Got My Eye on You Chapter Eighty Nine


Pocket Full of Rye (Part Nine)


Greg Lestrade was a heavy sleeper. It had always been the case. When he was married, the phone calls that came in the night were almost invariably answered by Louise. A long-suffering sigh would accompany the rough push of his shoulder. "It's your bloody job again."

So, when he got divorced and started to live on his own, he had no choice but to download an app that would boost the volume of the ring tone. And every night, before he turned off the light, he turned the app on.

Except the one night when he got home so late that it was early. The drive back from Tilbury to his flat in north London had been quick enough- not much traffic coming in from the east. Once he got past Canary Wharf, it was plain sailing. Which was just as well, because he was well and truly cream crackered*.

He stripped off his clothes, slid into his pyjamas and under the duvet half asleep. He didn't remember his head hitting the pillow.

Three hours later, he woke to the sound of someone pounding on the door. With bleary eyes, he staggered down the hall and peered through the peep-hole to see an anxious looking Sergeant on the other side. Sally had clearly dressed in a hurry, throwing on what looked to be jeans. He realised that in all the years they'd been working together, he'd never seen her in jeans before.

He slipped the chain off, undid the dead bolt and threw open the door.

"What's happened?" Greg could see the worry in her eyes.

"You weren't answering your phone- I've been ringing for the past twenty minutes. We need to get back to Tilbury."

Adrenaline collided with exhaustion to cut off the yawn he had started. "Why? What's happened?"

"He sent you a zip file- cc'd me into it, thank God. I read the top lines and I just know he's going to go stick his nose into something dangerous. I should never have left him."

"Why did you?"

"Because I finished what I was doing and he told me to go home. I should have realised he was trying to get rid of me."

That brought a little smile to Greg's face. He opened the door wider and let her in. "Still babysitting?"

She huffed. "He won't answer his phone. Guv, I can tell you more in the car, but you've got to believe me, this is big, really big. And he won't be able to resist."

Greg disappeared into his bedroom to put clothes on. "Tell me more," he shouted. Greg pulled on his trousers, and started to slip his shoes on.

She stood outside the bedroom, her back against the hall wall, so he had privacy but could still hear her. "He thinks it's a human trafficking system. We're talking hundreds of people- but not guys looking for work. It's women, domestic slaves. He estimates 700 a year, maybe more- worth £35 million, being sold to rich Arabs and other foreigners."

For a moment, Greg thought his sleep-fuddled brain might have heard the figure wrong. "HOW much?"

"Minimum thirty five mil- maybe as much as fifty in a year, because Sherlock didn't have all the fines and fees stuff that I took home with me."

"Bloody hell." This came out as a shocked whisper. Then more urgently, Greg came out of the bedroom still tucking his shirt in, carrying a warm pullover. "Did you call the station house? Maybe the night desk officer can get him to answer his phone- or try to stop him until we get there."

"Yeah, I called. He said that Foreman left an hour ago, and then Sherlock about a half hour ago. That's why I called you."

"Let's try Tolhurst. He might be closer."

"Uh, no way, Guv. I think the guy's part of the problem, not the solution."

"Why?! Look, I know he's a prat, but…"

"Don't know; call it…women's intuition. Sherlock doesn't trust him, so I don't think we should."

He pulled the sweater on and then popped his head out. "You think Tolhurst is bent?"

"Yeah….yes, I do. I'll tell you why in the car."

She drove, while he tried to wake up. It was still pitch black, and would be for almost three hours. It was 5.45am, and he was having a distinct case of déjà vu, as Sally drove down the City Road to the A13. Only this time, the blue lights were going and she was going straight across the intersections, no matter what the lights said. At this hour, traffic was light, so the 25 mile journey shouldn't take them the 45 minutes it did two days ago. At least he hoped not. Greg was picking up on her anxiety levels. Sally Donovan was a pretty cool customer. She could usually handle stress without too much effect, but he could see her knuckles were tight on the steering wheel and she was focusing, as if someone's life might depend on it.

Maybe it does. "What do you think he'll do? What did you three discover after I left?"

"I was working on the HMRC stuff. I think that's how they're laundering the money. Moving the dirty through customs and port fees; makes it invisible. I'd narrowed it down to five, maybe six suspects who are cooking the books to hide the smugglers' proceeds. But I didn't realise either the scale of the money involved or that it was earnings from slavery. If I had, I would have stayed."

"You're taking this personally, Donovan. Why?"

"Maybe because they're women of colour, Guv. I'm just programmed to hate the idea of slavery. Everyone's known this has been going on for years, but no one wants to prosecute. Too many rich people buying privacy for their despicable habits. Even when some poor wretch manages to escape, nine times out of ten, the home office jumps on them and says- 'failed asylum seeker' and boots them out. Did you know that two years ago, the UK took away the right of a domestic worker to leave their employer? They're all on tied visas now- 20,000 a year are issued, and these women have no rights at all. The Met was only able to get three successful convictions last year. Three…just three lousy convictions. If they report abuse, or try to run away, they get deported, and the owners get off scott-free. It's outrageous."

"Okay, I get that. But why do you think that Sherlock's going to do something crazy? I mean what can he do in the middle of the night? For all we know, he left the station and went home."

She shook her head. "No. It's been a while, but I know that look, the one he gets when he's figured it out, but won't tell anyone yet. You're the one who said he had to get the proof to stop Tolhurst kicking us off the case. I think he's going to go try and find the illegals- that's why he was working so damn hard on figuring out the ships that have been in port on all the murders. Oh- something else. The file had info about cargo ships that had delivered stuff over the past three days- most of them are still in the Thames, heading back east. He highlighted one- it hadn't reached Canvey yet. The kind of people who are protecting a £35 million pound trade are not going to fool around- and he's only one guy. No contest, is it, Guv? But, Sherlock's crazy enough to try it, knowing him."

She had a point. Her assessment collided with his earlier thought that Sherlock was trying to prove he could do it all on his own. He closed his eyes as she shot onto the East India Dock Road overpass, cars joining the A13 from the A117 scattering like scalded cats from the siren and lights.

His phone vibrated in the pocket of his coat, and he instantly wondered who would be calling at this ungodly hour. The caller ID came up and he breathed a sigh of relief. "It's a text from Sherlock." He read it aloud, so Sally could get the gist, too. "Gemini is the slave ship. Use this to get warrant ASAP, before girls are moved."

"What's 'this'?"

"A video clip. Let me play it." He watched as the camera jerked away from a scene of the harbour and then moved to inside what appeared to be a ship door. There was an Asian looking man talking in some language on a radio, then a reply in the same language. A moment passed and then an English voice shouted out of the radio, telling them to shut the door.

Sally's reaction to what she could hear was immediate. "Shit, that's Tolhurst. Told you the guy was involved! Guv, we can't count on anyone at the port. There's someone bent at the Border Agency and the Health Authority, too. We just don't know who to trust."

Greg wondered how the hell Sherlock had managed to get the video, but however he'd done it, the result was that he was likely to be too close to the action. If there were women on board, then this was a hostage situation. He rang Sherlock's number, hoping that his habit of keeping the phone on vibrate was still his standard practice. He had no wish to alert the criminals to Sherlock's whereabouts. "Come on, pick up." On the fifth ring, he gave up and texted:

05.27 Stay out of it! Back-up on the way.

"Right- we need to call in the cavalry. If the Port people can't be trusted then we'll get the Met helicopter to meet us at Tilbury. I'm alerting the Kent & Essex Marine Units. This is downstream of Dartford and we'll need their help if anything is going on outside of the port."

Greg started wondering whether he should call Mycroft. But since when has he ever been able to stop Sherlock? "Put your foot down, Donovan. You're right, we need to get there before he does something crazy."


* "cream crackered" = "knackered", a cockney rhyming slang version of the word that means totally exhausted. Now in Londoner's general usage.