Watching Brief (Part Three)
—Three Days Later—
The rain-slick streets of London are never really dark. Once the sun sets, pools of light from street lamps help him see what he's been hunting for on the wet pavements. Not that he'd been really expecting to find anything in daylight. Still, it's been a while, and he needs to re-orient himself in the ways of those who don't want to be found—the homeless, the vagrants, the drug dealers and users, the criminal low-life—all of whom tend to be nocturnal.
It's been three days since the wedding, and there's still no sign of Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had phoned him in the morning and before she'd gone to bed, confirming that he'd not returned to Baker Street. To make matters worse, the weather has turned miserable again. John and Mary might be off on honeymoon enjoying some sun, sand and sex but, back in London, the temperatures are plummeting at night.
Lestrade turns up the collar on his biker jacket; the gap between his helmet and his jacket means his neck is getting uncomfortably damp. He's checked out the obvious places but had no luck so far. The known bolt holes are empty, the usual territory vacant. Maybe the foul weather has driven his quarry off the streets into some doss house? He hopes not. The dealer Greg had spoken to an hour ago swore that he hadn't seen him tonight, so it's more likely that he's still chasing a hit somewhere.
When Lestrade eventually spots him just off the Kilburn High Street part of Edgeware Road, it's amongst a group of young men taking shelter under the awning of a hot chicken wing takeaway joint. Standing out of the rain, shovelling the food from a box meal into his mouth and munching away, what's one more scruffy, lanky man in a well-worn hoodie and trainers?
Hiding in plain sight. Greg parks the bike and saunters over to the group, hoping his disguise will hold long enough.
"You know this place got shut down last week by the health inspectors."
It's enough to make his quarry pull a half-gnawed chicken wing out of his mouth, dropping it and the box onto a pavement already carpeted with the debris of late-night customers.
"I could have you for littering…" Greg adds.
"Whadda you want?" It's asked in the distinctive accent of a south Londoner, followed by a sniff.
"Just to talk, Billy."
Another sniff. "Talking to you comes at a price, man."
"One I'm willing to pay. Let me take you somewhere where the food won't land you in hospital."
Wiggins shrugs his bony shoulders. "All I can afford these days."
"My treat."
That makes the young man's eyes narrow. "I ain't for sale."
Greg knows that this is being said for the benefit of any of the other three men under the awning, who might wonder why a middle-aged bloke was talking to him. He also knows that the crisp twenty-pound notes that he'd pulled from a cash machine only an hour ago won't be staying in his wallet for long. But appearances must be maintained, so he goes along with the charade.
"I know that. Come on." Greg turns back towards the bike, knowing that he will be followed.
0oOoOoOoOo
Seven minutes and a mile and a half northward on the A5 later, they are cocooned in the steamy confines of the all-night diner. If anything, the neighbourhood has deteriorated even further, because they are on that bit of the Edgware Road that is locally named Shoot-Up Hill on the way to Cricklewood.
The irony of where Lestrade has taken him is not lost on Wiggins, who swears he is clean.
If he is, it is probably only due to a shortage of funds. Billy wears the marks of a habitual user—pasty grey skin, bloodshot eyes, hair awry, several days' worth of stubble. That he is in need is being telegraphed by a constantly jiggling leg under the table. He's having trouble managing his body temperature, shedding a grubby anorak, a denim jacket and then a hoodie, leaving him in a short-sleeved striped polo shirt that exposes recent, puckered and irritated puncture marks dotting his forearm from his elbow to the inside of his wrist.
Greg grimaces at the poor excuse for coffee being served; it tastes like it has been brewing for hours. He doesn't complain because he knows the bitterness will help wash down the greasy hamburger that the young man sitting across the table from him is devouring.
Between bites and with his mouth full, Wiggins comments, "Thought you'd gone upmarket. Won't deal with no low-life like me anymore How long's it been?"
"Not quite a year."
"You got that posh guy, the private detective bloke. Back from the dead, 'elping you now."
Greg smiles. "Not on the sort of things you do."
He'd first come across Billy when he'd been staking out a drug-dealing operation, years ago. Sleeping rough to avoid an abusive step-father, the young man had been nothing but skin and bones and two eyes that rarely missed a thing. In exchange for money from Greg, Billy had taken up residence as a homeless person camped across the street from the target house and passed on vital information. He'd said he didn't mind; the dealers were 'scumbags who routinely passed on bad dope that had a habit of killing people'.
The number of little jobs he'd asked Billy to do for him over the years of Sherlock's absence kept him in touch occasionally, just enough to get to know a little more about him. Wiggins was a trained chemist who had been studying for a pharmacy qualification when the stepfather moved in, and he'd been forced out. Turned his hand to several of the illegal chem labs, working in the shadows of the drug trade before he acquired a taste for his own product. Things had gone downhill from there.
Greg found him more useful on stake-outs than the efforts of most police officers. Wiggins shrugged off any compliment by saying "Homeless are invisible. No one wants to look at us; makes 'em feel uncomfortable."
It is precisely that invisibility that Greg needs now. When the last mouthful has gone down, and Billy has licked his fingers clean, the DI leans forward. I need you to look out for someone. Find him and then keep an eye on him for me."
"What's he done?"
Greg smiles. "Maybe nothing, yet."
"Then what is he going to do?"
"Relapse."
Wiggins laughs. "Don't we all. Not a crime… Well, not enough of one to get the likes of you looking into it."
"I've been keeping my eye on him for years. Not for police business."
Wary, Wiggins asks, "Then why do you care if he goes back on the dope?"
"Look, this matters to me on a personal level. Let's just say he's a friend of mine and I don't want to see him lose what he's got. I think he may be about to go on a bender."
"If I find him, what's in it for me?"
"It's not just locating him; I want you to shadow him. If he is using, then I want you to be there in the neighbourhood, making sure he's safe. Any sign of a bad reaction or he gets into trouble, you call me and an ambulance if he needs it. I can get you some naloxone to carry; use it if you think he's OD'd."
"Most users I know gonna object to being baby-sat."
"He might, too. That's where your being invisible is going to be useful. But you don't have to worry; he's not violent and even if he spots you—which he probably will—he won't take it out on you."
Wiggins looks up at him, scrutinising carefully. "Who is he?"
"You'll find him by his street name: Shezza. He's well-known in the homeless community."
Billy takes a moment, drinking the last of his coffee. "Not 'eard of 'im. Where's his manor?"
"If I knew that, would I need you? He knows the whole of London better than you ever will, both north and south of the river."
"What's his drug of choice?"
"Cocaine. With a heroin or morphine chaser to ease the come-down."
"Do you know his regular dealer?"
"He's picky, like you. A chemist, too; wants to know the quality and what it's cut with, at least when he's still sober enough to care. When he's on full throttle, he'll also be using any and every damned benzo he can get his hands on to stop thinking about whatever it is that drove him to use again." Greg wishes he didn't know this about Sherlock, but he does and if it helps Billy find him before this post-wedding bender gets out of hand, then it's worth passing it on.
Wiggins gets up and stretches, then saunters over to the counter where he orders another plate of chips and a re-fill of coffee. When he comes back and sinks back into his chair, he leans back with a smile on his face.
"It's your posh detective bloke, ain't it? I'm not stupid. I remember the papers, you know, when he did that fake suicide thing. The Sun said he was a user."
"Don't believe everything you read in the newspapers..."
"…Just some of it," Billy says with a snort. "When he came back, he cleared his name, and all's forgiven. So, why's he in trouble now?"
"Doesn't matter why; he just is. So, will you do it?"
"How long's this gonna take?"
"Don't know for sure, and I won't know until you find him. Maybe a couple of weeks. I can pay you fifty quid a day, although I expect most of the work will be needed at night."
"…Plus expenses."
Greg laughs. "Expenses? What expenses? I don't want this to disappear up your arm; you need to stay sober enough to keep him safe."
"You want me to find this guy who could be anywhere in London and follow him anywhere in London. He's got dosh, so won't be using a bleedin' Oyster card, will he? Black cabs cost, mate."
"Keep receipts. I'll cover food and transport, but only if you show me a receipt."
The plate of chips and a second cup of coffee arrive.
Before he tucks in, Wiggins adds, "And phone. You want me to keep you informed, then I need a top-up."
Greg laughs. "You drive a hard bargain, Bill Wiggins."
"He's worth it, your guy, ain't he? Saved London an' all? I was sleeping rough on a grate on Parliament Square the night it was going to be bombed. So, yeah, I'll do it."
"Good. Thanks. Good to know that you appreciate why it's important to keep an eye on him."
Greg snags a chip off the plate. "I'll cover this bill. Last I heard, he's still at home. Do you want a lift?"
"Nah, I can make me own way there. Don't want to damage my reputation by being seen in your company for any longer than I need to."
Greg smirks. "Yeah. Well, his address is…"
"…221b Baker Street. Everybody knows that."
Wiggins slurps from the coffee mug and waves his hand in a shooing motion. "Now, get lost."
Author's notes:
Ever wondered what Billy Wiggins was doing, loitering with intent downstairs in the drug den when John Watson showed up looking for Isaac? I never bought the idea that he was just a casual "look-out" for that place. He seemed to know about Sherlock's "Shezza" identity in the car when Sherlock obviously didn't know him by name until he asked in the Barts lab. Why would he show up at the car wanting a ride with the person who had actually twisted his arm and taken him down? At the lab, Wiggins knew enough to throw in "I further deduce…."
So, this is my answer to that particular plot hole left by Mofftiss.
