Got My Eye on You Chapter Eighty Two

A Pocketful of Rye (Part One)


Author's Note: A post-TEH case fic. The first time Sherlock worked with the Met, after solving the Second Gunpowder Plot. This story arc is dedicated to SailonSilverGirl, as distraction therapy.


She was muttering. Lestrade couldn't quite hear her over the sound of the car's tires on the dark wet road. "What was that?" He held onto his take-away coffee, as she slipped the unmarked Mondeo onto the roundabout, which was surprisingly busy with traffic. The ASDA to their right had its lights on, including one that boasted of a 24 hour opening. She squeezed the gunmetal grey unmarked police vehicle between two huge container lorries, and swore under her breath.

"Say again, Sally?"

"I said, I hate November."

Greg took another pull at the hot liquid caffeine. "Why November in particular?"

"Because it means getting up and driving to work while it's still dark. It's bad enough to be going home in the dark. I don't mind working late; homicide crime scenes are easier late at night- fewer people rubber-necking on the side-lines. But, it's six forty five in the sodding morning; it should be getting light out." She gestured out at the blackness, broken only by the strange orange of the sodium street lighting. "And what is it with these guys, organising a meeting that starts at 7? Not exactly social hours."

"They're port police, Sally. Run on a different shift system." He sipped his coffee as she drove off the roundabout onto the dock approach road. Then he quickly swallowed, nearly choking to blurt out, "There it is, across the road on your right."

She slowed the car, and flipped the indicator to signal the right turn. Behind her a lorry driver stood on his horn, the hydraulic brakes protesting in a huff. None of the steady stream of lorries coming out of the docks area would stop to let her cross. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, muttering "come on…"

Finally, Greg got annoyed. Slipping the coffee cup into the holder, he reached over and hit the switch that turned on the blue lights hidden behind the front grill. Obediently, the next lorry stopped and let them cross the St Andrews road and into the main entrance of the Port of Tilbury. Another right hand turn across a long line of lorries waiting to leave the main gate, and then they were in the car-park of the Port of Tilbury Police Station. Greg turned the lights off. She shot him a look.

"I know. Only supposed to use them in an emergency, and this doesn't qualify. Still," he shrugged. "It's not like they're going to file a complaint. Just don't let me catch you doing it."

She reversed into an empty slot. "So, tell me again, Guv. Why do these guys want us on their patch?"

"Too small to have their own internal enquiry team. Port of Tilbury Police force is tiny. So, they call in either Essex or the Met when they can't solve their own homicides. Not to say that they happen very often. It's been four years since the last one. Then, bang- three deaths in the last three months, and no progress made in solving them, so the heat is on. The Essex force has thrown in the towel, so we've been assigned to help out. That said, don't go throwing your weight around. They get a bit touchy about it."

As they entered the large well-lit station lobby, Greg was startled to see how busy it was. There were several rows of chairs, most of which were taken, with what looked to be a lot of lorry drivers. Uniformed officers were talking to some, carrying clipboards.

The officer looked up when they approached the desk. "You DCI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan?" The Desk Sergeant was a big man, with reddish hair and freckles. But the grim look on his face tempered what might have passed for a welcoming smile.

Greg nodded for them both.

"Right. The briefing room's been set up for you, but it turns out that you're wanted on a case in progress. This time the bastards got one of our own." He called out, "Ellicock." A young sergeant turned away from the lorry driver he was talking to, and came over. He pushed his blond hair out of his eyes and nodded to the two, dropping his clipboard onto the desk.

"Take these two guests from the Met over to the scene on Centre branch dock. The Chief is waiting for you."

Seven minutes later, Greg was looking down at a man's body. It was wearing a yellow high-vis jacket with Port of Tilbury Police emblazoned on the back. There was a fishy scent in the air- the Thames this far down river from London would be tidal and a bit briny.

"Jack Schaeffer, Tilbury Port Chief of Police." The man introducing himself was small- not even Sally's height- thin and wiry, and looking decidedly grim. Lestrade introduced himself and Donovan, who was now bending down over the body.

The Chief was shaking his head. "It's Simon West. He's been with us for four years, came from the British Transport Police. Because of the other murders, we've upped the patrols. He was out on one when this happened." There were quite a number of other officers on the scene, most of them not actually working it, but standing behind the tapes, talking quietly. Their breath clouded in the cold moist air off the river. "He was popular with the rest of the lads. This is going to hit the team hard."

A middle-aged woman in a forensic suit was also down on one knee beside the body. Just about managing not to cry, she said, "Donna Foreman. I'm a Port Health Authority Manager- I do the ME work for the Port Police whenever it's needed, which thankfully isn't often. Most of the time I'm just checking the foreign sea crew and the ro-ro drivers' records to make sure no one's bringing in disease, and the odd cargo check. Never thought I'd be doing this for one of our boys."

She lifted the dead man's head gently, feeling on the other side with a gloved hand, which she then held up and squinted at it, trying to see if there was any blood on it. "Apparent cause of death is a single gunshot to the left temple. Death would have been instantaneous. It may not be a through and through. Don't know for sure whether the bullet is still in his brain; not until I turn him over."

Sally sighed, and Greg watched as she crouched down further to take a closer look. The body was lying chest down, but his head was turned, and the Met DI could see the side of West's face under the dark hole that was the bullet's entry wound. Young, too young. The scene was bathed in the peculiar orange light so common in industrial sites, but Greg would need brighter light to see if there was any gunpowder residue that would suggest an execution-style gun to the temple. A glance around made him realise that dawn was coming- but the river mist and low cloud wouldn't help much for a while.

A man in a security guard's uniform with a fancy SLR digital camera moved in. "Please step away from the body so I can get a clear view; then you can get to work properly." Sally got up and backed away with Lestrade and Foreman, as the camera flash went off repeatedly. Less than a minute later, the young man turned back to them. "You can turn him now."

Donna caught Sally's eye. "Will you help?"

The two women gently rolled the body over, so West was on his back. The ME spoke first. "No exit wound." She stopped for a moment, her head bowed. "This is just so unfair. Simon was pulling overtime because his wife's just about to have their second kid."

The yellow jacket was open, showing the officer's service vest underneath. Sally instantly noticed the absence of the radio that should've been clipped onto the vest up by his shoulder. She turned back to Lestrade and Schaeffer. "No radio; when did he last call in?"

"At 5.12; that's when the Control Room logged it. He was at the far end of the New Branch dock, up near the Emeraude."

Lestrade's face must have looked puzzled, because the Chief explained. "Emeraude France- it's a Catamaran ferry – she's been laid up here since 2007; owners can't seem to find a buyer. There's a thousand meters between here and there. He should have called in again at 5.32. When there was no response, we sent out a patrol and they found him here at ten past six."

The ME flipped the yellow jacket open and that's when Greg realised what had been making his nose twitch- the smell of fish. Possibly not so odd, given they were on a dock, but this was much more immediate. And one look at the dead officer explained why. In the man's service vest right pocket, the head of a fish was poking out.

"Step aside, ladies." The photographer moved in and started taking frontal shots.

"Guv- there's a bulge in his trouser pocket; doesn't look right. Can I investigate?"

Lestrade turned to Schaeffer. "It's your manor, but my Sarg is one of the best on the force. Given we're supposed to be investigating how you've handled the earlier three deaths, it makes sense for us to get in on this one, too. Besides, it's always hard to be objective when the victim is one of your own."

Schaeffer looked at Sergeant Ellicock who shrugged, then reluctantly nodded. The Chief then nodded, too.

As soon as the flash stopped, Sally was back on her knees beside the body, and this time, both Lestrade and Schaeffer were looking over her shoulder.

Greg said quietly, "Have you got a CSE on your force?"

Schaeffer huffed; "Sort of; he's a part-timer from the service that Kent uses. We call him in when we need him. He's on his way. He lives in Dartford. Not normally on duty until 9. He just missed the 7.10 ferry over from Gravesend. He'll be here shortly- on the 7.40 departure. It'll be eight or so by the time he gets on scene. Ellicock, give her your set of gloves and some evidence bags."

Sally used a pen to prod the fish out of the vest pocket and into the first bag, handing it back to the PC. Then she carefully pushed her gloved hand into the man's left hand trouser pocket. She pulled out what appeared to be an evidence bag full of wheat. Puzzled, she lifted her hand up so that the others could see it.

The Port Chief spoke first. "That doesn't make sense. The grain terminal is on the north side of New Branch. Why would he have put that in a pocket? And what the hell is he doing with a dead fish?"

Lestrade stood up and reached in his coat pocket for his phone. "I don't know. But I know a man who will be able to help." He scrolled down a list for a new number. He hadn't had time to put it on speed dial. After all, the man had only been back just over a week. The call was picked up on the third ring.

"Hi. I've got a weird one- a port police officer with a pocket of fish and wheat, possibly linked to three earlier murders. Will you come?"

Sally sighed as she got to her feet. This time, Greg heard the mutter loud and clear: "Two years without HIM on the scene; I suppose it was too good to last."