Chapter Twelve- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Four


"You're looking tired, Guv. Busy weekend?" DS Sally Donovan looked at the bags under her boss's eyes and worried a little. Usually, when Lestrade took a weekend off, it meant he returned to work refreshed and re-energised, happy to get stuck into work again.

"Nope." The monosyllabic reply caught her off guard. Even when he was grumpy, Lestrade didn't clam up, so something was definitely not right.

She started to open her mouth again.

"Just leave it, Donovan, I'm not in the mood."

Definitely not right. Lestrade did not talk about his private life at work, but she worried that something might have happened at home to put him in this mood.

He looked at her sternly. "I want you to organise a full team meeting in a half hour- everyone, including the forensic boys and girls. We're re-opening ten old cold cases; I've got new leads."

When he got into his office, he opened his brief case and pulled out the pile of files. Twelve of the coldest cases his team had managed to fail to solve over the past five years, and he now had real leads and lines of enquiry on ten of them, and could close the other two. To say the weekend had been difficult would be an understatement, but that didn't mean it wasn't productive.

He closed his tired eyes, and drank from his coffee. His desk at New Scotland Yard was clear of anything personal, apart from one framed photo of Louise, which he glanced at now. She would be landing back at Gatwick at 3.45pm, and wanted him to come home early, "if possible; I know you can't predict when a murderer might strike, but it would be nice to think that you will have missed me." He decided that there was no way in hell he was going to tell her about his 'house guest'. If she asked what he had got up to over the weekend, he'd tell her everything about the motor bike jaunt, the cold cases on Sunday- but not that he'd shared the experience with a tall lanky young man with a drug problem.

Before he briefed the team, he needed to call the morgue. He'd promised Sherlock that he would get him access to a body that was reported on Friday morning- a John Doe fished out of the Thames at St Katharine's Dock near Tower Hill. The autopsy report should be ready, and Greg wanted his professional opinion as to whether it merited investigation as a homicide or a suicide. After this weekend, Lestrade had no qualms about asking him to do this.

"Brilliant!" was the reply and Sherlock's face had lit up like a Christmas tree. Lestrade gave a sigh of relief; it was a way to get him out of the flat with something to think about other than where to go to get another hit.

When he emerged from his office fifteen minutes later, it was to a full duty room. The officers looked expectant, so Lestrade decided to tell them upfront what he was feeling.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave them a scowl. "You …are a bloody useless lot." There were a few uncertain faces at that, a couple of sideways glances between them.

"I've spent the weekend going through twelve of the oldest, coldest cases we've got on file, and the only conclusion I can draw from the experience is that you are going to have to raise your game. If the reputation of this team were to be based on your performance on these cases, then we'd have to pay back some of the wages you've been banking over the past five years. Now, I know that some of you have joined the team since these cases were filed as 'cold', but that's no excuse. We've had plenty of quiet times when you were encouraged to revisit these files. "

There were a few rumbles in the back, quiet snatches of conversation between team members.

"Don't believe me? OK, let me walk you through the twelve cases I checked out on Sunday, in descending order of stupidity. We'll start by taking the one in 1998, where the body of Harry Jameson ended up on the roof of a block of flats in Hackney. He was beaten to hell and gone. No suspect, no ideas. Remember that one?" He glared at Anderson, the chief forensics officer –both then and now. "A simple look around the crime scene would have revealed how the body got there. Look at this photo and tell me what you see." He projected it from his laptop onto the incident room's whiteboard. Silence fell.

Greg just looked them. He put his hand to his forehead in disbelief. "You really don't see it, do you?!" No one made a sound.

"OK- prepare to feel foolish. Take a look at the apartment block next door. That one…" he gestured to it. "See the crane? This is a suicide guys, not a homicide. Harry had gambling problems but wanted to leave his wife with some insurance money, so he took the easy way out, but did it so no one would be the wiser to his topping himself. The Monday morning construction team started up the crane as usual without thinking about the body on the roof below, which they wouldn't have been able to see, swung the crane back into action. And you never even thought about it when the body was discovered up there on Tuesday."

He raised another folder up and shook it at them. "Here's another accidental death that was wrongly attributed as a homicide. Anderson, I want you to pick that one up, and close it properly this time." He then gestured to the pile of ten folders left on the table in front of him. "There are ten folders left. Divide them up between you and read the notes inside. Every last one of these has new leads to be followed up, and tracked down, because one or more of you missed something crucial. I want a report from you by four o'clock today on progress." And with that, he walked out, leaving a room of stunned detectives behind.

"Flipping heck, Sally! Lestrade's wife should go away more often if he's going to do that kind of work when he's on his own." This came from DI Gregson, whose eyes widened as he digested the note at the front of the Robert Jones file. "The car valet? Who would have thought it? You and I've got our work cut out for us, trying to dig him up after six years."

From behind the blinds in his office, Lestrade watched with a grin as the various officers picked through the files and got to work. He wished that Sherlock could have been here to see their looks of incredulity. On the other hand, he was glad that the young man was happily ensconced in the morgue, puzzling over a cadaver. He might not have been able to cope with the smugness of Sherlock's smile otherwise.

By lunchtime, the room was buzzing with officers coming in and out; phones were going, and the white board had been commandeered to list each of the ten cases, with officers assigned, leads listed and status updates being made. It was a hive of industry that made Lestrade smile.

He decided to celebrate by going for a sandwich at his favourite place in St James. On his way, he texted Sherlock.

12.38pm Noses to grindstone here, much embarrassment. Any progress at Barts?

12.39pm Fascinating! Homicide suspected; will advise on progress when I get the corroborating evidence from crime scene. SH

12.40pm WHAT crime scene?!

12.41pm Based on tide and current patterns, body dumped in Thames at Blackfriars; tar on body traced to construction site at Rennie Street. Taking samples now. SH

12.42pm SHERLOCK! Don't touch anything! I'm calling a forensics team in now.

12.42pm Who, the idiots who can't tell a suicide from a homicide? SH

Before Lestrade could hit the speed dial for the office, his phone pinged again.

12.43pm Don't worry. I'm done here. I'll bring it to NSY.

By now, Greg was standing in the middle of the pavement looking at his phone in disbelief. For that reason alone, he did not spot the two men who approached behind him, until one of them placed his hand on the detective's shoulder. He spun around, startled, and looked into the cold eyes of a suited man. With a copper's instincts, he knew that the man was carrying a concealed weapon.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, your presence is required. Do please get into the car." He gestured to the black car that pulled up to where they were standing.

Greg looked at the two of them. "Who are you?" he asked mildly, but he already had a suspicion he knew. He recognised the second man from Friday's attempt to corral Sherlock. One of Mycroft Holmes' 'minions', as Sherlock would say.

"My name doesn't matter. You met the man I work for some eight years ago when he collected his brother from your police station. You'd best oblige us by coming quietly."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I have been authorised to advise you that the next call he makes will be to the Detective Assistant Commissioner, who will ensure that you do comply."

Greg sighed. No point in raising everyone's blood pressure. He raised his hand in defeat. "Let me finish dealing with this text, then I'll come willingly."

12.45pm Big Bro wants a word with me.

There was no reply to his text. Shit. Lestrade pondered that silence for the next twenty minutes, as the car made its way across Westminster Bridge and along York Street. He guessed where they were going about ten minutes into the journey- probably, Rennie Street.