Chapter Fifty Two- Bomber– a five +1 (Part Two)
Greg was feeling a little worse for wear after spending half the night at UCL hospital's A&E. Once Sherlock's back had been seen to, four slivers of glass removed, bandages applied and then officially discharged, the DI took him home and put him to bed on the sofa. Louise had just sighed, after being woken twice on the same night. "Don't let him bleed on the sofa, Greg; that's all I ask" she said in a resigned tone, and turned over.
The next morning she left before 7am without a word or even a backward glance at the pile of blankets on the sofa that presumably contained one sleeping consulting detective. Even before he headed for the bathroom for a shave and shower, Greg had checked in with CTC. The area was still being cleared of rubble, but no other devices had been found. The Forensic teams were crawling all over 218, but 221 was OK for a return, based on a check conducted by "another agency that must remain nameless", according to his CTC contact.
As they drove to Baker Street at eight o'clock, he issued Sherlock with firm instructions. "Do NOT cross the street. Do NOT interfere with the forensic examination of the premises. I've been told that if you do, you will be arrested and carted off to detention. Let them do their jobs without interference, please."
Lucky for him, as the car pulled up to the police tape at the end of Baker Street, he spotted another black government car parked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg just said in a warning tone, "Looks like the first flight from Rome got in early. Play nicely with your brother, Sherlock; I know he can be a pain, but really, you don't want to pick a fight now."
And he went back to work, hoping that the BBC news report of the gas leak explosion would prove to be just that.
oOo
Of course, it was too much to ask. CTC contacted him before 10am to say that a package was on its way to him. It had been found in a high grade military fire safe in 218- an undamaged envelope addressed to Sherlock Holmes.
Shit. This is…different. In all the years of working with Sherlock, it had been the consulting detective who had gone after the criminals, not the other way around. While suspects and even convicted criminals had often threatened retribution for their apprehension, it had never led to much- a couple of beatings, a lot of posturing. But, to date, no one had tried to blow him up.
When Lestrade explained to the CTC officer that the intended recipient was across the street from where the envelope had been found, he got a lecture. As per instructions from "another agency" received more than four months ago, "all Met contact with said individual now had to be conducted through DI Lestrade", so he was being sent the package. It arrived with a note to say that it had been X rayed and examined to ensure it did not contain anything dangerous, and that no fingerprints or other trace had been found either- oh, and if it contained anything even vaguely relating to terrorist activity to tell them. Instead, he made the call to Sherlock.
He was relieved to see that John was with Sherlock when the consulting detective showed up. Something tells me that Sherlock is going to need all the friends he's got on this one.
Greg was puzzled when the envelope yielded a disturbingly familiar pink phone, with a strange recorded message and an attached photo. More worrying, Sherlock deduced that all three things combined meant they were being warned that there would be other bombs. Now standing in the basement flat of 221, the DI was watching Sherlock focus on a pair of trainers- which were sitting on an otherwise mouldy and damp living room floor.
"He's a bomber, remember." John warned Sherlock as he crouched down and started to reach for the shoes. After a few moments of his silent examination without touching anything, all three men jumped slightly when the shrill sound of a mobile phone was heard. Sherlock stood and pulled the pink phone from his pocket.
"Hello?" Sherlock put the phone on speaker, so John and Greg could hear a woman's voice draw in a shaky breath and then say tearfully, "H-hello…sexy." Whatever Lestrade was expecting, the incongruity of the words and the tearful tone chilled him right to the core.
Sherlock's soft response, "The curtain rises," did nothing to dispel his concern. John phrased the question that they obviously both had when he asked "what?"
Sherlock's "Nothing" didn't satisfy either of the other two men. John looked worried; Greg could only think that something crucial was being kept from him; something that he wouldn't like. His unease was not decreased when the brunet just said, "I've been expecting this for some time". Then came the chilling statement from the woman on the phone; Sherlock had twelve hours to solve the puzzle or the caller, who was using the woman to voice his demands, would be "so naughty." Then the phone went dead.
Sherlock swept up the shoes, and announced he was off to Barts to use the lab. Lestrade protested- "Sherlock, that's evidence!"
"Yes, and at the rate your Forensic service works, it will be evidence for yet another bombing. Leave this one to me, Lestrade. You can't possibly get this done in time." The two men locked eyes for a moment, then the brunet just walked past him to the door.
Greg couldn't resist. "What makes you think you can?"
That stopped Sherlock long enough for him to lean back into the room. Through gritted teeth, "didn't you listen? This is a puzzle- a challenge directed at me. You asked last night if I took that explosion personally- well, you have your answer. Now, time is ticking on, so excuse me, but you can see yourself out."
John followed, casting an apologetic look to the DI as he went past.
"John, get him to text me when you know anything; better yet, could you do it, please? More likely to be kept up to date that way."
A "yes" floated down the stairs, leaving Lestrade to give one last look around the room, before he too made his way up. He had a bad feeling about this.
oOo
The DI went back to New Scotland Yard, and fretted. He had no leads to speak of, so he called CTC back and demanded that they hand over the fire safe that had survived the bomb. Maybe that would lead to a clue as to who had placed it and the bomb in the house. One had to assume that the two events were linked. Hell of a way to get Sherlock's attention. Mind you, it worked. If I wanted to intrigue him, this is one way to do it. He worried about whoever had been forced to make the call on behalf of the bomber- what form of duress was being applied? She sounded so frightened and distressed.
He texted John.
11.45am Any ideas? Can that call be traced? GL
11.52am He's working on the shoes. And- no, he says the caller is too smart to be traceable. JW
11.53am Does he know who the bomber is? GL
11.56am He may, but he sure the hell isn't telling me. JW
Two hours later, Anderson reported to Lestrade that the fire safe was a standard military issue, used in Afghanistan on a regular basis, and in every Army barracks in the country, too. The fire had obliterated any trace, any fingerprints, anything other than soot. Chance of locating the bomber from that was nil.
In the meantime, life in the Yard went on as usual. There were other investigations on-going, and he got reports from the team as they worked on their existing cases. Sherlock had been right last night, this was not his division. Bombers were treated as counter-terrorist threats first. They'd only given him the safe becuase of the connection with Sherlock. Bombs were just not in the DI's remit. But that didn't stop him from worrying about it. Two and a half hours after John's last text, Lestrade rang his CTC contact and asked what the initial view was on the nature of the bomb. "That's the queer thing, Detective Inspector. On the one hand, the initial fire service analysis indicated gas leak. Now, however, we've changed our view. Yes, gas was involved- the bomber just left a gas tap open in the fireplace. But, we did eventually find what set it off. It's a tiny bit of straight, old fashioned semtex. Then we found a fragment of detonator wire that is also IRA standard issue. Mind you, the boys haven't seen one of these in donkeys' years. Not one of the provos; in fact, even the IRA moved on from this stuff before the decommissioning finished in 2005. Suggests someone had access to old supplies in Northern Ireland and decided to get clever. "
Lestrade drew in a shaky breath. "I don't suppose that fact is going to become common knowledge?"
There was a knowing chuckle on the other end of the phone. "Not on your life, matey. We've got bigger fish to fry with the Islamicists these days."
Four hours after John's last text, Lestrade got another one.
16.04pm Need everything you've got on file on schoolboy Carl Powers, 1989, South London, death by drowning; 'tragic accident'. JH
16.05pm Who is Carl Powers? GL
16.06pm Owned the trainers JN
How the hell did Sherlock figure THAT out? And what does it mean? Greg sent the file via PC on a motorbike. But not before reading it and spotting the original station report, included a note about a ten year old boy coming in and demanding that they investigate the dead boy's 'missing shoes'. How did I know that the name of that boy would be Sherlock Holmes? That fact cranked up Greg's anxiety levels another five notches. If the bomber knew something about Sherlock that he didn't, then the threat was somehow magnified.
At six o'clock, Lestrade was getting positively antsy. Four and a half hours to go until the bomber's deadline. He texted John.
18.02pm Any news? GL
There was no reply, not for more than a half hour. By then Lestrade was pacing, and wondering whether to go to Baker Street to see what the hell was happening.
18.50pm I was out. Now back at Baker Street. He's thinking. JW
To hell with that, Lestrade puffed out his cheeks, and made a decision. He called Louise to tell her he wouldn't be home for dinner, in fact, not to wait up, as it might be a long one. There was a resigned sigh at the other end. "Just be quiet when you come in, will you? I can't face two nights in a row of interrupted sleep."
He was half way to Baker Street when his phone chirped an incoming text alert.
7.35pm Cracked it! Go find the woman- bomber's set her free: she's in a Tesco car park in Lostwithiel, Cornwall. Tell the police to be careful- he thinks she's wired to a bomb! JW
For a split second, Lestrade looked at the message in disbelief. Then police training kicked in and he shouted at his driver to turn around and head back to the Yard, before dialling the office and asking for the number of the Cornish Police force HQ.
