Author's Note- your patience is rewarded- a double length episode that does much to explain the last three chapters! And reviews are REALLY appreciated, as your reaction to this chapter will influence much of what happens next!


Chapter Five: Seven Years Later (2002- Part Three)


Lestrade sighed as he came back out of the University College Hospital on Euston Street. It was almost 2am and he was shattered. A long day had turned into a longer night and he was feeling that horrible combination of tired beyond belief yet wired from too much caffeine. The Emergency Department had discharged the patient he had come to see. Damn, damn, damn. Tonight was going from bad to worse in a hurry.

He'd just spent a frustrating three and a half hours with the four suspects from Warner Yard's penthouse. All four had lawyered- and not just your run of the mill solicitors- these were the heavy brigade of the legal world, and they had made his head hurt. They were all claiming the same thing- that the young man was a cocaine dealer, who arrived high and carrying drugs he tried to sell them. It was a misunderstanding; no one had asked such a person to come to the flat, but when they tried to get him to leave, he threatened them with blackmail, saying he'd go to the police. When Balázs objected strenuously, the young man got physical with the wrong guy. When he realised that the Hungarian was much stronger than he was, he climbed over the balcony and fell while trying to escape. They claimed that they said nothing, becuase they'd done nothing wrong.

The SOC forensics team would have a go at the penthouse flat tomorrow morning. It was sealed off with police tape in the meantime, but Lestrade hoped that they'd be able to come up with something useful, because so far, there was nothing to say that their story wasn't the truth, apart from the beaten body of a young man lying in a hospital bed.

The lawyers for all but the Hungarian managed to finesse their release on bail- and Greg worried that he would have insufficient evidence to interest the Crown Prosecution Service in taking their cases forward. The Hungarian was in more trouble- the forensic evidence linked the bloody knuckles and his shirt with assault; the question was whether it was done through some form of self defence against a drug dealer, or a brutal beating of an innocent person. The other three bankers were confident that it was a misunderstanding that could be cleared up; they had not been in the room where the fight had taken place between the young man and the Hungarian, so could not comment on who had started it in the first place, or how it had ended. Those three had volunteered a drug test, which came up clear; only two of them were showing an alcohol level that would stop them from driving legally, but that was no crime when sitting in a penthouse. Instead, they argued that it was the police's job to prosecute the young man, and that they would provide evidence in a statement, should Lestrade require it.

Lestrade was tired, and annoyed. He'd had no choice but to release the three men and his case against the last banker was looking more tenuous by the minute, now that his chief witness on whom the case would now hang had just disappeared.

The junior doctor explained, "He discharged himself, Detective Inspector, about an hour after you left. We can only lead a horse to water; can't force them to drink, you know. If you thought he was a suspect, then you should have left a constable to keep an eye on him, or at least instructions to us not to release him."

She was right, and it annoyed the DI. "I don't suppose you took a drugs test?"

She frowned. "Why would we? He didn't appear to be under the influence, and we were more worried about X-rays to check for broken bones. There weren't any, by the way. Just a lot of contusions and a slight concussion."

Lestrade cursed. Without proof that the young man wasn't high, it would be his word against the bankers. He tried another tack with the doctor. "Did anyone collect him? Surely you wouldn't release a patient with concussion to be on his own?"

"He said he had someone at his flat able to keep an eye on him, so we had no choice."

There was an address- 46d, Montague Street, which was within walking distance. Fifteen minutes if you were healthy- God knows how long it would take if you were suffering from such a collection of bruises and a concussion. Please let this be a legitimate address. God, I hope he's there, or I am going to be in deep trouble.

The area around the University's medical centre was obviously gentrified, colonised by the young professionals who liked the 'mid-town' feel to the area, but by the time he'd walked south to Montague Street, the smart refurbished terraced houses had given way to the hordes of down-at-the-heel bed and breakfast hotels that clustered around the British Museum. 46 Montague Street was shabbier than most, showing definite need of a coat of paint and a bit of TLC. Given the number of buzzers, obviously bedsits, rather than proper flats. He pressed the one for flat d. No name on the doorbell. It was the sort of thing a policeman noticed.

At least someone was awake at thisungodly hour, as a few moments after he punched the buzzer, the electronic lock released. He pushed the front door open onto a dusty black and white tiled hallway. Two flights up the threadbare carpeted stairs, the DI found 46d, and knocked on the door. He had just lifted his hand to knock a second time when the door opened, and Greg saw how much the bruising had come out on Sherlock's face in the intervening hours.

"You look terrible."

The tall brunet tried to raise an eyebrow at that comment, but it obviously hurt, so he just winced. He silently gestured the DI into the room. Glancing around, Lestrade took it in almost instantly. A bare room- one sofa that probably had a pull-out bed, a rickety table and two chairs in the bay front window, a kitchen area with sink and one cabinet above and one below, a toaster, kettle, and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. There was a gas fire with a cheap fake pine mantel over it. Everywhere there was a pervasive scent of cigarette smoke, and Greg saw a lit one sitting smouldering in an ashtray on the table. The one other door in the room presumably went to a bathroom. In short, the basic bedsit refuge of the not quite down and out, but just above the level of homeless. Rent by the week, not the month; no questions asked. Lestrade had seen hundreds like it before, when investigating crimes. Usually the rooms held suspects, not victims, and that made the DI wary. Were the bankers right?

"You told the Emergency Department that you had someone at your flat to keep an eye on your concussion. Were you lying, or is there someone in the loo?"

Sherlock smirked. "I didn't say who it was, did I? He gestured to the mantel. "DI Lestrade meet Skull. Skull meet the police." Greg looked at the skull and realised it was real.

"Technically, that doesn't have an eye to keep on anything, just a socket." Greg looked at the young man and saw the evidence of the night's toll- he was obviously in pain, pale, a bit sweaty, and his clothes looked wrinkled and dirty. He didn't look high, but then it was almost seven hours after the dinner had started, so any drugs should have worn off by now.

Sherlock withstood the scrutiny and returned the look. "Actually, you don't look great yourself, Detective Inspector. You're knackered and frustrated, haven't eaten in hours and your wife is going to be really pissed off at you when you turn up at the crack of dawn, cold, tired and hungry. Not a great catch, marrying a policeman, is it?"

Greg stared at the young man, who continued, "and you are just dying for a smoke, despite trying to deal with her nagging at you to stop. Would you like one? If she's going to shout at you, then you might as well earn it by doing something you really want to do."

"How do you know about my wife?" he asked mildly as Sherlock handed him one out of the box on the table and tossed him the lighter.

"You weren't married seven years ago, but your ring looks well worn, so I estimate you've been married for about four or five years, going by the amount of soap film build up on the gold. Your shirt was ironed before you put it on this morning- tell-tale creases, even if you look now like you slept in it. So, she's putting up with you, even though the hours are not really social and she is getting impatient for children to keep her mind off how many nights you are on duty."

How the hell does he know that? It was the same sort of string of observations that he remembered being surprised about at the bar when he first saw Sherlock seven years ago. Now, however, instead of assessing a dead body, that forensic commentary was personal and directed at the Detective. Greg bristled. "That's enough about me, Mr Holmes. I am here to find out about you and your connection to the events of this evening. I'll take a statement, and then you and I are going to discuss the Islington murder."

"Forget the statement about Clerkenwell for the moment- that's just small beer, what you really need to know is the big picture. "

The DI turned to the briefcase he'd brought with him and started to reach in for his laptop.

"Oh, no need for that, since we last spoke, I've managed to liberate a much more interesting laptop from one of the suspects." Sherlock pointed to the open computer on the table in the window.

Greg looked perplexed. How had the injured man managed to obtain it?

"Oh, do keep up, Lestrade, really! Even you will recall that I was taken into hospital wrapped in nothing but a duvet, so I went back to Clerkenwell to recover my clothes. While I was there, I helped myself to the American's latest laptop. Fascinating, really useful."

"You crossed a police line and stole evidence? Mr Holmes, that is a criminal offence!"

"Don't be absurd. I have no other clothes here- and I can't say that the charity items the hospital provided were exactly pleasant, so I recovered what I was wearing before the beating. More important, you need to know what's on this laptop if you are going to hold them for any length of time, and build a proper case." He was watching Greg's face at this point, and then looked disappointed. "Oh, I see that you've already had that conversation and they've been released. That's rather annoying, isn't it?"

The older man just closed his eyes, and rubbed the back of his neck. "You have no idea, Mr Holmes."

The younger man was typing away on the keyboard. "Do me a favour, Lestrade; my name is Sherlock. When you call me 'Mr Holmes' it makes me wonder why you're talking to my brother."

That made the detective smile; he remembered Mycroft Holmes. "OK, Sherlock it is. Now do me a favour and tell me why I shouldn't arrest you now on the basis of what those bankers told me."

"Let me guess- they've accused me of doing something illegal- probably drug dealing-and when they tried to be good citizens, I attacked them. So, it's self-defence all round, is it? Or is the Hungarian admitting to a bit more physical engagement? After all, even you could see that he had physical evidence of an altercation on him."

"That may be so, Sherlock, but it's his word against yours about who started the fight."

"And I suppose he's saying that I ran away and threw myself over the balcony?"

"Something like that."

Sherlock sighed. "Idiots," he muttered. Lestrade wondered whether he meant the bankers, or the police. The brunet's next question made him realise that it was probably the police who he had in mind. "And did you ask them why I was naked, or had that slipped your mind?"

"The Hungarian said your 'companionship' – and yes, that was the word he used – had been arranged for the evening, and that there was nothing illegal about it between consenting adults. He didn't know you were high, selling drugs and planning on threatening them with blackmail. "

"And what do you think, Detective Inspector? Have you decided I am a suspect, rather than a victim?"

"You tell me, Sherlock."

The young man lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, and then started speaking quietly. "Their solicitors are very good at this, and you won't be able to make the forensic evidence work to convict the Italian, French and American - even though they were happy to watch their friend beat the crap me up. I didn't come with drugs; they were there before I arrived. They had enjoyed a little- probably not enough to show on a tox screen by the time your lot got around to it; only the Hungarian kept it going past the brief recreational appetiser before dinner. That said, the other three were more than happy to take their turns in the bedroom after dinner. Only the Hungarian liked it rough, and started going rather over the top. He had a stash in the bathroom, and powdered his nose, as the saying goes. That's when I nicked his phone and made the call to you. Then it went from bad to worse, and I decided that I had what I needed in terms of evidence, so I tried to escape. Unfortunately, as you will have guessed, he's a LOT bigger than me, and I wasn't able to get dressed again, before Szamuely 'helped' me out the patio doors onto the deck and tossed me over the side. Lucky for me, the fall was only down to the roof of the floor below. For all he knew it was a six floor drop to the street."

His strange grey-green eyes locked with Greg's brown eyes. "Yes, if this ever came to court, it would be his word against mine. He's a banker, and I am …living a rather less affluent life style, about which a jury would probably draw the wrong conclusions. But, fortunately, I did not go there tonight expecting to get a conviction against the four of them. I actually got what I wanted- information and a password that I needed."

Greg was listening from the sofa. He was frowning. "You would put yourself at risk because you thought these people were in some way connected to the Islington murder?" He looked confused.

Sherlock put his hand to his forward in disbelief. "Are you really that thick, or is it just exhaustion that is clouding your thinking? I've already said these four had nothing to do with the murder. No, Detective Inspector, you have to stop being so literal."

"Then explain it in words of one syllable, or I'm going to be annoyed enough to start believing those bankers that you are the criminal, not the victim." Greg let the sarcasm show, as well as the threat.

The young man stood up and stretched. "Right- step one, stop thinking small, Lestrade. What happened tonight is the tip of the iceberg. Yes- this evening's events involved four bankers, or rather three bankers and a hedge fund manager. Doesn't matter what bit of the financial world they come from, they all share one thing in common, and it is that they are members of something called the Pountney Club. Oh, and the murderers involved in Miles Stedman's death were also members."

"Just imagine this, Lestrade. You are the chief executive of an international bank or global financial firm. In your own home market, you are treated like a king. Everyone knows you. From concierge to maître de, from chief inspector to drug dealer or pimp. You know where to go, what to do, where to source your drugs, sex and rock and roll when you've just clinched the deal of a lifetime. But, take that same person overseas, put him in a place like London, where so much international deal making takes place, and that same kingpin is a nobody. Doesn't know how to source his favourite fun safely, or where to party without fear of being busted.

"So, the Pountney Club was formed to meet those needs. Members include central bank chairmen from all the major financial zones, bank CEOs, MDs from insurance companies, hedge funds, corporate lawyers, you name it. All you need is two personal recommendations from existing members and one hell of a hefty bank balance. Once you're in, then whenever you arrive in London, all your needs are looked after. Cars, private flats, women, men, sex, drugs, whatever. Trouble is, when bankers party, people can get hurt, crimes can be committed. Oh, good news- the club looks after that, too."

"Miles Stedman was a student at my university who, like me, ended up not graduating. He was an addict with expensive tastes, and made contact with one of the people running the Pountney Club. He supplied the drugs and was the dinner guest at a rather raucous party run for a group of Russian bankers, only he never made it out alive. When the bankers realised he was dead, they bolted and called the club. The crime scene was cleaned up and the body dumped. Your first problem is that you can't find out who this Miles Stedman is- all you've got is the ID that you are now beginning to think is fake. And you have made no progress on the case because you can't find the scene of the original crime."

Lestrade just listened in growing fascination. "How the hell did you figure this out? What kind of evidence have you got?"

"It helps that I know Miles Stedman isn't his real name; he changed it when he left university, because his family disowned him. So, I knew who to look for, under his real name, Eduardo Riguez, when it came to tracing his movements after he left Cambridge. Went to his flat, had a nose around, found a couple of references in a diary, then a business card from the club."

Lestrade just looked at the young man's bruised face. "So, you just decided to do the same? Put yourself forward as what? A posh rent boy?" Greg remembered the original crime scene when he first met Sherlock.

"I can play the part convincingly, so the Pountney Club took me onto their books. The Clerkenwell flat was my first gig, actually. But it was enough to get me into the presence of four members- and access to that laptop. Using ther American's password, I've located the club's system and hacked into it. That's what I've been doing while you've been getting the run-around from their solicitors."

"And how did you know his password?" His eyebrows rose incredulously.

Sherlock just snorted. "Passwords are like walnuts- easy to crack open if you know how and what to look for, detective. If you want proof, just let me at the laptop in your briefcase. If it's yours, I bet you a £100 I can get into it within five minutes. The Pountney Club's internal database was trickier- that took me almost 40 minutes."

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I know, detective, not terribly legal. Doesn't matter. Armed with a warrant you can now get the info legally under the Data Protection Act, and arrest the club organisers for being accessories to three murders, multiple instances of rape and assault and literally hundreds of drugs and under-aged sex offences- all neatly covered up."

"Will any of it stand up in court? I've just spent three hours with a batch of lawyers that could get a serial killer off, so how can you be sure this will work?"

"I'm not an idiot, detective. The club kept meticulous files on its clients' misdemeanour, all useful protection and maybe even blackmail material. While you were faffing about with lawyers, I have spent the time gutting that database for all the evidence you'll need." He held up a USB stick.

"I'm handing this to you on a plate, Lestrade. It should make your career."

"Why would you want to do that?"

The young man looked up at Greg. "Why not?"

"I mean it, Sherlock. What's in this for you? Why would you nearly get yourself killed to uncover this crime network? How was Miles Stedman important to you?"

A slow smiled dawned on Sherlock's face. He pushed himself back from the table and crossed his arms. "You think that I'm involved with Stedman's cocaine dealing. That's why you're hesitating."

He smirked, and then leant forward to type something into the laptop, before turning it sideways so Lestrade could see the screen that was opening. "My alibi for the night that Stedman died- I was at a chemistry lecture at Imperial College". He gestured toward the screen. "There's the organiser's name; give him a call, if you want verification." The young man continued, "You can rest your conscience, Detective Inspector. I scarcely knew Eduardo at University, and had no contact with him after he changed his name to Miles. No, I did this because I got curious about the circumstances around his death. I solved the crime, because I could. It's what I enjoy doing. I showed you my aptitude at that crime scene where we first met. You could say it's a passion of mine."

The DI gave that some thought. His mind kept returning to that moment when he looked over the balcony at the bundle on the roof below, wrapped in the bloodied duvet. "Most people your age have normal hobbies- you know, following a football team, dancing at a club, chasing girls; why do you think that infiltrating a crime network is a suitable pastime?"

"I intend doing this as a career, a sort of consulting detective. I solved your first case after your promotion to Sergeant, and now I am about to solve another for you – or, rather, lots more, once your team is able to match up the data with your cold cases files. I would have thought that would be enough to convince you that I am worth consulting."

"The Met does not consult external people."

"Yes, you do- you regularly hire profilers."

"That's different. They're criminal psychologists."

"I'm a specialist, too. And, evidently, I am able to do things that your people are unable to do."

The older man sat down on the sofa, and rubbed his eyes. "I don't suppose you have any coffee?"

Sherlock's grey eyes just bore into him for a moment. Then without a word, he got up and went to the sink, filled the kettle and switched it on. He washed one of the dirty mugs and pulled out of the cupboard a jar of instant coffee. A few moments later, he handed the detective a mug. "I don't take milk in my coffee, so there's none in the flat."

"That's OK; I drink it black, too." Sherlock lit another cigarette and handed it over to the detective, who took it gratefully and pulled in a long drag of smoke.

Lestrade said quietly, "I don't know a thing about you. I have no idea what you've been up to for the past seven years, and nothing at all about what put you in that bar at sixteen, high as a kite, and living homeless. Last time I saw you, you were being escorted out of the station by your scary brother and probably headed for a lengthy stay in an institution. Does he know where you are?"

"Leave him out of it. I make my own way now. You want a potted history? OK- after you ratted me out to my brother, I spent six months in rehab, and then went to Cambridge to read Chemistry. Bored me witless, so I didn't finish the degree, left after my second year. I worked in a number of forensic labs for a while, including Hitchingbrooke Park at Huntington. To be honest, the work was as excruciatingly boring as the studying had been. Chemistry helps, but too many crime scene officers don't understand crime. I do. It's what I do best. As this evening's work shows, detective."

"And the drugs? Are you clean now?"

Sherlock looked at him carefully. "At the moment. Whether I stay that way depends on how bored I get. Give me an opportunity to work with you and I won't be bored."

Greg wondered whether he was so tired that the idea was beginning to sound appealing. He needed this case to turn out well- and any remote chance that there could be a breakthrough in the Islington murder on offer sounded very attractive indeed. His clear up rate had been adequate, but not brilliant. At his last appraisal, the Detective Chief Inspector had made it plain. "You need a little magic, Lestrade. Being a safe pair of hands is all well and good when you start out, but it's time to show a little initiative." That had stung Greg; he worked hard, and resented being seen as pedestrian.

"Can you really deliver the proof to close down this network?" The DI sounded tired, but a little frustrated, too. Then he straightened up. "Actually, that laptop is evidence and I can just take it away from you now and get my people to unlock the data, get a warrant for this Pountney Club and obtain the stuff myself."

Sherlock glowered. "You don't get this, do you? Your 'people' aren't smart enough to put it together, connect up the dots, draw the right conclusions. They ask all the wrong questions and look in the wrong places for answers. If you agree that I can work with you on this case, then I'm willing to share with you my own work where I've drawn the links between the club and over thirty unreported crimes over the past four years. Oh, and a list of the three hundred and twenty three members of the club. In London alone, there is enough evidence to make over thirty arrests- and you can win brownie points with your colleagues in New York, Tokyo, Frankfurt and Singapore- where their nationals have been involved in crimes committed here in London."

Lestrade was startled by the scale of what the young man was revealing. "That sounds like Christmas come early. Really, it sounds too good to be true. While I might be interested in getting your opinion on this case, you know we couldn't pay you. And once the case was over, there can't be any guarantees of any other work. It's not a living, Sherlock."

Sherlock was tired, too- and sore. He waved his hand dismissively- "I don't care about payment; that doesn't matter. I care about the work." He looked down at the floor, sighed and ran his hands through his unruly hair a couple of times, in frustration. "What can I say or do to prove to you that this will be successful, Lestrade?"

The DI drank the dregs of his mug of coffee. "Well, if you can figure out how to get these four bastards from Clerkenwell to face the music, then that's a start."

Sherlock sat up, suddenly energised. "Oh, is that all? That's easy. Here's how you do it…."