Chapter Six: Seven Years Later (2002- Part Four)


Sherlock was right. Lestrade had gone home, had a shower, changed his clothes, ate breakfast and kissed his wife, who complained that he still smelled of cigarette smoke. Then he returned to the station and called in the four financiers- with their lawyers in tow. The American, Italian and French suspects were all put into separate interview rooms. The Italian was questioned first. Rather than go over the same ground as last night, Lestrade took a different tack.

"Mister Vanucci, I have sworn testimony here from a person with whom you spent time last night, about your activities- which include ingesting illegal substances, and being an accessory to grievous bodily harm. I do not intend sending this to the Crown Prosecution Service. Instead, I will be taking the file to the Financial Services Authority, as it may suggest that you are not a fit person under the terms of the Financial Services and Markets Act for a position of such responsibility in your bank. I am sure that they will be taking up the issue with your bank's other board members, and possibly your home regulator. If, however, you were prepared to give us evidence about the Pountney Club, I am prepared to reconsider sending the file to the FSA."

The Italian chairman looked stunned. He turned to his lawyer briefly, and then asked Lestrade to agree to a short recess so he could confer with his advisor. Ten minutes later, he agreed to spill the beans. The other two did the same when Lestrade explained that the Italian had taken the easy way out.

The Hungarian was dealt with more harshly. He was told the file would be passed to the British banking authorities, and that he would most likely be asked to leave London, if not prosecuted. If he was sensible, he would take the next flight out and not ever return.

In exchange, rather than risk their careers, all four agreed to give statements regarding the Pountney Club. Their testimony was sufficient to get Lestrade the warrant he needed to raid the Club's office, and to confiscate PCs and data about their activities both legal and illegal on behalf of their members.

Thereafter, events moved swiftly. A joint task force was set up bringing Lestrade's homicide team together with members of the Met's SECC Intelligence Unit. On the first day the task force met, Lestrade was accompanied by a young man, a tall brunet with unruly hair and an uncanny sense of being able to ask the right question, or make a statement that was so off-the-wall that it made the entire team re-think their assumptions. And he came armed with a set of thirty unreported cases. After investigation by the team, twelve of the twenty victims agreed to press charges.

Thanks to his help, getting the papers ready only took three weeks. As they prepared to pass the files for almost seventy cases, including seventeen homicides, to the Crown Prosecution Service, Lestrade took Sherlock aside into his office to thank him for working with them. "Couldn't have done this without you. I'm going to be pretty busy for the next couple of months, though, tying up the loose ends and making sure the court cases are supported. So, I'm not going to be doing anything new for a while."

"Boring," was the only reply.

Lestrade then invited Sherlock to the case "wash up" with the task force, about to adjourn to the pub for the evening, but the young man declined, saying he had "other things to do." Lestrade watched him clear up his papers, put on his scarf and long coat, and then disappear without a backward glance.

After a few congratulatory rounds at the pub, Greg basked in the afterglow of a job well done. It had taken the Yard by surprise, the extent of the network, and the quality of the evidence they had presented. He realised that his career would never be the same when the DCI arrived with the Assistant Commissioner, who insisted on buying a round for the team.

"Well done, Lestrade; this is a real breakthrough, and I'm really proud of you."

Greg looked a little uncomfortable. "I've had a lot of help on this one, Sir. It's been a case of real team work, and it would never have even got started if it wasn't for our first break." He was about to explain how Sherlock had been the key, when the DCI interrupted. "Of course, Lestrade, it's always teamwork that wins the day, and it's modest of you to want to share the glory."

The Assistant Commissioner jumped in, too. "I'm sorry that I've got to run now- a reception with the Mayor of London- so duty calls, but I just wanted you to know that your work has done the Force proud." He shook hands with Lestrade and then was off.

A little worse for the drink, Lestrade decided to walk a while before getting the tube home, and his path took him up Montague Street. As he came up the road, about a fifty yards ahead he saw Sherlock and another youth talking on the pavement outside Number 46. Something was passed between the two men, and Sherlock disappeared through the front door. A few moments later, the young man passed Lestrade, who glanced at his face. His pupils were hugely dilated. High as a kite, and probably dealing cocaine, too. When he rang the doorbell for Flat d, there was no reply. Lestrade sighed and carried on up the road.

In the weeks after, arrests followed, and the Crown Prosecution Service got to work. Lestrade texted Sherlock a few times, tried phoning only to get put through to voice mail. A week later, ringing the number simply got a recording, "The number you are calling is no longer in service." A day later when he tried stopping by the flat again, a young woman was leaving the building as he arrived. He asked if she had seen the bloke in Flat d.

"Which one? The tall guy with dark hair? Nah, he left a couple of weeks ago. There's an old guy in there now- snores so loud the couple in the room next door complained to the landlord last week." Neither she nor the landlord had a forwarding address or contact details.

Over the next seven months lawyers were briefed, court dates set, preliminary hearings held. In time, prosecutions were made, convictions secured. And across the world, a number of important bankers and senior financiers decided to take early retirement. And Greg found himself wondering whether Sherlock cared. He decided that the enigmatic young man would probably find it all rather boring. And he felt sad at that.