Chapter Four: Seven Years Later (2002 Part Two)


"You have questions."

Lestrade looked at the bruised face, the eye that was almost swollen shut, and wondered where the calm words came from. Most of the victims he'd rescued from the kind of beating that the young man had sustained would be crying in pain, disoriented, confused and certainly not up for any serious questioning. He'd learned over the years that most of what was said in the aftermath of such an assault would be unusable.

"Yeah, let's start with an odd one. I know you, don't I? You seem familiar."

There was a soft snort. "You have a poor memory if seven years is enough to make you forget a face."

"Hmm. Well, the face I'm looking at now isn't exactly a pretty sight, you'll have to admit. You don't need a mirror; the pain should tell you what you look like. So unless you were battered half to death last time we met, I need some more clues."

"Your first crime scene as DS officer in charge, a pub with a dead Ukrainian that everyone thought was a murdered Russian."

Oh. Last seen as a skinny sixteen year old, the man on the bed was now a good seven inches taller. "Give me a break; you were only a kid."

No reply. "So, what's your name then?" The boy he brought back to the station in 1994 had been picked up by an older brother, a remarkably calm twenty three year old, immaculately dressed. Lestrade remembered that.

"You really can't remember the name?"

"Give me a break." The detective inspector ran his hand over his tired eyes. "I've arrested hundreds of people since then, interviewed ten times as many people. If I could dig out my notebook from that long ago, I'd find you, never fear."

A smile quirked the left side of the young man's bloodied lip. "Lars Sigerson?"

Oh, that was the fake ID. "Now I remember! Holmes, isn't it?"

"Well, you've had a daily reminder staring you in the face since 1986. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry Service*. Can you remember the first name?"

"Your brother's was easier- Mycroft. That stuck; don't know why, but it did."

The young man's smile vanished. "That's because he's such a smug git. He always leaves an impression."

"Sher…no, not Sherman, something else- yes, got it now- Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, that was amusing. Got anything of any real significance to ask, or are you just passing the time of day?" His eyes closed.

Lestrade found himself smiling. "Well, seven years hasn't improved your patience any, that's clear. I distinctly remember you being a sarky bastard back then, too."

The young man on the bed did not reply.

"So, want to tell me what you were doing in a penthouse getting the shit beaten out of you?"

"Investigating a crime- the Islington murder to be precise. Something your lot has singularly failed to make any progress on over the past four weeks."

Lestrade blinked. Since when does a civilian investigate a crime? "So, tell me why would someone like you do such a thing?"

"I knew Miles Stedman- that's the Islington victim, in case your memory is as bad with his name as it was with mine. It bothered me that you idiots weren't connecting any of the dots as to how and why he was murdered."

"So, you're suggesting that the guys that beat you up had something to do with it?"

"Nope."

Lestrade looked a bit nonplussed. "Then you made a mistake and they got bolshie about it?"

"No."

The DI now looked confused. "Are you making no sense at all because you're suffering from concussion? Should I come back tomorrow when you are more coherent?"

The tall brunet sighed. "Bring me a laptop and I will show you why you are an idiot; you're asking the wrong questions, Detective Inspector."

"I'm not sure I have time for playing twenty questions, Mr Holmes. I have four suspects in the station, and I need to make sure that we've collected the forensic evidence to convict them of GBH and drug abuse. Do I really need this aggro tonight?"

"Oh, go ahead, then. Confirm my worst expectations of you, pass up the opportunity to solve the Islington murder and the chance to wrap up at least a dozen other cold cases that have been sitting collecting dust in New Scotland Yard and the City of London's police HQ for the past four years. Or, you could bring me a laptop and let me show you just how wrong you are."

Greg looked at the beaten body lying on the bed. Seven years ago, the kid had proved to be right about the Ukrainian's death, and that alone made him curious to know more. On the other hand, he had enough to make a case, which is what he was paid to do. Why should he waste more time here tonight? Yet, the man lying in the bed was the victim, and his statement would need to be taken. He could send a constable to do just that, or come back later himself. Lestrade decided.

"OK, just hold that thought. I'll be back later tonight, with a laptop and I will take your formal statement then, once I've done what I need to do back at the station."


*author's note- believe it or not, this is true. The Home Office Large Major Enquiry Service (affectionately known as HOLMES2 is in use today by the Metropolitan Police force. It's a huge databse of crimes and suspects and used everyday to solve cases.