Chapter Thirty Nine: The Stockbrokers' Courier Part Four: Start Your Engines


By the time they got to the rally start on Marine Parade, there were easily thirty bikers already there, queuing for registration, getting their racing numbers on, and there were lots of bystanders milling about, looking at the bikes and enjoying the atmosphere. There was banter between the courier teams- most of them knew each other quite well from years of bumping into each other in the delivery rooms of banks, solicitors and other companies. Sherlock barged the queue at the registration tent and managed to get out in record time, bearing two purple plastic bibs with numbers on them.

"We're the first of the scratch team pairs to register; our dispatcher is over there." He gestured toward a line-up of tables under a marquee, full of radio handsets on charge. As Greg brought the bike around, Sherlock went to the fourth station along and shook hands with a big bloke with a full beard. It was mostly brown but going grey in places, and when he stood to shake Sherlock's hand, Lestrade could see that he had a prosthetic leg below his right knee. Sherlock introduced the man. "This is Rob, he's dispatching the two scratch teams." He then introduced Lestrade. "This is Lestrade, he'll be my driver."

The bearded man looked Greg over and then his eyes lit up as he saw Greg's bike. "Och- she's a beauty! Well, anybody who is Sherlock's friend is my friend, so welcome aboard." As Sherlock picked up two radio sets and turned to leave, Rob called out "Hey laddie, you know I'm counting on you. You've got the knowledge to beat the pants off these Sassenachs. I just hope your driver can take crazy instructions without arguing." He waved them off good naturedly.

"What's a one-legged Scotsman doing down here running biker teams, and where on earth did you two meet?" Greg's didn't bother to disguise his surprise to Sherlock, who was slipping on the number bib over his leather jacket.

Sherlock explained as he fitted a Velcro holster to the bib and slipped the radio in, as if he had been doing it for years. Greg followed his lead. "I've known Rob since I was homeless; met him he had an accident in front of where I was busking. He came off his bike at speed and people were hanging about not knowing what to do while waiting for the ambulance. I realised he was a diabetic, so got him to eat some candy. They couldn't save his leg- pulverised the tibia into mush- but he claims I saved his life. I didn't do that- I just saw the truth while other idiots observed an injured man who was acting drunk. His fall was caused by a diabetic shock."

Greg smiled. It was typical Sherlock- to have done something amazing, but then dismiss it whilst at the same time accusing other people of being idiots. "What now?"

"Now, we wait. And observe,Lestrade. as best you can; you may actually learn to see someday. I want a good look at the other nine scratch bike pairs. We're looking for any male-female combination."

oOo

Out of the nine other scratch biker pairs, there were only three that involved a male-female mix. As they turned up and collected the purple bibs and their radios from Rob, Sherlock was in full deducing mode, scrutinising their every move. As the clock moved closer to 10am, the teams gathered round. Rob made introductions, Sherlock instantly deleted any of the names for the male pairings, but Greg watched as he introduced himself to the three mixed pairs. As ever, he found it amusing to watch Sherlock pour on the charm. He could act 'normal' whenever it suited him. Greg knew it to be an act, but also realised that what others more critical might see as the manipulation inherent of a sociopath, the detective inspector accepted as an essential undercover tool.

When Sherlock returned to Greg at the bike, he said quietly, "Pair numbers Four and Nine are the ones to watch. Pair Six is not likely; the woman's hands are those of a manual worker; her nails alone would disqualify her from being a City temp." Greg snuck a quick look at the two pairs picked out by Sherlock. Number four was a tall bloke with a couple of days of designer stubble, who was standing with a rather shapely blonde. Sherlock filled in the details, "Tom and Cheryl Conrad- brother and sister, a likely combination for this scam." When Greg looked at Pair Nine, he saw a dark-haired couple, possibly Mediterranean in origin. Sherlock continued, "Meet Alexi Psarra and Timos Aristopolis. Greek, and engaged, making money in London for the wedding next summer back home in Athens." Greg grinned at the consulting detective, "Ah, we have motive, although if Tom Conrad is paying alimony, my money is on him." Lestrade was still feeling the effects of his divorce.

The PA system came on with a feedback squeal, as the race organiser welcomed the bikers. The teams were told to keep their engines off but wheel their bikes to the starting line, where they would be getting their instructions for their first destination from despatchers.

Sherlock told him not to try for a front position, just mid-way in the pack, but on the extreme right. When Greg looked confused, Sherlock explained. "We won't know until we get the first destination whether we want to go ahead or turn around and go in the opposite direction. Being in the front would be a disadvantage in that case."

"You sound like you've done this before."

Sherlock smirked as he put on the crash helmet. "Well, the betting pool has already made us favourites."

Greg looked astonished. "Why would they do that?"

"I have worked as a freelance courier before. Cocaine is expensive, Lestrade. And how else do you think I learned so much about London's roads and where all the cameras are? You never check the milometer on your bike, do you?"

Greg was horrified. Years ago, Sherlock had been absconding with the Norton, to help fuel his drug habit? It beggared belief. He chose to focus instead on recent history. "You've done this rally before?"

"Yes, it's done every year in a different location. While most couriers just study the road maps, I think in 3D, so spent some time last week working on Google street view. I swept the pool last year- it was in Cambridge, so I did have a rather unfair advantage, but it paid for the new laptop, smart phone and microscope."

The PA squawked again. "Couriers, start your engines!"

Greg kicked the Norton to life as the radio attached to their bibs crackled. Rob came on and gave them their first destination: Lloyds Bank Branch, North Street.

"That's in the Lanes," Sherlock shouted to be heard over the roar of the other bikes. "Make a U turn and head straight west along the coast road." Greg opened the throttle, and shouted back, "hang on!"