Got My Eye on You Chapter Eighty Six


Pocket Full of Rye (Part Six)


"Go home. There's no point in you staying. You are useless at computers, Lestrade."

"That's not fair!" Greg bristled. It was after midnight and his temper was starting to fray from lack of sleep.

"Life's not fair. Don't pretend I've exposed some deep secret; the whole force knows you're a Luddite."

Sally wasn't able to stifle a little chuckle, which he heard. Before he could comment, though, Sherlock turned to Sally and sniffed. "Don't poke fun at the IT illiterate, Sergeant Donovan. Can you manage an excel spreadsheet?" When she nodded, Sherlock set up another computer. "You didn't have anything better to do tonight, did you?"

"Sleep?" Greg heard the resignation in her voice; she must have guessed that this would be an all-nighter.

"No rest for the weary Sergeant." Sherlock sat down himself at her PC for a moment, and Lestrade watched over his shoulder as he blithely hacked into the HMRC system. He rolled his eyes.

"You do know that's illegal?"

"Of course, that's why I am doing it for her. It's also why I am sending you home. You can both deny everything. All my fault." He then switched seats with Sally and told her to input into a spreadsheet a list of every fine, every duty paid, every tax levied on each of the ships coming in that he and Donna were identifying. "And be sure to identify the person or persons responsible for each. That will create a list of suspects. You're after the king of the counting house."

Lestrade decided to admit defeat. He was knackered and right now sleep seemed a pretty good option. "Walk me out, Sherlock." Greg needed to talk to him, in private.

Just outside the door of the station, before out into the darkness of the car-park, he stopped to light a cigarette.

"Got one for me?"

"No way. As you recently said, these things will kill you. I'd rather you lived; I'm still getting used to the novelty."

Sherlock snorted, his warm breath clouding in the misty cold. "Don't get too used to it. In my line of work, anything can happen."

Greg took a deep drag on the cigarette and then expelled the smoke. "That's what I want to talk to you about. I don't see any signs of Big Brother keeping tabs on you. Aren't you supposed to have an SO1 officer, or one of Mycroft's minions on your tail?"

"No. New deal. I managed two years without his nose in my business, so I'm good to go on that way."

Greg choked on the second pull of smoke into his lungs. "What do you mean, without him?"

Sherlock looked at him with that slightly puzzled wrinkle at the bridge of his nose. "What is difficult to understand in my previous statement? For the past two years, Mycroft didn't know where I was or what I was doing. He was officially side-lined. Recused. Told that if he dared to interfere, he'd lose his job."

"Bloody hell." Lestrade had assumed when Sherlock resurrected that his brother must have been in on the whole scheme. "So, it was your own idea? The fake suicide and all that?"

"Yes, of course." Then a slightly annoyed tone, "Why does everyone question my ability to do what I did?"

"It's just…" Greg struggled to put it into words. "…just so big a thing to do on your own."

That drew a glare. "Oh, and I'm not capable of big things?" The sarcasm was evident.

"I didn't mean it that way. Oh, hell- I don't know what I mean. I'm too tired to be making sense; I just know I'm pleased you're back. So, if I go home and get some shut eye, tell me that you won't do anything crazy while I'm not here."

"I don't do crazy things, Lestrade. Go home, get some sleep. You are being even thicker than usual. If you aren't going to share that cigarette, then I need to get back to work." He pushed the door back open and left Greg wondering what was going on.

He was finding the 'new' Sherlock harder to read than the old. For all his quirks and foibles, the old Sherlock was someone whom Greg had understood. The version that had come back from his own private war against Moriarty's network was a changed man. Quieter, more intense; his crime-solving now seemed to be driven by something other than the delight of the puzzle as it had once been. He's like tempered steel; harder, for having been through the fire. As much as he had always worried about Sherlock in the past, Greg was even more worried now. This was a Sherlock without the counter-balance of John Watson. He'd always appreciated knowing that there was someone else keeping an eye on Sherlock. Even though the two men appeared to have made their peace, the fact that the doctor wasn't attending on this case raised Greg's level of concern.

Greg drew another deep lungful of smoke, hoping the nicotine would keep him awake for the drive back to the city. The stimulant must have been working, because he suddenly realised something that had been working away at his subconscious. Sherlock was now doing his cases as if to prove to himself- and others, perhaps John and Mycroft in particular- that he still could, but on his own, defiantly on his own. There seemed to be an undercurrent of anger running through Sherlock now. He put the cigarette out, stepping on it to be sure it was extinguished, and then unlocked the car. He fervently hoped that it wouldn't all end in tears.

oOo

Sherlock reached without looking, his eyes still glued to the screen. His fingers misjudged the distance and hit the half full cup of coffee, knocking it over.

"I'll mop up." His ear heard the words, but they didn't quite register with his brain, which was working on the cross-correlations.

Sherlock vaguely registered Donna leaving the room, but did not glance down at the pool of black liquid that was slowly making its way to the edge of the table. He keyed in the next ship name into the excel table. He was cross tabulating data on all the ships in the port on the thirty six hour window either side of the three murders: port of origin, last port of call, ownership and crew nationalities.

When she got back with paper towels from the ladies room, Donna wanted to know why he wasn't trying to do the same for the Lumad woman.

On autopilot, Sherlock heard himself answer in a rather vague tone, "No evidence she was on a ship. No date of arrival. No clear date of murder." Lumad woman was the outlier. He was sceptical about any connection between her and the Italian freighter whose packing case she'd been found in. Ergotism took at least two weeks to manifest. Add that to the decomposition levels, and it was likely that she had been in the port area for a minimum of three weeks. If they could identify a clearer range of dates for her arrival, then he might try at the end. But Ellicock's first cut at it two days ago had produced a very long list of ships.

And the list was already long enough without those. Although the average was about ten ships a day in the port, the figures varied a lot from day to day. Sometimes, all 16 independent terminals and 32 berths were full. Some ships took only hours to offload; others stayed for days, picking up new cargos before departure. The fields in the spreadsheets involved prior ports of call, cargos, ownership and history. He was looking for some clue that would link them to why the men had to die.

Some ships seemed to be permanent features of the docks, which was odd. The database Sherlock was building was also being cross-correlated with others. Once he had shown Donna the basic premise, he sat her sat down at another PC to wade through the grain terminal data. He told her to cross check with the Port Health Authority Records, to see what cargos had been tested and look for any anomalies. Sherlock told her to pay particular attention to the cargoes of rye, but anything else that stuck out should be noted, too. He wanted names, as well- the officers who had run the tests. "You're looking for the Queen with her bread and honey."

Two hours later, Sherlock vaguely noticed that one of the two women got up and had a stretch, went to the loo, and came back with more coffee for all three of them. The next time, he noticed it was Sally who did the honours, putting the cup down near Sherlock's right elbow. He heard her warn, "Don't knock this one over."

He didn't move his eyes off the screen. He didn't want to interrupt his concentration to acknowledge her. He'd just reached an interesting cross-correlation. A number of ships were in port on all four occasions.

"Holmes? You in there? Or have you perfected the art of sleeping with your eyes open?"

Go away. He was trying to scroll through the seven spreadsheets, all open on the same screen. In each of the murder periods, there were nine vessels that were always there. Others came and went.

He tried to ignore Sally as she came up behind him to look at the screen over his shoulder. "Bloody hell, can you actually read at that speed?"

I'm BUSY. He could think it, but it was too much effort to say the words.

Probably annoyed at being ignored, she reached out and touched his shoulder, a bit tentatively.

He jerked away from her hand, his right arm flying off the mouse in a spasm, sending his coffee flying again.

"Oi! …you've made a mess again!"

He looked up at her, confused and startled. "Why did you do that?"

"Just trying to get your attention; no need to freak out about it." Almost as soon as she said the dreaded F word, she tried to apologise. "I'm sorry; you know I didn't mean it that way. It's just that I got worried. You weren't responding."

Donna was back by his side now, mopping up again. "You really do concentrate. I respect that." She glared at Sally.

"I said I was sorry."

Sherlock took a deep breath and then stood up. He was feeling the effects of two days and nights without sleep. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a voice saying that sleep deprivation was not a wise idea at the moment. Why did it sound like Mycroft? For a moment, Sherlock lost sight of his surroundings, and found himself in his Mind Palace facing a brother wearing a knowing glower. "Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Sleep deprivation leads to…well, you know what, so why do you need me to remind you?" He growled at his brother, and then realised that the two women were staring at him. Donna looked worried; Sally looked annoyed.

"I need to move. And to think. That requires more oxygen than is in this overheated and stuffy room. I'm going outside. I don't suppose either of you have a cigarette?"

Sally shook her head. "I wouldn't dare- Lestrade would tell me off in no time flat."

"He's started smoking again. Hadn't you noticed?" He was already shrugging on his coat and tying his scarf. He was two steps from the door when he heard her mutter.

"Having you back has probably driven him to it."

He stopped dead in his tracks but didn't turn to face her. "You really don't like me, do you?" It was more a statement than a question.

"Holmes, I don't have to like you to respect your methods. If all this data crunching is going to lead to something, then I'll tolerate just about anything."

He thought about it, then shrugged. "Fair enough. Results are everything. As you've finished your spreadsheet, you can go home. Get some sleep. I'll need you to be capable of rational thought in the morning." He walked out before she could reply. I don't need you to like me, so long as you do your work.

When he returned thirty minutes later, it was to find Donna alone. She was sitting at his desk, going through his set of spread sheets.

He crossed his arms and looked at her properly, perhaps for the first time really observing now what until then he had only been seeing. My mistake. "So, I was right."

She looked up, her eyes showing a little anxiety. "About what?"

"You're the one who laid the clues."

"That's absurd. What on earth makes you think that?" She tried to muster up some indignation.

He gestured to the board. "It's all too neat. Doesn't fit with the crimes. It's the work of someone who is clever, but not quite clever enough to cover their tracks. Too purposeful- like a plot from a bad detective novel. Real crime is generally much messier."

Donna sighed. "I should have known you'd see through it."

"When did you piece it together?"

She bit her lip. "I didn't. I haven't yet… I mean, I have an idea- that's all; just suspicions, but no way of putting them together."

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

"Because someone on the force is involved, and I don't know who. I don't want to become another unexplained death."

"The king in the counting house? Not Her Majesty's Customs and Revenues then; rather, someone here in the police?"

"I think so. The bean counters just…well, they keep their distance. Someone in there is probably turning a blind eye for a bit of a back-hander, but I haven't been able to find anything more."

He nodded. "Tell me what you know, or suspect."

She gave a small smile. "But you already know. You must have deduced it while you were walking outside on the quayside. So, you tell me."

He tilted his head at the challenge; then decided to play along. "At first you would have been puzzled about the lack of progress on Assadi's death. Thought that the police were not taking your points seriously enough about the fight he put up. Your description yesterday suggested that you saw more than the police were willing to investigate."

He started to pace. "When Tahyadi turned up dead, this time clearly beaten to death, your suspicions grew- and your frustration with the police, too, I imagine. The Essex detectives were unable to shed any light- that was eight weeks in. Did you at the same time start getting suspicious about your own service? I wonder. If I had been in your place, I would have started snooping around to look at any interactions that occurred between the Port Health Authority and the two ships, the Adobia and the Glovis Cougar. "

She grinned. "Yeah, I did that. Came up with cargo checks- there was the palm oil on the Glovis Cougar, and cocoa beans on the Adobia. Both were passed by the same manager, Sharon Gillespie. So, I started looking at her other work. I tried to get the Port Health and Public Protection Director to take an interest. He's based at Walbrook Wharf in the City. He just told me to go to the police; they'd sort out if there were any issues. I took a risk and told PC West. I trusted Simon." Her smile faded. "And look what happened to him." She stopped, clearly distressed by what had happened to her friend.

Sherlock picked up the story again. "Before West was killed, there was the third murder- the unidentified woman. This one bothered you more than the others. Why?"

Donna spat out, "because they didn't give a damn. It was horrible. The Port Police treated her like some piece of rubbish that had floated into the dock. Tolhurst said she wasn't anything to do with us - and tried to pass the buck back to Italy. But, it's just like you said- a carton with a body instead of a fridge would have been discovered before it was shipped. These things are stacked, and the weight of a fridge on top would have crushed the box. No murderer would have taken the risk that it would be on the top. It's just random."

He leaned back on the adjacent desk, crossing his arms and really looked at her again as she recounted the tale. "So, what did you decide to do?"

"Well, I kept asking Simon if the police were making any progress. He told me that they'd agreed to put on more patrols, because the companies running the port terminals were getting antsy about things. He thought it was a waste of money, but agreed to do some because he was trying to build up a bit of a cash reserve. He was going to have to take paternal leave when his wife had the second baby; she wanted him to take more than the statutory two weeks. The force is short-staffed and they weren't too happy about it, so he figured that they might make him take some of it as unpaid leave."

She took a deep breath. "I had hopes the Essex team would get to grips with the problem, but they were just as bad. The Chief- I don't think it's him, by the way- then said it was time to try the Met."

"That's when you decided to take things into your own hands."

She nodded. "When I heard that the Met had assigned a Murder Investigation Team headed up by Greg Lestrade- well it got me thinking. I'd read in the papers that you had returned, well, I guess I just thought maybe if I made the cases sound mysterious enough, he might ask you to get involved. I knew it was a risk, but I decided to plant some evidence. I managed to get the black feather into the first victim's box file, but I didn't have access to this room at all hours. Luckily, Simon did, so he was supposed to go to the briefing room after his patrol, in the middle of the night, and pin up on the board the bag full of rye, the fish and the coin. We thought that the Met team would find them at seven when they arrived, and call you."

"And then you were called to the crime scene and found your evidence, now placed on the constable's body."

She nodded. "It was so horrible. Whoever killed him – I think they were thrown by the fish. I had put it in a bag, but they took it out and then just stuck it back in his pocket. I think it was…I don't know, maybe a message to warn me or anyone they thought Simon might be working with. I'm not sure why they missed the rye, but maybe they didn't know that it was infected."

"Was the sample of rye from the Odessa Printessa, the ship that had come in that day to offload? "

She shook her head. "No. It came off another ship last month. It was the sample taken by Sharon Gillespie, and passed then as clean. By then I was suspicious enough to take the sample and analyse it myself. When I found it had the ergot fungus, I stored it as evidence. It would have been enough to put her under suspicion at least. And, as she is also the person who signed off on the Printessa cargo, there is a chance that the false clearance would be proved again when the new samples come back. I needed an excuse to get the police interested and aware of the rye being contaminated, and you gave it. It could be done without raising suspicions that I was the one behind it. I'm not brave, Mister Holmes."

"It's Sherlock. The other name makes me think you are talking to my brother. How much more do you know?"

Now she shook her head. "Nothing. That's the problem. I can't find the connection that puts these all together. I know there is corruption at the Port Health Authority, and I know the police are not taking this seriously. Sally's spreadsheet narrows the HMRC guy turning a blind eye down to one of five suspects. But even with a single name, added to Gillespie, It's still not enough. I know that my friend, Simon West, has paid with his life for my inability to put it together." She shook her head and sighed. "I have no idea how or even if it does come together. That's what I am counting on you to do, Mister…no, Sherlock, now it's your turn. What have you found as a result of your investigation so far?"

She looked at him in anticipation, and he decided then and there to trust her.