Chapter Thirty Seven: Stockbrokers' Courier Part Two: London to Brighton Run
Sherlock huffed. "We're wasting time. We have to be in Brighton by eight."
"Nope, I'm not budging until you tell me what's going on."
"Oh, ye of little faith, Detective Inspector." He stared at the DI, who just calmly looked him back straight in the eye. They had lots of previous experience with this sort of stand-off, starting when Sherlock was detoxing, but it was a strange combination of prickly argument with professional respect that had grown over the years into a rarely-voiced mutual affection.
In the end, it was Sherlock who broke the deadlock. "Oh, all right then- have it your way!" His frustration meant that he now ripped through his explanation at break neck speed, as if daring the DI to keep up with him. "There've been four incidents when important documents – negotiable bearer bonds- have gone missing from stockbrokers. Not the same firm, each time a different one; it was inexplicable despite the brokers' own in-house investigations. The sums involved were not small- usually around £100,000 transactions – but in the great scheme of things for brokers these days, tiny losses which the firm made good. They were only discovered when the bonds that were subsequently traded by the client were discovered to be forgeries. Nobody has been able to figure out when the swaps were made, and the bogus bonds substituted for the real thing. You know that brokers are loathe to report these thefts to either the police or the Financial Services Authority; bad publicity when client monies go missing. So, none of the four realised that there was a pattern."
All this had been delivered by Sherlock in a single breath, so Greg found it amusing that the detective was forced to drag in fresh oxygen before he could continue. Taking advantage of the tiny gap, Lestrade decided to jump in. "So, how'd you find out about it? Lose some money?"
Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. I don't handle any investments; that's all Mycroft's area. And you know damn well that he keeps me on a tight financial leash."
"Well, you did have a problem with banking your allowance up your arm for a while; can't blame him for being a little cautious." Lestrade kept his sarcasm light, but he made his point.
Sherlock just waved in annoyance. "This is nothing to do with me. Well, I say that, but actually I found out about it because one of the clients- a banker- contacted me when his investment got ripped off. He was the old acquaintance from university whose employee got involved with that Chinese smuggling case- Sebastian Wilkes; you never met him, the case was handled by DI Dimmock."
He rushed on before Lestrade could interrupt again. "It's taken me a little while, but I have been able to unearth these other three thefts, and I expect there are others that other larger brokers won't admit to- probably because the banks that own them would get rather annoyed."
"So, you have an idea of how it's being done?"
"Yes, and the best way to prove it is to do it. So, hence our need to get to Brighton."
"I'm not following your thinking here. What's in Brighton?"
"Oh for God's sake, Lestrade, if we don't get onto that bike of yours soon, we will hit rush hour traffic and we'll never get there in time. Once we clear London, we can stop to re-fuel and I will explain more."
Greg's Norton was kept in a lock up garage behind the block of flats. His car had gone with the wife when they split up, and the police provided a company car, so he seldom had need for the bike. Nevertheless, as Greg pulled off the dust cloth over the machine, Sherlock could see that every piece of chrome gleamed with the love and attention of a bike-mad devotee. It was a Norton P11A 750cc Ranger-it still drew admiring glances whenever he took it out for a spin, which, to be honest, he wished he did more often.
As the DI wheeled the bike out of the garage behind the flat, he wore a smile at the thought of tearing down the road to Brighton. London traffic moved at an average of 12 miles an hour, whether you were riding a bicycle or driving a Porsche, so it did not give much scope for speed. He rarely had a reason to take the bike out of London, so he was looking forward to the excuse of hitting the motorway. There was only one thing nagging at his conscience- Sherlock had said the best way to prove how the crimes were being done would be "to do it". That worried Lestrade no end and he kept coming back to that thought as he ploughed his way across London's early morning traffic- lorries trying to beat their delivery deadlines, commuters trying to get in before the congestion charges started meant that traffic in London was almost always busy, day and night. He had to concentrate on the road. Behind him, Sherlock moved with him as he leaned into turns; he had not forgotten how to mirror the driver's weight distribution. Greg knew from experience that Sherlock did not like touching or being touched, but he felt the younger man's hands at his hips making sure that the two riders worked together. Lestrade was an inch and half shorter than Sherlock, but he was sixteen years older and had a lot more experience on the bike, so there was never an argument as to which of them would be in front.
Only once they got past the South Circular Road did the DI return to the problem of what Sherlock had said about the crime they would be investigating. While in the past he might have been willing to turn a blind eye to Sherlock's bending the rules so long as it did not prejudice a case, the idea of becoming an accessory to a crime was just ten steps too far from where a Detective Inspector needed to be- especially if it involved another police force. Relations between the Met and the City of London police force were fraught at the best of times. When a square mile of territory right in the middle of London was under another force's jurisdiction, it inevitably led to disputes. Only the fact that there were more banks, stockbrokers and insurance companies than actual residents inside that square mile kept the two forces from stepping on each other's toes. Financial crime was pretty sophisticated these days, and required specialist training, so New Scotland Yard tended to just let them do their own thing.
He glanced down at the Ranger's petrol gauge; Sherlock was right. Greg never left a lot of petrol in the tank; he used the bike so rarely that it would either evaporate or just pose a fire risk. They would need to re-fuel soon. He decided to pull into a service station on the A23, between Streatham and Norbury. It took only moments to fill the bike's tank, but he used the opportunity to remove his crash helmet and gestured to Sherlock to do the same.
"Ok, tell me what happens in Brighton. Where are we going, and who is down there that matters for a series of thefts in the City?"
Sherlock hesitated. That worried Lestrade more than anything. Sherlock never hesitated.
"The thefts are being done by motorcycle couriers. Never the same courier company, and never the same stockbroker. I've been trying to figure out how they do it, and think that it is related to the fact that almost anyone in a set of leathers and a crash helmet looks like everyone else in the same gear; it's a perfectly anonymous disguise. Substituting a thief for the real courier only needs someone on the inside to organise it. Deduction suggests it's a temp, a secretary or assistant who can work in different brokers, spot the opportunity and then organise a pick up when she knows that her partner is ready to take the place of a bone fide courier. Someone like that could ensure that the bogus courier shows up with the right company logo on the leathers, the right brand on the collection pouch so it doesn't arouse suspicions. The thefts have been happening at two month intervals, which is long enough to spot the opportunity, organise the theft and then move on."
"Why did you hesitate? You never hesitate. What's wrong with this?"
Sherlock gave a tiny wry smile. "It's pure deduction- there is absolutely no evidence at all."
"My God, Sherlock. Are you actually admitting to guessing?!"
The younger man scowled at him. "No. I don't guess. I deduce."
Lestrade looked thoughtful. "That still doesn't explain Brighton. Why are we headed there?"
That raised a little smirk. "Because there is a biker's rally down there today; it's an annual event that pits teams from the main City courier companies against one another. Odds are that our bogus courier and his insider are going to be down there, spotting opportunities. It's most likely that the thief is someone who has worked with at least a couple of the firms. He has to know the procedures, have the right paperwork, be familiar with the different routines and security arrangements. If he is sensible, he will be down there touting for work, and so will we."
Lestrade realised that Sherlock had hesitated because he was grasping at straws. "And, just how, amongst dozens and dozens of bikers, are you going to be able to figure out which two are your thieves? Sounds like you're hunting for a needle in a haystack."
"Oh, that's the easy part, Lestrade. You'll just have to trust me on that." He got off the bike and went into the petrol station to pay.
