Author's Note: As ever, the dialogue excerpts are from Ariane DeVere's excellent transcript on tumblr. With thanks for the rocket fuel…
Chapter Fifty Four- Bomber– a five +1 (Part Four)
Lestrade was so tired after the Piccadilly area was cleared and the young man brought in for questioning that he let Sergeant Donovan interview him. Just told her to find out everything she could about how he was abducted, and what if anything the youth could tell them about the MO of the bomber. There had to be a link between the two, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure it out. The woman in Cornwall had been so traumatised by the experience that her doctor insisted that the Cornish police delay questioning her. So, Greg hoped that the young man would be more resilient, and therefore more helpful.
He went home, had a shower and sat there like a zombie at the dining table. Louise just served up dinner and looked at him. She shook her head as she put the first bite of mushroom risotto into her mouth. He started shovelling the rice in, but his brain was still trying to come to terms with Sherlock's bomber. How he'd pieced together the Monkfords' disappearing act based on a pint of blood and a rental car firm was just about the most obscure of his deductive exercises in the entire time that Greg had known him. And comfortably within the time limit set by the bomber. Not that the hostage had really appreciated it, he was sure.
"You're just a bundle of fun tonight, aren't you, Greg?" Louise sighed and cleared up the now empty plate in front of her husband. He could hear the sound of washing up in the kitchen. He moved to the sofa and then stared blankly at the screen when she came in and turned on the telly to watch another one of her favourite soap operas. He vaguely heard the northern accents and concluded it must be Coronation Street.
When his mobile went off, he picked it up and went back into the kitchen.
"Hello, Guv. Thought you'd like to know the results of the interview. The hostage was one Charlie Johnson – a football fan down in London for the day, from his home in Beaconsfield. He'd come to see the Chelsea Match, but never made it there. Took a taxi from Paddington, thinks he fell asleep and the next thing he knew he was in the back of the taxi with three masked men. He woke up already dressed in the bomb jacket. Bomb squad say it's an exact match to the one worn by the Cornish woman- that arrived this morning and was taken apart at the seams, so they had one to compare Johnson's with. They gave him a pay-as-you-go phone and a pager, told him what he was going to have to do to stay alive, and then dropped him at Piccadilly Circus. He was told to make the call when the pager gave him instructions, and that a sniper would be watching his every move from one of the buildings. Told him to watch the red dot on his chest if he even thought of trying to contact anyone or speak to someone passing by. You know the rest."
She took a breath. "If you want my opinion, sir, I don't think he was specially selected- just happened to be the person who took that taxi from the rank at the train station. It could have been anyone."
Greg sighed. "Any info on his kidnappers? What about the cab driver? Do you think he could identify him?"
"He didn't even look at the driver before he got in the cab- I mean, who the hell does? He said he thought the guy was white, middle aged, wore a flat cap, spoke with a London accent- in other words like hundreds of taxi drivers. And there is no way to know whether he was the real thing. No taxi licence number, no number plate, no nothing. And the three men? That's even worse- dressed all in black, with balaclava masks. All white, all "big and scary" – Charlie's words, not mine."
She carried on. "No joy with the parka they made him wear- it's well worn- probably a jumble sale or thrift store item, a line discontinued years ago. The pager is also a standard issue NHS job, used in just about every hospital in the country. Someone clever re-programmed the pager number, so it's off the grid, and the only number calling it was traced to another burn phone."
She sighed. "Someone is very, very good at this, sir. No forensics at all. Drew a sample of the hostage's blood to see if the drug they used is going to show up, but Charlie doesn't remember a thing- no one sticking him with a needle, or drinking anything in the taxi. He says he has a vague recollection of being driven out of Paddington Station and heading down to Bayswater Road, and then nothing."
Lestrade's reply was succinct. "Damn." A deep breath, then "OK, Donovan, you've done the best we can with the poor hostage. Set him loose, and go home to get some rest yourself. Something tells me this is far from over."
"Sir? This is all to do with the Freak, isn't it? Someone's spinning out these cases just to watch him do his thing. Do you want me to bring Holmes in for questioning?"
He thought about it. What Sally was saying was logical, if brutal. Greg had the feeling that Sherlock knew more than he was letting others know. On the other hand, the idea that he was somehow involved in the bombing and the subsequent two cases was ridiculous. Oh, Sherlock ,PLEASE don't be a prat about this; I really need you to be honest with me. He felt his tension headache growing in ferocity by the minute.
"Guv- taking Holmes into…I don't know, protective custody or something…might make the bomber stop his campaign. Give us a chance to slow things up and get ahead of him somehow."
The DI just didn't buy it. "Give it a rest, Donovan. He's not the enemy here. Someone is targeting him; yeah, I get that. But, he hasn't been directly threatened, and somehow I don't see him volunteering to keep a low profile, do you?"
"Maybe, sir, but the hostages take a different view. They want to know why they were plucked out at random to be terrorised, and so far the only reason we can give them is because they were being used to taunt Sherlock Holmes. It's not good, sir; if it happens again, and he screws up, then we're going to have a dead body, an innocent civilian killed, just because he fancies his chances of solving another case. It stinks, sir, and we really should be doing something to put a stop to it."
"Your views are noted, Sergeant. Now go home and get some sleep. I will see you tomorrow morning."
oOo
Lestrade was half way through his second coffee, standing in front of the evidence board in the team room, looking at the photographs of the Carl Powers case and the Monkfords' deception. What's the connection? There has to be a connection. Both cases had to have been selected because they had meaning for Sherlock. The first one certainly did. He'd read the file now; there was no way that a police officer would have given a ten year old boy the benefit of the doubt when he turned up at a station demanding that an accidental death be re-opened as a murder enquiry just because a pair of trainers had gone missing. It made Greg remember his own incredulity at a sixteen year old lad's utter certainty about the accidental death of a Ukrainian merchant seaman in a barroom brawl. At least then he was involved in the crime scene. Could there be some aspect of the Monkfords' case that Sherlock wasn't admitting- some personal connection? He'd been investigating the murder of a banker a couple of months ago- that was DI Dimmock's case- a suspected suicide, which Sherlock proved was in fact murder. He left a voice mail message on Dimmock's number: "Need a word about that banker case you did with Holmes. Was there any link to another banker called Ian Monkford?"
Then his mobile phone went. He checked caller ID, and smiled. "Sherlock- your ears must have been burning because I was just thinking about you. I need to talk to you about Ian Monkford."
Sherlock interrupted. "No time for that now, Lestrade. He's rung again. This time there is something about a woman who died two days ago. I'm off to Barts to look at Connie Prince's body. John tells me she's something in daytime TV. Meet us at the morgue." He sounded like he was about to hang up.
"No, wait! SHERLOCK!"
"What?" He sounded annoyed.
"Is there another hostage involved? Is it the same MO? Come on, gimme; you can't just leave another innocent person out there dangling!?"
There was a very brief moment of silence, then Sherlock replied. "The bomber said, through the hostage, of course, that 'this one is defective'. Turns out she's blind, and she's old- that's for sure. Yorkshire accent. That's all I know- oh, and I have twelve hours."
"Did he say anything else?"
"Nothing relevant to the case, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get started." He hung up, leaving Lestrade looking incredulously at his phone.
He went out into the team room. "Alright, listen up- we've got another one. Start looking for an old woman who's gone missing, blind, with a Yorkshire accent. She's the hostage this time. She might be in Yorkshire, London, or anywhere- no ideas of location yet. And drag out everything you can on the death of Connie Prince- two days ago, find out which team is investigating that and get them in here ASAP to share data."
Sally Donovan was in motion before he could finish speaking. But, she caught his eye and gave him a meaningful look. Then she turned to the team. "Right, and we need to investigate what links there are between this death and Sherlock Holmes. There is a connection- we just don't know it yet."
oOo
Lestrade led the way into the Morgue, reading from a file. "Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows in the telly. Did you see it?"
"No."
"Very popular; she was going places."
"Not any more. So- dead two days. According to one her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound." He bent over the body on the slab to look closely at a wound on webbing between her right thumb and index finger. "Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream- goodnight, Vienna."
John was on the other side of the table. "I suppose."
Sherlock's face showed he was thinking it through, and not happy with the diagnosis on the autopsy report. "There is something wrong with this picture….Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise, the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong." He swooped down close to the body, looking through his magnifier.
"John?"
The DI watched the doctor look up from the body at the detective.
"The cut on her hand, it's deep. Would have bled a lot, right?"
"Yeah."
"But the wound's clean- very clean, and fresh…How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"
Lestrade started leafing through the file for the Coronor's report. The doctor answered first, "Eight, ten days."
Sherlock straightened up and smirked, waiting for the doctor and the Di to put the pieces together. Watson got there first, again. "The cut was made later."
Greg finished the thought, "…after she was dead?"
Sherlock's know-all tone was in full flow, "Must have been. The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" He then asked John, "You want to help, right?"
"Of course."
"Connie Prince's background- family, history, everything. Give me data."
John was watching Sherlock. Lestrade got the feeling that the two of them were communicating without speaking; it was always a bit weird to watch them at a crime scene. John was more than just a medical opinion, more than a flatmate, more than a blogger. He seemed to have a catalytic effect on Sherlock's deductive capacity. But, Lestrade wasn't getting the thread here. How could the method of a woman's tetanus infection matter to a bomber? But, whatever it was, John just left the room to get on with the back story. Sherlock took another look at the corpse, and then turned to leave.
Lestrade decided he could not afford to miss the opportunity of being alone with Sherlock. "There's something else that we haven't thought of."
"Is there?" The brunet sounded sceptical.
The DI stared at his retreating back. "Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber?"
That stopped Sherlock, but he didn't turn to face Greg. That told him a lot. He'd obviously touched a nerve, so Greg pressed him. "If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"
Sherlock said nonchalantly, "Good Samaritan?" He started to walk.
"…who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Greg wasn't having it. I won't be deflected. Not this time, there are lives at stake other than yours.
Sherlock amended his comment, "Bad Samaritan."
That flippancy annoyed Greg. "I'm- I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen- I'm cutting you slack here. I'm trusting you- but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me- what are we dealing with?"
If he had hoped for an honest answer, the DI was disappointed- and disturbed. Sherlock's reply -"Something New"- was not only purposefully vague, it was delivered with an almost child-like delight. Lestrade was still trying to understand his enigmatic comment long after the consulting detective had left the room.
oOo
He took the time to check in with this team. "Any news on the hostage?"
Sally was abrupt. "Give us a chance, Guv. There've been no reports in any force's jurisdiction about an elderly person from a care home or hospital. A couple of dozen reports of dementia sufferers going walkabout, and we're looking into that, but my guess is that the bomber would want someone playing with a full deck of cards for this role, otherwise it wouldn't work. Given the timetable, I just don't think we are going to get anywhere pursuing this line of enquiry."
She drew breath. "You, on the other hand, have had the chance to ask the Freak what the hell connection he has to a talk-show host who specialises in house wife make-overs. Any joy on that front?"
Why do I always feel like I am on the back foot when talking to Sally about Sherlock? Lestrade just grunted. "He knows something but isn't talking."
"Great." Her sarcasm was clear. "You know he is our best lead. If I were you, I'd be hauling him over the coals by now, or holding his feet to the fire until he talks."
Lestrade chuckled. "Good thing that the Met protocols don't include instruments of torture then, isn't it, Sergeant?" But, he knew that she had a point. So he headed for Baker Street. Third time around he wasn't prepared to wait for Sherlock to solve this one.
When he let himself in and climbed the seventeen steps to the flat, he could already hear the tell-tale sound of Sherlock's pacing. What he wasn't prepared for when he got into the living room was the sight of the wall over the sofa. Covered in photos, bits of paper, string- this was Sherlock's equivalent of the Yard's evidence board. He looked at it carefully; there was more on this one than his own. He listened as Sherlock paced behind him, muttering, "Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection." The brunet then came up alongside Lestrade and gestured to the wall. "Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The Bomber knew him; admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing- working his way around the world? Showing off?" Greg could hear the frustration in the younger man's voice, and his body language was telegraphing just how keyed up he was.
The sound of a phone stopped his question. He watched Sherlock take the pink phone out of his pocket and scan for the caller ID. He answered, and listened to what Lestrade could vaguely hear as the tremulous tones of an elderly lady. Less than a minute later, the brunet just looked at Lestrade, and moved the phone back into his pocket. He raised his hands into a prayer position under his chin and contemplated the wall again.
"Sherlock, what the hell? Was that the bomber again? What did he say?"
"Nothing; it was just to tell me that I've only got three more hours. He was taunting me about connecting up the dots."
Lestrade just looked at him. Yeah, well I can understand the feeling. "So, when are you going to tell me who is behind this?"
Sherlock just ignored him and turned away from the wall, strode over to the table where his laptop was open. "DATA. I need to gather more data. There is something missing here." Lestrade turned back to the wall, torn between the need to know and the worry that pushing Sherlock right now might distract him from solving the case. And that meant an old lady's life could be forfeit.
So, he bit his tongue and turned back to the wall. A few minutes later, Mrs Hudson arrived, carrying a tray of tea, biscuits and little sandwiches.
"Sherlock, when was the last time you had anything to eat? John just phoned me to say he's worried you're not keeping to that diet of yours."
"Hmm." He cast a quick glance at the tray, then turned his eyes back to the laptop. "Can't eat biscuits or bread."
"I know that; these are for the Detective Inspector. I put in the fridge the items Angelo's delivered while you were out, and I'll heat them up now."
"I don't eat when I'm working, Mrs Hudson. You know that."
She was already in the kitchen and the Di could hear the microwave going. After the ping, she arrived with a plate and put it beside him with a fork and napkin. Then, she poured him a cup of tea,. Before he could even consider take a sip, however, a phone went. For a moment, Greg tensed, thinking it was the bomber again, then he realised that the brunet had answered his own phone, not the pink one that was still in his pocket. Sherlock got up and wandered into the kitchen, talking monosyllabically.
She gave Greg a bright smile. "How do you take your tea, Detective Inspector?"
"Milk, no sugar, Mrs Hudson, and you really shouldn't have gone to the trouble."
"It's no trouble." She came to stand next to him and looked at the wall, somewhat aghast. "Oh, I do wish he'd think about what all this does to the wallpaper."
Behind him, Lestrade could hear him talking ("Great…Thank you…Thanks again.") Since when does Sherlock THANK anyone? What's he playing at?
Mrs Hudson looked at the photo of Connie Prince and was sad. "It was a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours."
Lestrade was distracted, watching Sherlock at the fireplace, just finishing his call. He didn't understand what Mrs Hudson meant. "Colours?"
"You know…what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me."
Sherlock re-joined them, but Greg couldn't resist. "Who was that?"
Staring at the wall, Sherlock said "Home Office" in a distracted voice.
Lestrade was surprised. "Home Office?!"
"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour."
As if she hadn't heard their exchange, Mrs Hudson carried on. "She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days…People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it?" She giggled. "Did you ever see her show?"
Sherlock replied, "No" his voice loaded with distain. He showed Lestrade his laptop, playing a video of the show. Mrs Hudson identified the dead woman's brother, and commented that there was no love lost between them, if the gossip columns were anything to go by.
Sherlock nodded. "So, I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites- indispensable for gossip."
When the video finished its course, Mrs Hudson made her excuses and collected the tray. Before departing, she looked at the plate of uneaten food on the table, and the cup of cold tea, untouched. She was still tutting as she descended, but Sherlock and Greg were still absorbed in the evidence wall.
The silver haired man decided he couldn't wait any longer. "You're going to have to tell me, Sherlock. This has gone far enough. Just who is this bomber and why is he doing this to you?"
Sherlock frowned but didn't look at the Detective Inspector. His eyes suddenly widened. Greg knew that look, but just as he opened his mouth to ask, he was stopped by the sound of Sherlock's phone going off again. The brunet pulled it out his pocket, checked caller ID, and then raised it to his ear. His body moved in eager anticipation.
"John." His excitement was palpable.
Lestrade couldn't hear what was being said. Sherlock just replied, "I'll remember." He listened and then said, "I'm on my way." He ended the call, looked briefly at Lestrade and then spun on his heel, grabbed his coat and tore down the stairs, leaving the DI chewing the inside of his cheek in sheer bloody frustration.
Greg fumed all the way back to New Scotland yard. He knew, after years of watching Sherlock that the man had just had an epiphany, a moment of knowledge, where clues connected, puzzle pieces slotted together and a solution was at hand. So, why the HELL didn't he tell me? In all the years of knowing the consulting detective, Greg had never felt so left out of things. It was upsetting, as if Sherlock didn't trust him. That distressed and worried Greg in equal measures. He had such a bad feeling about this.
oOo
With just over one hour to go, he told Sally Donovan to go home.
"Sir?" The idea of being sent home just as the deadline approached was just…impossible. "I can't stop now, sir. We might still find the hostage." Lestrade just shook his head. "You've done your best. Every care home, every hospital, every social worker's been alerted and no one has reported an elderly blind woman missing. Whatever happens now, it's up to Holmes and Watson."
"Well, sir, time to realise that the Freak isn't infallible. With respect, Guv…" Of course, he knew she meant it without respect. She'd never respected what the man could do. He just put his hand over his weary eyes for a moment, and said, "Go home, Sergeant. There's nothing more you can do."
He could feel the heat of her indignation as she grabbed her handbag and jacket off the back of her chair and slammed the door on her way out.
The next voice he heard with John Watson's, followed by Sherlock's, as he opened his eyes.
"Raoul de Santos is your killer- Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tentanus that poisoned Connie Prince- it was botulinum toxin." He dropped a folder on Sally's desk in front of Lestrade. As he reached for it, the brunet leaned in closer to him. "We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself."
Lestrade swept up the file and started to head for his office, with Sherlock in tow. "So, how'd he do it?"
When Sherlock replied "Botox injection", John's head snapped around in surprise. Lestrdea stopped mid-stride. "Botox?!"
Sherlock set off on one his little lectures: "Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases…He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."
Behind Sherlock's back, Lestrade could see John Watson's expression turn from surprise to anger.
"You're sure about this?" Lestrade wouldn't normally call into question one of Sherlock's solutions, but John's reaction bothered him.
Oblivious to the doctor behind him, Sherlock just said "I'm sure."
Greg replied, "Alright- my office." He'd get started on the arrest warrant for de Santos.
He was aware that John had stopped Sherlock from following, and listened to their exchange as he walked on.
"Hey, Sherlock, how long?"
"What?"
"How long have you known?"
Lestrade could hear the smirk without even having to see him. "Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake."
John's anger was evident. "No, but Sherl…the hostage…the old woman. She's been there all this time."
"I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!"
The doctor's disapproval followed Sherlock into the DI's office and stayed there like a dark cloud. Lestrade had to agree. If Sherlock had solved it earlier, but left an old blind lady to suffer for hours more as a hostage, then that was just beyond belief. He knew that empathy was not something the man understood, but he had not seen him be purposefully cruel before. What the hell is going on Sherlock? This is just making you into something I don't recognise.
In a matter of moments, Lestrade had herded Sherlock into his chair, and standing on one side of him with John on the other, said "Let's get an old woman out of danger, shall we?" It was said through gritted teeth.
Sherlock opened Greg's laptop to find his own blog site, and he typed into the comment message box: Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, Botox.
Almost instantly the pink phone on the desk rang.
Sherlock answered. "Hello?"
Greg couldn't hear what the old woman was saying.
Sherlock said firmly, "Tell us where you are. Address."
The woman must be saying something, because Sherlock suddenly cut in, "No, no, no, co- don't tell me anything about him. Nothing!"
Then the tiniest of pauses, followed by Sherlock saying "Hello?"
Greg took one look at Sherlock's reflection in the glass window of his office, saw the look on his face, and blurted out, "Sherlock?" in a horrified tone.
John picked up on it and followed with a "What's happened?"
Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear slowly and wouldn't look at either man as he bit his lip. Greg knew then that something terrible had happened. John could see the distress in the brunet's posture. He didn't touch him, but braced his hand on the back of Sherlock's chair, as if holding back from giving comfort. "She said he had a soft voice…"
oOo
It took another seventy minutes before they finally found out where the old woman had been. Within seconds of realising what must have happened, Greg's training kicked in, and he was on the phone to the night duty officer: all forces and fire services in the country to be alerted about an explosion. No matter what it might appear to be, they were to investigate it as a potential bombing, and to call the Yard.
For the next hour, Sherlock stayed silent, seated at Lestrade's desk. Greg could see John trying to talk to him, but the consulting detective gave no reply- in fact, it was as if he wasn't hearing. After a quarter of an hour, John gave up and came out to find a coffee from the machine down the corridor. While on hold to the fire services national control room, Greg gave him a questioning look, but John just shook his head and muttered something about "mind palace".
When the news came through that a block of flats had been severely damaged in a gas explosion in Rotherham, South Yorkshire, Sherlock shook off his lethargy long enough to stand with John and Lestrade as the DI turned on the flat screen TV on the far wall of the team room. The 24/7 news coverage on the BBC had the first on-scene photos. The three men watched in silence as the presenter reported that the suspected gas leak in the 1960s bloc had claimed the lives of at least ten victims, but the fire services were still on the scene and the casualty figures could mount. In the background, ambulances were leaving with sirens and lights flashing.
John looked at Sherlock, watching the news report without a trace of expression on his face. He looked worried as he watched his friend gather his coat and scarf from where he had thrown them off on his way into Lestrade's office.
"Sherlock." There was a tough line of determination in Lestrade's voice, but no condemnation. He then said quietly, "It wouldn't have mattered if you'd made the call any earlier. She was likely to have said that whenever you rang. This is the bomber's doing, not yours."
Sherlock did not turn around. "I know." The tone of voice was flat and emotionless.
Greg crossed his arms and looked at the brunet's back. "So, there's no time for the usual sulk about not getting it right. I need you firing on all cylinders in the morning, because I'm guessing that this isn't over yet."
There was no reply. John sighed and made to follow him. Lestrade tried one more time. "John- keep me informed. Maybe if we can work closer together, this won't happen again." The doctor nodded grimly and then ran to catch up with Sherlock.
(Slowly, staring ahead of himself, Sherlock lowers the phone from his ear. He bites his lip as Lestrade – realising that something bad must have happened – straightens up and sighs. John braces a hand on the back of Sherlock's chair.)
