Got My Eye on You Chapter Eighty Four


A Pocketful of Rye (Part Three)


Author's Note: If you are not following my other story Ex Files, then you will have missed a little "aside" posted yesterday. The latest chapter there is called "Exhort", and covers Mycroft's POV on the start of this story. It helps to explain why Sherlock is acting the way he is. Think of it as a back-story…


As he came down the main corridor of the station, Lestrade frowned. The briefing room door was at the end, but the room was visible through the internal windows. It was positively buzzing, packed with people. The space wasn't big; the lighting harsh- long fluorescent strip bulbs, casting reflections everywhere. The ceiling was low, and it was cramped with furniture – a board style table had been pushed against the wall, and the chairs and computers moved in. Box files were stacked up. Phones were going, too- both mobiles and land lines. A cacophony of sound and sights.

The morning shift had arrived, but the night shift was reluctant to leave, given the new murder. Greg could see the evidence wall was already festooned with three sections of photos and writing, but a constable was now carefully moving the whole lot over to the left, to create space on the right for the new victim. He had an audience. There were knots of people, some in uniform, some not, talking to each other about the morning events. The voices weren't the usual jovial banter though, probably out of respect for Simon West, whose photo had just been pinned to the board.

They're still in shock. It never failed to surprise him how differently a police team acted when one of their own was a victim. They might be hardened by day-to-day exposure to homicide horrors, when the job required a professional approach to the victims and their families, but it was different when it was personal.

As he reached the doorway, he felt the press of warm bodies, overdressed to cope with the November cold, now steaming in the heated room. The scent of stale sweat and coffee permeated the place. Even Greg could smell it when he stopped on the threshold, which made him worry about what Sherlock's sensitive nose would make of it. Over the years, Greg had learned that Sherlock worked best when he did not have to deal with the distractions of other people. The MET DI kept a small team on any scene where the consulting detective was active, with only the bare minimum needed and those would be familiar faces. And when Sherlock came to New Scotland Yard, Greg tried to make it during times when the open plan areas weren't heaving. Even so, more often than not, Sherlock would hole up in Lestrade's office, pacing in the tiny space. At least it was familiar.

So, the DI hesitated, unsure about whether he should take the consulting detective into the throng. That's when Chief Schaeffer across the room spotted him, and called out. "Lestrade, finally! Over here." He beckoned.

Every eye in the room turned to look at who was at the door. Sherlock just stepped around Lestrade and walked in, keeping his eyes on the floor, not looking at any of the faces that were now focused on him. Conversations died away. He moved purposefully to the evidence wall, and then stopped in front of the far right- the first victim. He pulled out his phone and started to take pictures as he read through the material.

Lestrade and Donovan followed him into the room, but stopped in front of Schaeffer. The chief was looking at Sherlock's back, but then turned to face the Met officers. "I knew you were calling in reinforcements, but I didn't realise it would be him." There was just the faintest tinge of awe in his voice.

There was a man who wasn't in uniform standing beside the Chief. He pulled a face. "Bloody hell; it's bad enough to have the Met looking over my shoulder, but who needs a celebrity detective?" Schaeffer shot him a stern look. "Behave, Bill. Anyone who can help us find Simon West's murderer is welcome here."

From past experience, Lestrade knew this was the part that Sherlock hated the most- the social necessity of introductions. He was standing with his back to the Chief and the rest of the people in the room, as if to shut them out. Greg reached over and put a hand on the upturned collar of the Belstaff coat. There was the quietest of sighs; then Sherlock turned away from the board to face the others.

Before anyone else could say a word, Sherlock spoke. "You are John Schaeffer, Chief of the Tilbury Port Police. The man standing beside you is William Tolhurst, your Detective Inspector. This is DI Lestrade and his Sergeant Sally Donovan. And you know who I am. Now that's over, can I talk to someone who knows the details on this board without having to look anything up?" It wasn't the acerbic know-all attitude that Greg was expecting, more a resigned let's get this over quickly.

"That would be me." Tolhurst stepped forward. He was as tall as Sherlock, but that's where the similarities ended. The DI seemed as broad as he was tall; an absolute bear of a man. Very short light brown hair, almost military in style, over a black leather jacket and dark shirt with an open collar, and boots instead of shoes. He had a night's growth of dark stubble on his chin. He cut a very different figure from Greg Lestrade, in his grey suit and white button-down shirt, complete with tie. The new Met Chief of Detectives had insisted that anyone who wasn't undercover should wear a tie, as part of the professional image projected to London's citizens.

Sherlock scrutinised Tolhurst for a moment, then nodded. "Chief Schaeffer, it would be better if you and the rest of your men went about their business as usual. I am sure the Port Authority needs you to do so. If you can spare the Medical Examiner, her opinion would be helpful if I have questions about the autopsies." And then he turned back to the evidence board.

Greg realised that the two years away might have changed Sherlock's social skills. He wasn't being overtly rude or sarcastic in his comments, as he might have been before. There was something new in the way he delivered them, a seriousness that carried more authority than his usual provocative tone. The subtext was clear- The Work is more important than any of us doing it, Sherlock included. Interestingly, that didn't grate as much as the old style, when Sherlock seemed to delight in purposefully getting up people's noses.

Greg and Sally came alongside Sherlock, bracketing him to get their first look at the board for themselves. Behind them, the Chief gave a little cough and then said loudly to the rest of the officers in the room, "The man has a point. Get to work- all of you. The only people who need to be in this room are our guests, DI Tolhurst, Foreman and Sergeant Ellicock, when he gets back from the crime scene. The rest of you- I'll keep you informed of any progress."

Behind them, Greg could hear murmurs from the officers who were reluctant to leave. Someone in the crowd said, "Gee, where's the hat?" There was a ripple of laughter. Sally actually flinched at that, perhaps feeling guilty for her part in the gift that made all the newspaper photos when the mafia fugitive was caught.

Sherlock was oblivious. Lestrade decided that being able to tune people out was probably a useful skill at the moment. The tall brunet took his eyes away from the board to glance at the Tilbury DI standing beside him. "So, tell me about the first victim, Rashid al-Assadi. What's a Yemeni doing on a Ghanaian ship?"

Tolhurst looked startled. "Who said anything about him being from Yemen? His papers are Somali."

Sherlock pointed a long lithe finger at the colour photograph. "Al-Assadi is a Yemeni name; Arabs that have green eyes are almost invariably from Yemen. If he's picked up illegal documentation in Somalia, then that's very interesting. Tell me how he died and where you found him."

The leather jacket creaked as the big man crossed his arms and looked back at the board. "Drowned in the dock. The body was found next to the cruise liner berth, but the tide could have carried it there. Donna?"

The Medical examiner had shed her blue forensic suit, and was now pulling on a white lab coat. In the bright light, Greg could now see the woman's brown hair was interspersed with more than a few grey strands. He guessed she would be about fifty, but in good shape for it. No make-up on the serious but intelligent face. She wasn't beautiful or even conventionally pretty, but there was something about her demeanour that spoke of authority.

She responded to Tolhurst's query, "The autopsy showed he'd been in the water about six hours; the body was discovered by one of the Fred Olson ship crew, just off the stern. We've gotten pretty good at estimating ToD from drowning."

The consulting detective glanced at her again. "The photos here show some bruising. Do you agree that the patterns suggest he put up a fight?"

"Definitely a fighter. He had finger mark bruises on his throat prior to going into the water. And the bruising on his ribs showed definite boot impact, rather than a deck rail or just the broken bones from falling. No trace under the fingernails, though, so he didn't get a chance to scratch. I told the Chief that it was foul play. He was still alive when he went in, but probably too badly injured to last long in the cold water. It was low tide ninety minutes after the estimated time of death, so the quayside would be at least nine meters above the water. Even if he could have shouted with that damaged throat? Well- it would have been next to impossible for anyone on the quay to hear it. The mean temperature of the river midstream mid- October has been about 9 degrees C, and only a few points above that in the docks. That's the reason why the bruises were not more evident, if it had happened in a fight just before he went in, then the cold water would have retarded the bruises coming out."

The consulting detective nodded. "Thorough. Thank you, Doctor Foreman. But, are you certain he drowned in the docks? Is it possible that it could have happened elsewhere and the body dumped?"

She shook her head. "Fluid in the lungs is consistent with the water sample taken at the time the body was recovered. Bacteriophage, solubles and insoluble matter confirm it." She suddenly smiled. "Mister Holmes, the fact that I know that is due to you. Your monograph three years ago on Thames water samples and locations of body dumps was absolutely riveting stuff*. Throughout London Ports Authority area, we've changed our protocols to apply your techniques. If only the circumstances were different, I'd be delighted to have this opportunity to work with you."

Sherlock did not react to her praise, but tapped the photo of the ship that Assadi had been serving on when he died. "The Adobia. Tell me about her."

Tolhurst took up the story. "Ghanaian general cargo ship. She was carrying cocoa beans mostly, and some other stuff. That was offloaded on 5 September, and then she was being reloaded with electrical goods and cars before shipping back to Tema- that's Accra's port. The death happened on the night of the 6th, with the ship due to leave the next day. They don't like hanging around paying berth fees and the captain was pretty pissed off that we delayed his departure by a day to get statements from the crew."

Lestrade looked at the crew ID photo of the dead man. "He looks young. Was he an experienced crew member?"

Tolhurst shook his head. "Nope. Turned out al-Assadi was new to the business- only been on the ship for four months. Usual story- kept himself to himself- nobody had a bad word to say, but no one claimed to know him or his people well. It's the usual stuff- no investigation here ever gets anything useful out of the crew- they don't want to be compelled to testify at any trial because that would mean staying behind when their ship sails. Too many people back home depend on their wages, so they keep shtum."

"How do you deal with the language issue?" Sherlock's question was quietly put.

Tolhurst nodded. "Yeah, it can be an effing pain, but it's one we're used to." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Box files on the far right have the original statements. A lot of deck hands' English is so poor that we have to use translators to make sense of the recordings we take, or get them to write it out in their native language as best they can. Then we get the same guys to translate the written stuff into English transcripts."

Lestrade was trying to get a sense of scale. "How busy was the dock on the night in question? Could somebody on another ship have seen it?"

"Busy?" Tolhurst just shook his head. "Yeah, you could say that. You've got to understand. Tilbury handles 12.5 million tonnes of cargo a year, with over 3,000 ships coming in here. We handle 80% of London's container traffic- that's 120,000 containers a year, making us the third biggest in the whole country. We are the biggest port in the country for both grain products and forestry. And you said 'dock'? Well, sorry, but that doesn't even begin to explain it. There are 16 independent terminals, with 34 operational berths. We've got cargo being craned off night and day, moving by rail and truck. Some of it gets taken off the nearly 8ks of quayside and straight onto transport but a lot gets trucked into the warehouses. There's over a half million square feet of that space by the way- just to the east of the docks. Oh, and the port area is three and a half square kilometres. To police all that? We have thirteen officers."

Sally spluttered. "Then who were all the rest of the people? I saw four guys in the reception area alone dealing with the public when we got here at seven- and there was quite a crowd at the quayside, too."

He sighed, "They're specials, mostly recruited from staff who work for the Port Authority. Simon was popular with them; treated them with more respect than they are due. They're mostly poorly trained security looking for the odd job to add to their wage packets. We're not like the Met." He sounded more than a little bitter.

Greg was shocked. "Thirteen? Bloody hell, the City of London force has only got a bloody square mile, yet there are over seven hundred and fifty of them." The Met DI had known that they were stretched, but he had no idea just how bad until now.

Sherlock was still staring at the board. "The terminals that are in private hands, the warehouses, the operators- they all have their own security personnel. And then there are the Border Agency staff."

Tolhurst just laughed. "Yeah, and it's like herding cats. Everybody's got their own ways of doing things, and getting stuff centralised? What a joke! We do our best. But even something as simple as CCTV is split up between the different terminals and companies. We have just twelve cameras of our own- at the key road intersections, so we can figure out who has to pay when there are traffic accidents. With the amount of trucks, forklifts and passenger cars coming in and out, there are plenty to keep us busy. We have to rely on the other companies' CCTV to see what's going on near their sites in the port area- and they're not always keen to share. We may be the oldest police force in the country, but that doesn't mean they defer to us."

"I wasn't intentionally insulting your team, Detective. What I meant is that with such fragmentation of security, there are plenty of opportunities for corruption and inefficiency, which makes solving the case harder."

Now Greg was convinced. Whatever had happened to Sherlock over the intervening two years, his manner had changed. There was a kind of laser-like focus, an intensity now that was no longer masked by the sarcastic mannerisms that had once characterised his work on a case.

The consulting detective was focused on the evidence board. "What about the al-Assadi's clothing? Anything in the pockets?"

Now the Port officer looked puzzled. "Just the usual- a wallet with some US dollars- that's the currency of choice for most crew; couple of family photos; a locker key- we checked the locker on the Adobia- just clothing and some personal effects. Nothing unusual. Why?"

"I'll explain later, once we've had a chance to look at the boxes. I assume that his effects are in there?"

When Tolhurst nodded, Sherlock replied without looking at the man, "Let's move on to the second victim."

The five of them stepped to the right. Tolhurst started off. "This one is Ridwan Tahyadi, Indonesian national, off the Glovis Cougar. That's a VC registered in the Marshalls." He must have seen Sally's eyebrow go up. "Sorry, VC means vehicle carrier; I sometimes forget not everyone is born knowing shipping terminology. She came in with a cargo of palm oil, but was really here to pick up the latest batch of Landrover cars, off to feed the demand on the streets of Jakarta. The palm oil is more like ballast, just to make the journey here pay for itself; the real money was in the cars. He was murdered on the 17th of September- his body was found lying on the southern dock- nearly got run over by a lorry. He'd been beaten to death with a tyre iron."

Donna Foreman nodded. "Yeah- brutal. I wasn't on the scene, but did the autopsy." She pulled one of the photos off and handed it to Lestrade. "Distinctive pattern of the wounds- one of those tyre irons that has the forked split at the end of it." Greg took a look and passed it to Sherlock. The ME carried on; "It was weird; one blow- the one to the back of the head- was enough to kill him, but the killer just kept going. It took four days to be sure of who the hell it was, cross-checking against missing crew members. "

"Was he killed on the dock, or just dumped there?" Sherlock was now bending down with his magnifier out looking at one of the crime scene photos. "There doesn't appear to be enough blood where he was found."

Tolhurst looked a little startled. "Yeah, that's right- we never did find the point of death. With wounds like that, he would have bled like a stuck big. But the ship was as clean as a whistle."

Sherlock straightened back up. "Not like a stuck pig. Inappropriate simile, because he's a Muslim- like Assadi."

"How can you tell?" Tolhurst challenged. "None of his ship mates mentioned that."

There was no eye roll to the heavens or any of the usual distain that Sherlock used to show when someone tried to argue with his deductions. Instead, Sherlock just leaned forward to look at the next photo, of the ship. "There are more Muslims living in Indonesia than in any other country in the world. Look at what he's wearing on his head in the crew ID photo- the kopiah, sometimes called a songkok- it's different from the Arab taqiyah, but all are worn by practicing Muslims. Did you find a prayer mat amongst his effects?"

"I'll have to check the list."

"Cross check with the list of Assadi's effects- you are likely to find one there, too."

He moved onto the third cluster of photos, leaving Greg and the others to follow. This one was a woman- an oriental face, but Greg wasn't an expert in deciphering nationalities. Tolhurst took up the story. "This one's a jane doe. No fingerprint match with anything- and believe me, we tried; sent her details to more than twenty countries. We got nothing at all back."

Donna Foreman took a sad look at the photos. "Probably about twenty years old, not a virgin, but she had not gone through childbirth. She had a single slash of a blade across her throat, would have bled out in minutes. Her body was found in a box that should have contained a new commercial refrigeration unit shipped in from Italy. The warehouse team found the naked body once it had begun to decompose. Hard to say how long the body had been there. As you can see, decomp was pretty advanced."

Tolhurst frowned. "This one is likely to have been done elsewhere, and we just got the body. Doesn't seem to have any links to the other two. The Messina Miracoli delivered the cargo of white goods and left five days before the body was found."

Sherlock leaned forward and then pulled off one of the autopsy photos. "Tell me about her right hand."

"Oh- yes. It was tattooed." She leaned over to point at something on the photo that Greg couldn't really see from his angle. "There are ink lines marking each of the bones of the hand, with a decorative band around the wrist. And, the tops of her fingers are all densely inked."

"Did you send the tattoo information to the Philippines?"

Tolhurst frowned. "I'll have to check. It was the Essex guys who did that- they have more manpower than we do. Why?"

"Because the tattoo design is unique to the Lumad- an indigenous people who live in the eastern highlands of Mindanao. That's an area which is currently an autonomous Muslim region in an otherwise predominantly Christian country."

Tolhurst just started laughing in amazement. "How the hell do you know this stuff? Nobody else spotted that- and the Essex guys looked on their ink database."

"The trouble with databases, Detective, is that they require people willing to provide the images, or police capturing criminals with the tattoos going to the trouble of photographing them and loading them onto the database. This is not a prison tatt; nor is it likely to feature on many criminals, because the Lumad are a people that do not normally travel far from their homes."

"Yeah, well, maybe. That doesn't explain how you know about them." The port detective was being sceptical in the extreme.

Sherlock pinned the photo back up. "Because I spent time in the Philippines eleven months ago."

"Yeah? Well, sitting on a beach somewhere in a tourist resort doesn't make you an expert."

For a split second, Lestrade was horrified. He'd had just a hint of what Sherlock had been up to- enough of the story to explain his damaged back. Of course, Tolhurst didn't, but that man's sarcasm was enough to set Sherlock off on a deductive tirade. When someone got nasty, Sherlock's defence mechanisms would kick in. Greg held his breath.

"I wasn't."

Lestrade's eyes grew wide. Even in response to a direct challenge, Sherlock was holding back.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tolhurst was suspicious.

"On a beach. I went nowhere near a beach. I dealt with the criminal network in Davao, the capital city of Mindanao. They were funnelling arms from the Middle East to the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, to fuel their insurgency. The four men were also heavily involved in the pirate activities off Sulu- the business that has put that area on the maritime black list. The four men linked up to a Lloyd's underwriting syndicate that was taking kick-backs to allow scuttled ships to claim for non-existent pirate attacks."

It was said in that calm monotone that now characterised Sherlock's delivery. It spooked Lestrade, who was so used to the 'old' style of sarcasm and insults about stupidity.

It was Sally who voiced their stunned reaction. "Bloody hell; that was some vacation, Holmes."

"It was anything but, Sergeant." Sherlock returned to looking at the notes and photos under the third victim's ID.

Donna Foreman was now looking at the woman's autopsy photo again- this one of her face. Greg thought that before her throat had been slit, she would have been thought of as pretty. The ME summed up his own feeling when she murmured, "Poor girl- how did she get so far from home?"

Greg suggested, "Let's get in touch with the Philippine embassy and see if they can trace her."

Sherlock shook his head. "No point. The autonomous region is just that- autonomous. The Manila government will wash their hands of the issue, and the Mindanao government will ignore her because she isn't Muslim. The Lumad are indigenous animists, loathed by the Muslim majority. Settlers now make up 95% of the local population, which is intent on developing the land for agricultural commodities- cash crops. The Lumad are getting squeezed into extinction." He stood looking at the board intently, his fingers coming together under his chin and then tapping against one another in rapid sequence.

Sergeant Ellicock came into the room just then, carrying a pile of printed photos. Tolhurst greeted him with a nod. "Are those the scene photos, Jack?"

"Yes, sir. Hot off the printer. Wish they were of someone else." He handed them over, and the detective started to put blu-tack on the back of them, then posting them up.

Greg was shaking his head. "I'm struggling to see a connection here, Sherlock. Four bodies, each one of which is killed in a different way, in a different place. We know that neither the Jane Doe nor Tayadi were killed on the spot where their bodies were found."

Sally turned to Ellicock. "Did you find a shell casing?"

The port sergeant shook his head. Then the ME spoke up. "I won't know for sure until the autopsy, but there should have been more blood at the scene if West was shot where he was found. So, that could make a third body killed elsewhere, Detective Inspector. And we have no idea where in the dock area that Assadi was killed, just where we found the body in the water. So, it could be all four."

"Any ideas, Sherlock?"

"Lots, too many. But not worth sharing any of them yet." He turned away from the wall. "You said there was a live link to the Port Authority system. Can we get a complete list of all ships in port last night and thirty six hours either side of each of the previous murders?"

Ellicock slid into a desk chair and fired up the computer. "Sure thing. But, don't you want the ship that offloaded the refrigerator packing case, or the day when the body was found?"

"Good question, Sergeant."

Greg nearly choked. Not only was Sherlock not insulting the locals, he actually just praised one of them. He smirked at the sight of disbelief on Sally's face. She's in shock, or just jealous.

Sherlock continued, "Both. I doubt the date the case arrived is as important, but to be certain, it is worth having the list. Sergeant Donovan, if you could work with him, I would appreciate it. I'm going to accompany Doctor Foreman to her lab, so I can analyse the wheat, the coin and the fish. Can we agree to meet back here in say three hours?"

Greg turned and looked at the box files. "Sounds like you want me to get started on making sense of that lot."

For the first time that night, Greg saw just a hint of a smile from Sherlock. "That would be most helpful, Lestrade. Even you should be able to spot something obvious." There it was- the echo of the old Sherlock. But now it was said more as a gentle tease than a criticism. And that made Greg give a grateful smile in return.


Author's note: *Sherlock was working on this Thames testing protocol in the first chapter of Musgrave Blaze. If you haven't read that complete story yet, you might enjoy it, while waiting for the next update of this one.