Chapter Sixty Two Painful Truths (part three)


While John hoped that Sherlock would be spared having to appear in public for a few days to let the bruises and swelling to go down, the fates conspired otherwise. No sooner had the doctor come downstairs to fix his breakfast when his phone went off. He'd left it on the table, under a pile of newspaper cuttings covering yesterday's Hampshire Heath murders- he'd started drafting the blog post. By the time he'd fished the phone out, he found a missed call and then a text came through

8.23am Double murder. At least an eight. 62 Kensington Square Gardens GL

Sounds like business as usual, all is forgiven. Just as he was thinking that through, he heard Sherlock come down the hall. He was 'dressed', if you could call it that, in a sheet, holding his phone and reading what was probably the exact same text. John almost winced at the sight of his face. The bruising was now out in all its glory- a spectrum of black, blue and purple, plus the red swollen lips. He hoped it wasn't as painful as it looked.

"I could always give your excuses, Sherlock."

The brunet looked up from his phone. "Excuses about what?"

The doctor gestured in the vague direction of his flatmate's face. "That!"

"It's irrelevant. I will be ready to go in about fifteen minutes. If you can finish breakfast by then and get dressed, why not come along? You're not due at the clinic until after lunch."

"You do realise that parading that face around the Yard team is going to lead to some rather horrid comments."

Sherlock just snorted in derision. "As if I cared. I've never let bruises come between me and a good case before, why should I now?"

oOo

Thirty minutes later, their taxi was crawling through rush-hour traffic on Westbourne Grove, and they crossed the intersection with Queensway.

"Whatever it is you've been debating about saying, John, you have about three minutes more before we get there."

Yes, John had been thinking about how to broach the subject without pissing off Sherlock. "Well, he must have forgiven you, if he wants you on a crime scene again so soon, but it might be wise if you were to apologise."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Why would I apologise?"

"Maybe, because you pissed him off yesterday? Or did you get that face some other way than from connecting it with Lestrade's fist?"

"Forget it, John." Sherlock returned to the research he'd been doing on his mobile for the past fifteen minutes.

"Sherlock, you can't just pretend that it didn't happen. Social rules mean that when this sort of thing occurs you need to admit responsibility and apologise. Then you can both settle things and move on."

"I can assure you that Lestrade does not expect an apology from me."

No, you never apologise, do you? Now it was John's turn to shake his head, more in disbelief at his friend's social ineptitude than anything else. "You just don't get it, do you?"

There was no reply. The taxi turned onto Kensington Gardens Square, and John knew he had only a moment or two to get his point across. He could see that one of the houses about half way along the terrace was being renovated, and was covered by scaffolding and white plastic sheeting. But before he got his thoughts organised, the taxi ground to a halt and Sherlock was out of the back, and approaching the yellow police tape that cordoned off the renovation. He ducked under it without a backward glance, leaving John to pay the fare.

By the time he made it into Number 62, he could hear Sherlock's footsteps on the flight of stairs two floors above him. As he started up the first flight, he caught sight of Sally Donovan, who was crouching on the floor in the living room poking at some builder's tools. She saw him too and did not try to hide the smirk on her face. She threw a comment that followed him up the stairs. "I hope the Guv evens up the damage. Time the Freak got what he deserved." John sighed, and wondered what she had said when she'd first seen Sherlock.

When he got to the third floor, he could hear the nasal tones of Anderson from a room towards the back of the house. His heart sank. Lestrade's Murder Investigation Unit did not always get assigned the same Forensic Examiner, but it was sod's law that it would be today.

As John came into the room, Anderson was in full flow. "Well, at least today I won't have to get a blood sample to rule your contamination out. Lestrade showed me the blood spatter from yesterday, and I collected a sample. He finally got fed up with you, I see." His sneering triumph showed how much pleasure he was getting from the sight.

Please, God, don't let him rise to the bait. He started to step forward to get their attention.

Sherlock's baritone reply surprised him to the point where he almost stopped in his tracks.

"If you'd show me what you've found, I'd like to get started." Polite, calm, and not a trace of his usual aggravation with the CS Examiner.

As John came further into the room, he could see Anderson's confusion. He could also see that the three of them were the only people in the room. No sign of Lestrade.

Sherlock just waited for Anderson. Not a huff of derision or an attempt to push past him to get to get on with the work.

Nonplussed, Don Anderson faltered but then decided to play it safe. "Builder on the scene first thing this morning was stripping off old wallpaper, and came across new-ish plaster there." He gestured at what was now a jagged hole about two feet wide and three feet high. "He got curious and knocked through to find a void space. Runs the whole length of the house. And neat as can be, inside the space are two wrapped up bodies, one of them a little kid. Sealed in polythene, vacuum packed as best we can tell. The ME is in there now with them."

"Where's Lestrade?" John wanted to know, if only to buy time for Sherlock.

"He's out the back with the project manager, getting the low down on the buy-to-let renovation, the owners, who they bought it from, you know…" here he couldn't resist taking a dig at Sherlock, "…proper police work where you actually get facts before you start guessing about what might have happened."

Sherlock didn't even blink. In a perfectly polite tone, he asked "Is it alright if I see the bodies now?"

If Anderson was expecting a session of Sherlock-baiting, he wasn't getting it. He just shrugged, "suit yourself." But, old habits die hard. "Of course, I would prefer it if you would suit yourself, you know, by wearing a proper crime scene suit like the rest of us, but we know that isn't going to happen anytime soon, don't we?" His sarcasm just rolled off of Sherlock like water off a duck's back. The tall man examined the edges of the broken plaster carefully before ducking into the hole.

The hidden space was narrow- less than eighteen inches wide at the back end of the house, about four meters to Sherlock's right, but from the emergency lighting that the medical examiner had dragged into the space, he could see that it was a bit wider toward the front of the house, which extended ten or twelve meters to the left. The ME in a blue plastic suit was bent over the longer of the two shiny wrapped bundles. He was taking photographs. Sherlock could hear the high pitched whine of the digital flashgun re-charging and closed his eyes just as it went off.

John poked his head through but realised that there was no way he'd fit in there with the other two men. So, he decided that he'd go find Lestrade and test the water. As he turned, he saw Anderson was removing samples of the wall paper and putting them into evidence bags.

The doctor gave him a stern look. "I'm going downstairs to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade. While I'm down there, I'll get the suit on. You do know why Sherlock doesn't wear one, don't you? It's not like he does it to annoy you personally. So for once in your life, try to be tolerant."

Anderson smirked. "Yeah, I know the Freak's problem. I was there when he went into meltdown because of the gear. Look, I know it's not politically correct to criticise disability, but, it's just another reason why I don't think he belongs on any crime scene. A self-confessed sociopath gets in the way of our teamwork." Here he couldn't resist broadening the smirk. "And it looks like the DI has finally got the message, too." He couldn't help but chuckle. "I see he's trying to be on his best behaviour. Shows that Lestrade should have used his fist to shut him up years ago."

It was just like Anderson to draw the wrong conclusion about the one time Sherlock tried not to irritate him. The doctor just sighed. "Just leave him alone, will you?" He knew it was a forlorn hope, but he wanted to see Lestrade before Sherlock did.

Downstairs he pulled a pack from the pile by the front door, ripped open the plastic wrapper and pulled the blue suit on over his clothes. The combination of scent, feel and the horrible sound it made as the plastic rubbed- it irritated him, so he could imagine what it would do to Sherlock. For someone with sensory processing issues, it would be like being confined in your own personal torture chamber.

He met Lestrade coming down the ground floor hallway from the kitchen. The DI smiled a greeting. "Good- you're here. He's up there, is he? This one's a real puzzle. Nobody can figure out how long the bodies might have been there, because the wall paper is old, but the plaster is new. It just doesn't make sense." He started to put a fresh pair of latex gloves on. That's when he glanced into the living room, and saw Sally. He ducked his head in and realised that she was alone. "Where's Anderson?"

She just smiled. "Upstairs with the Freak."

Lestrade gave a rueful smile and headed up with John. "Right, better make sure they don't kill each other, shall we?"

"He's on best behaviour, Lestrade. Not a word that wouldn't pass as polite."

Lestrade's scepticism was evident. "You're joking, aren't you?"

The doctor gave him a slightly odd look. "No, perfectly serious. Whatever you said or rather did to Sherlock yesterday has had the desired effect. He hasn't said a word out of line, despite the best efforts of Sally and Anderson to provoke him. They don't seem to be recognising a truce, even if Sherlock's waving a white flag."

On the second flight, they had to step aside as constables came down carrying body bags. The ME brought up the rear. "I'm taking them to the mortuary where I can cut open the vacuum packaging under controlled circumstances. Holmes said he'll be along shortly, but he's examining the void now."

When Lestrade reached the doorway of the back room on the top floor, Anderson was just coming out. "I just don't get it, sir. The plaster is clearly new compared to the rest of the wall. But the wall paper over it was six layers deep, and at least thirty years old- probably twice that. The bodies can't have been in there for long- they're not mummified, but there is no entry anywhere, not in this room or any that share the wall with the void. I've dusted for prints in the void- it's antiseptically clean. Out here I've checked the skirting boards and windows, but they aren't going to be contemporaneous with the bodies- most likely they'll check out to be the builders. I'll get someone to print the lot of them." He looked annoyed. "Oh, FYI, Holmes is hiding in the void- seems like yesterday you taught him some manners; about bloody time, too, Detective Inspector."

The idea of Sherlock being accused of hiding was just too ridiculous, but John crossed over to the hole and peered in. Sherlock had his back to the hole, and was staring up at the ceiling. "You alright, Sherlock?"

"Of course, John. Is Lestrade with you?"

"Yeah."

"Is Anderson gone?"

John looked behind him. Lestrade was just finishing up his conversation with the CS Examiner, who then clattered down the stairs. So, he turned back to the void. "Looks like it."

Sherlock came through the hole, crouching down to get his tall frame through the three foot tall space. He then stood up and waited. Lestrade turned away from the hallway and caught his first sight of Sherlock.

He stopped moving and just stared in shock. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, as if he couldn't bear the sight. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so s…"

"Don't." Quietly but firmly spoken, Sherlock stopped him from continuing.

"But, Sher…"

" Don't. There is no need."

Greg lifted his hand to his own face and rubbed his forehead. "But, they've got it all wrong."

"And I said, don't. There is no need for any further discussion."

John could see the DI was distressed. Not angry, no- far from it. Embarrassed. Apologetic. Even in his body language. The doctor didn't understand what was going on, but it wasn't what he expected. And, in that moment, he realised that he might be intruding on something private. Sherlock was just calmly looking at the detective inspector, his face unreadable. Lestrade took a couple of steps closer to Sherlock. "It's not right, Sherlock. It's not fair, if they think…"

Again, Sherlock cut him off. "I don't care what they think. You, however, do need to care. They have to respect you, if you are to do your job. So, let them think whatever they want about me."

The conversation was so cryptic that John was lost. He decided that retreat might be helpful. "Uh, I'm going to make myself scarce" and started to head for the door.

This time it was Lestrade who intervened first. "No, not John. Yeah, guess you're right about the rest of the team- but not John. I won't have him thinking this is your fault. That's just not right." He turned to John. "Shut the door, will you?"

Now John was in a bind. "Sherlock? Do you want me to go?" He realised something serious was going on, but wasn't sure that his friend would welcome his being there. After all, Lestrade had prior claim.

Sherlock sighed, then put up a hand in surrender.

Lestrade now closed the distance remaining between him and Sherlock, and surveyed the damage. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I couldn't help but think about it all last night, and felt guilty as hell. You were trying to help me, and like the idiot you always accuse me of being, I didn't get it then."

"No apology is needed. It's only fair."

That confused Lestrade. "No, you were right. Sometimes people change. It hurts like hell, but you were trying to tell me all along, and I just didn't want to see it. We're not all as gifted as you are at being able to see the truth."

John was utterly lost. "Okay, you don't mind me being here, but I feel like I'm in a foreign film- a few sub-titles, please?"

Lestrade turned to the doctor. "My wife finally left me- on the weekend. Our marriage is over- hurts like hell." Now he gestured at Sherlock, "he's been trying to tell me that for the past two years, and I took it out on him yesterday. Lost my temper and clobbered him- because he was right, because he was there, and because he would let me." Now he turned back to the brunet. "Not only that, you pushed me into hitting you so I wouldn't do something I'd regret, with someone who pissed me off on the team or, heaven forbid, the wife or her lover."

Not exactly what a sociopath would do. John decided that he might just be pushing his luck, but it was worth asking. "So, Sherlock, why'd you do that?"

"Lestrade's put up with more than enough from me over the years, seemed only fair to redress the balance a bit. Now, if you both wouldn't mind, I'd really like to stop this tedious conversation and get back to what is a very interesting case."

And John realised that it was all the explanation he was ever likely to get, so he shut up.

oOo

Two hours later, Sherlock solved the case. John and Lestrade were standing on one side of the mortuary slab with the woman's body, Molly was on the other side. The pathologist had completed the first autopsy, removing the organs, weighing them and then stitched the Y cuts up.

Sherlock paced in tight circles at the head of the three tables. The Police ME had done his job, handing over the bodies of a female who looked to be in her mid-thirties and a female infant- maybe a year to eighteen months old. Fingerprint scans showed neither was in the system. Dental records would be checked but he didn't hold out much hope "The woman's bridgework looks foreign; the little girl is too young to have needed it."

"So, Miss Hooper, how long do you think they've been dead?" Lestrade looked at the Pathologist, who was examining the skin of the woman.

She frowned. "It's hard to say. Because they were wrapped up, and vacuum packed, there is no aerobic decomposition. Anaerobic decomp is harder to calculate; a lot depends on how warm they got. But sooner or later the gases produced by the decomposition will burst the wrapper. If it was ordinary plastic, I'd guess not that long- a couple of weeks at best. But, given the strength of the plastic, it could have lasted for months." She shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I can't be any more precise. I do know that when the ME cut open the bags, a lot of gasses escaped, but, then again, the organs are still for the most part intact, yet showing signs of decomposition. It's a real puzzle."

Sherlock stopped his pacing and pulled his phone out, accessing something on the internet. Then made a phone call.

"Ah, is that Pritchard Estate Agents? I'm enquiring about a property you have to let on Kensington Gardens Square, at Number 64. I believe it's a top floor flat?" Molly, Greg and John waited as Sherlock listened to whatever was being said by the estate agent.

"Could you tell me how long it's been empty?"

...

"And if I needed to contact the former occupants, do you have an address for them?

...

"Yes- well, I do need it, because I urgently need to contact them regarding the death of a relative in Birmingham; there is an inheritance involved."

...

"That's very helpful, miss. Yes, I am sure that when they get the inheritance, they will be able to pay the rent which they owe you. Goodbye."

He turned back to face the three. "Anish Ranchod, Amina his wife, and Zani, their baby daughter lived in the flat next door, top floor of Number 64. They'd been renting for two years and then did a midnight flit, according to the estate agent, owing a month's rent. That was three weeks ago, so we have time of death. He and his wife were from Pakistan, their daughter was born eighteen months ago. That's probably not their real names, but what they told the letting agency."

"Let us assume that they came into the UK on a tourist visa and melted into the background. If they were legal, their fingerprints would be in the system. The credit check done by the agency before agreeing the lease has Ranchod down as working in the catering business. That's where another key clue emerges. It's the vacuum packing that gives it away- only a large food processing factory has access to vacuum technology and sheet polythene strong enough to keep the decomposition scent from escaping quickly."

Now he bent over the neck of the female's body, and exposed the slash. "Now- the method of death is interesting. Not just an ordinary knife wound. The large arteries of the neck along with the oesophagus and vertebrate trachea have been severed with one swipe of a non-serrated blade. Molly- can you confirm that the child was killed the same way, and that in neither case has there been damage to the nerves?"

"Yes- that's true. I …thought it a bit…you know…odd. In most cases, if someone slashes a throat, it's, um, done with more force and there is nerve damage, too. But not on these three."

"Then, Lestrade, you are looking for a halal caterer, who does butchery on site. The cutting technique is unique- designed to ensure that the animal bleeds to death before it could die from any other cause, such as a severed nerve stopping the heart. At this stage of decomposition, I doubt we would find any traces of blood, but given the technique used, I think it is logical to assume that there wasn't any when they were sealed in the heavy plastic. You will be able to identify which halal catering firm by the plastic used- it's a heavy-duty variety used to export meat, so a caterer with a business selling pre-packed, frozen halal meat, probably to Saudi Arabia, as it cannot meet demand during Hajj with local resources."

John was once again astonished by the breadth of Sherlock's knowledge. For someone who swore he deleted extraneous facts- like the solar system- he had the most bizarre collection of facts carefully stored away, such as the knife technique of a halal butcher and why Saudi Arabia had such a demand for meat that they'd import it from the UK.

"If that's true, then why didn't the murderer just butcher the bodies, freeze the remains and ship it off to the Middle East?"

Despite the gruesome nature of the discussion, Sherlock smiled. "You can thank the horse meat scandal for that- meat exports are being DNA tested. He wouldn't be able to take the chance that human DNA would be picked up."

John watched Sherlock closely examining the woman's skin across her breasts. "Sherlock, why are you thinking the husband is the murderer?

Sherlock now stood upright again, clasping his hands behind his back. "Have you done the organ dissections yet, Molly?"

She shook her head.

"Then please examine the woman's uterus. I think you will find that she is pregnant- possible as far along as six or seven months."

She looked startled. "How would you know that?" She moved to the dissection table and lifted one of the plastic containers. She had set aside the organs to take tissue samples later.

"The nature and location of their death suggests an honour killing. Nevertheless the bodies were treated with some respect. When you look for the catering firm, it will be the one whose halal butcher has joined in the last month. I expect Ranchod has returned to Pakistan- but on his real passport, so untraceable."

"Oh!" The pathologist sounded startled- she must have found something. Sherlock smirked. "Careful with that scalpel, Molly. You will need to preserve the foetus as evidence, and we may be able to get DNA evidence."

She brought over the stainless steel pan, in which the dissected uterus lay, and nodded to Sherlock.

Lestrade put it together. "So, she was pregnant, and the husband knows it isn't his, so he murdered her. That's horrible enough, but why kill his own daughter, too?"

John answered before Sherlock. "Can he be sure she is his daughter? He might have thought she was also the product of adultery."

"DNA will be needed, Molly. An illegal immigrant, a halal butcher, believes his wife to be an adulteress, but fears losing everything if he makes a public spectacle of her shame. So, he does the deed in the only way he knows how, with his own knife, applying the same technique he uses every day. For all we know, he is now back in Pakistan trying to find a new wife."

The DI then frowned at Sherlock. "But, I still don't understand how the bodies got placed in the space between the two flats. There is no way the guy could have broken through into the void from the other side. The party wall between the two buildings is at least two feet wide of solid brick- and there is absolutely no sign of disturbance in it- we looked very carefully. So, I don't get it."

Sherlock gave one of his trademark smirks. "No, I don't suppose you would, but then most police had a two-dimensional mind, even you, Lestrade."

John realised what Sherlock meant- it's what he saw when he looked through the hole and saw the brunet looking up. "The ceiling? You're saying he came through the roof?"

The consulting detective nodded. "I'm sure you'll find that the flat in Number 64 has an attic. So, when you take a look, you will probably find signs of breaking through to the house next door's roof space. After putting the bodies in, he re-laid the ceiling boards, covered it over with loft insulation, and then probably hid the entrance from Number 64, too. Being sealed in there would delay the bodies being discovered for quite some time. Even when the plastic burst, the renovators would have trouble figuring out where the smell was coming from- and I'd bet it would put off potential buyers for months, if not years."

Lestrade was thinking it through. "Only one problem with that Sherlock. The builders found the new plaster under the really old paper. How do you explain that?"

Sherlock's smile broadened. "Of course, when the murderer hid the bodies, he'd have seen the crumbling plaster from the inside of the void, and worried about the scent escaping. So, he fixed it, never dreaming that it would actually raise suspicions. He nearly got away with it; most builders would have just put it down as a damp spot and carried on. The builder who got curious is to be commended, Lestrade. He's just saved the new owners a great deal of trouble."

John looked down at the two bodies, and was filled with an overwhelming sense of sadness. "What a waste- it seems so very cruel."

"The institution of marriage is responsible for an extraordinary amount of crime, John. It is fortunate that most don't end with a murder." If the consulting detective and the detective inspector exchanged a meaningful glance, John decided not to mention it.