakfast into a funeral," Giulia retorts.

He sighs, places his violin on the table and walks back and forth across the living room. She observes his movements with a scowl. Her eyes scan his arms in search of some signs of narcotics. However, he is wearing a long-sleeved gown, so it is impossible to say whether he is on drugs or simply having a nervous breakdown.

"I want a case. Give me a case!" he bursts out sinking down into his armchair.

Right when John and Giulia exchange an exasperated look, Sherlock's phone starts ringing.

"What a coincidence!" the girl exclaims excitedly.

"Coincidences don't exist. The universe isn't so lazy," the detective rebuts looking at the lit screen.

"It means the universe has listened to your prayers, then."

He takes the call and puts it on speakerphone. "Lestrade? What do you have for me?"

"Hello Sherlock," the unmistakable voice of the DI of Scotland Yard crackles from the device. "I am fine. Thank you for asking: it's very kind of you," he adds sarcastically.

"The whole point of my gruff manner and clipped replies is to skip the small talk, but you don't get it, apparently. Now, please, hurry up. I'll give you two minutes to show me that you have something worthy of my time."

"A strange thing has happened to me today," Greg starts off nervously.

"What is it about? You were able to solve a crime all by yourself?" Sherlock mocks him.

They distinctly hear Greg sigh on the other end of the line. "I've run across a new, mysterious case. Death on the Alpes."

"No, please. Don't give cases a title as John does. You are not a blogger, for God's sake. You are a detective inspector — even if you wouldn't deserve such an appellation," Sherlock bitterly remarks.

"Whatever. There's a dead man here, Sherlock."

"Here? Why are you investigating a crime scene on the Alpes? I'm pretty sure it doesn't fall within your division. What are you doing up there, Lestrade?"

"I'm on holiday."

"It seems that your work constantly haunts you. Maybe you should try to go a little further next time," the detective makes fun of him.

"Please!" Lestrade begs on the phone.

"Fine. So, somebody died on a mountain. What's interesting about that?"

"To begin with, we cannot identify him. I didn't find any ID, mobile phone, credit cards: nothing. No one seems to have ever met him; he was alone, and nobody has been reported missing yet."

"You keep missing the point, Lestrade: why should I be involved? You're running out of time: two minutes nearly expired," he informs the officer in a bored tone.

"Wait!" Lestrade shouts out panicking.

"Alright, here's the thing: you're a detective of Scotland Yard who has just found an unidentified corpse. I'm sure you could work something out with the local police, and yet you decided to phone me. So I suggest you cut to the chase, now. Inspector, why do you think this is murder?"

"I don't. It's fairly obvious it was an accident: this guy unwisely went off the ski slope trying to make his way through the trees toward the bottom of the valley, but he fell down and slammed his head on a rock," Greg reports in detail.

"What was the point in phoning me, then?" Sherlock mumbles starting to lose his patience.

"I found a piece of paper on the body, with handwriting on it: just a name and a phone number."

"Here we go: you're finally delivering relevant information," the detective rubs his hands together expectantly. "Do you recognise the name?"

"I sure do," Greg clears his throat awkwardly. "It's yours."

Greg's words linger in the silent room. The detective, the doctor and the girl stand still and exchange shocked looks.

"My number and name. It'd seem that this poor devil wanted to contact me," he suggests tilting his head. "I believe it's too late now. I already have a lot of clients, most of whom are alive and really annoying. I gotta go," he hastily dismisses the problem, earning reproachful stares from both his flatmates.

"Hold on a second," the DI intervenes. "There's a problem, though: this isn't your number."

Sherlock's head jerks up, "What did you say?"

"This isn't the number I know. Are you using another one at the moment?" Greg asks.

"I've just answered your call — terrible idea, by the way. How could I possibly have changed my number?" he blurts out rubbing a hand on his face in front of the impossible incoherence of that question.

Lestrade sighs, "I mean, have you bought a new SIM card recently or used someone else's phone, maybe?"

"No. Why do you keep asking?"

"Because I find it strange. Don't you?"

"He might have made a mistake; perhaps he was in a hurry and wrote it wrong," John chimes in for the first time.

"Impossible," the inspector immediately replies. "He could have made one mistake, two at most. But I can assure you this number is an entirely different one."

Sherlock freezes as a sudden realisation strikes him, "Because I'm not the receiver of the call. I should be the caller."

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock folds his hands together and props his chin on them, "Lestrade, just think: he didn't want to call me. He wanted me to call someone using that number."

Nobody dares to move or respond as he paces across the room, lost in thought. "Dead. Why is he dead?" he talks to himself and immediately stops in his tracks exclaiming in vague excitement, "He's been murdered."

Giulia and John stare at him with vacant looks on their faces. He meets their void gazes and exhales in annoyance. "The message has been planted on the dead man's body by his killer. Quite the informed murderer, by the way, since he knew that Lestrade was there and would be drawn to investigate the matter, given his job. The killer took everything into consideration and exploited the fact that he is an inspector of Scotland Yard who knows me."

"Everybody knows you," John points out.

"Yet somehow the killer knew that only this officer would willingly call me asking for an explanation. He is two moves ahead of us," Sherlock ponders intrigued.

"Alright, Sherlock, slow down! What killer?" Greg asks even more confused.

"His killer. It wasn't an accident. And I guess that deep down you've always known."

The D.I. breathes out, "Will you help me identify him now?"

"How? I'm currently in London, in case you'd forgotten."

"But maybe we could be of some use even from here," Giulia timidly intervenes.

Sherlock turns toward her as a glint of curiosity glimmers in his eyes, "What are you suggesting?"

She grins and speaks up towards the phone, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah?" he asks surprised by the sound of a female voice coming from the other end of the line.

"Hi, it's Giulia."

"Hey, Giulia. I had no idea you were listening to the conversation this whole time."

"I can try to help if you want. And I promise I won't implicate myself in another murder, this time," she jokes around.

"Fine by me. I'm all ears," he promptly replies.

"Could you describe to me what the victim is wearing?"

"A basic, plain snowsuit; nothing special about it. It's what everyone wears up here."

She nods, "Of course, quite inevitable given the cold weather. And did you check all his pockets?"

"I did. There was absolutely nothing — except for the piece of paper I've just mentioned," Greg comments without hiding his despondency.

"May I know where this is going?" Sherlock scowls at her.

"Just trust me," she winks at him.

"I find it quite hard," he snaps back. She looks daggers at him and focuses again on the inspector. "Detective Lestrade..."

"Call me Greg," he interrupts her with a softer voice.

"Alright, Greg, do me a favour: check both of his sleeves. Just above the forearm, before the wrist, there should be a small hidden pocket. More likely on the left sleeve, if memory serves me correctly," she instructs him.

John and Sherlock frown at her, unaware of her intentions. There's a little commotion on the line and they clearly hear Lestrade huff and puff while fumbling about in the snow.

"You were right," he says triumphantly. "Left sleeve, over his forearm. Remarkable," he compliments her.

"Great. Now open it: you're supposed to find his ski pass," she guides him.

"There it is. Right again," Lestrade confirms.

"How exactly does it help us?" John inquires.

"I'm confident that it contains the answers to all our questions. First of all, there must be the victim's name printed on it. Secondly, we'll get to know when the pass was issued and when it expires. So, basically, it tells us how long he was planning to stay on the Alpes."

"That's it?" Sherlock asks seemingly unimpressed even though his eyes are captivated by her undeniable skills.

"I think it is far more information than I expected to find, by the way," Lestrade's voice spreads out from the phone.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock addresses Giulia with an inquiring look.

"I have gone skiing since I was five. I'm very familiar with ski slopes, snowsuits and everything related to that environment. That's how I knew that he could have never been able to reach the top of the mountain and the beginning of the slope without a ski pass; otherwise, he couldn't go through the turnstiles allowing access to the ski lifts."

"Let me get this straight: everyone has to swipe a ski pass at the turnstile before getting on every ski lift on the slopes, correct?" John struggles to understand.

"Exactly. I'm pretty sure that a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard will be able to find enough cooperation from the operators of the lifts to use the man's ski pass to trace the victim's movements on the slopes before his death," Giulia affirms.

"If swiping the pass at the turnstiles is compulsory, the man must have used it to get to the very place where he is lying now. This means that we can determine the exact time of his death," Sherlock points out smirking. "Brilliant."

"Thank you," Giulia gives him a smug smile.

He frowns, "I wasn't actually..."

"I know, I know: Sherlock Holmes doesn't praise other human beings," she sneers rolling her eyes.

"But I do. Thank you very much, Giulia. You've been a huge help," Greg remarks from the phone, "Now I have to carry on with the investigation."

"I need the phone number written on the note," Sherlock demands firmly before he can hang up. The inspector dictates the number as the detective jots it down.

"Have a good day everyone!" and with that, Greg ends the call.

Sherlock grabs his phone and begins to digit on it.

"What are you doing?" John grimaces.

"What do you think?" Sherlock raises a brow at him.

"You can't be serious. You can't phone a killer," the doctor protests.

"It wouldn't even be the first time," he shrugs smirking as he remembers their very first case together when he made John phone Jennifer Wilson's killer. John's mind goes back in time too, and he shakes his head with a small sigh.

"And what do you plan on telling him?" Giulia asks.

"Invite him over for tea, maybe?" the detective sarcastically replies while putting the phone up to his ear. He takes some steps and walks away from them looking for a quiet corner in the flat.

In the meantime, someone opens the call but doesn't speak.

"Hello?" Sherlock ventures.

"Mr Holmes, I'm so glad you found my message and understood my intentions."

How could he know the identity of the caller? Sherlock wonders, then he logically concludes: easy, he is using his personal number, the one that anyone could find on his website 'The Science of Deduction'.

"They were crystal clear. Who are you?"

"A shadow from the past."

"My past?" Sherlock furrows his brow.

"Each and every person that crosses our path leaves a mark," the voice replies ominously.

"It would seem that we have already met, then," Sherlock infers.

"We have. And you definitely marked my life. So here I am, on your path again. But this time things will go differently. This time I will be unforgettable."

"A note on a corpse, a veiled threat on the phone, some history between us... This is all very fascinating. But unluckily, I don't deal with shadows; they are too evanescent. Very sorry. Bye-bye!" he cuts it short.

"Don't worry. I'll be sure to become a very concrete presence in your life, Mr Detective of Baker Street."