CHAPTER 6: DOWN COMES THE RAIN

MONDAY, APRIL 20, 2015

The first time John heard the name Everett Stubbins had been while in hospital, sliced back still raw and burning from infection. He remembered the pull of stitches in his skin as he struggled to swallow solid food. Nor could he even sit up under his own power.

'Do you know him? Have you ever seen him before?'

Lestrade held the officer's photograph in front of John's non-swollen eye so he didn't have to touch it with his own broken fingers.

The man himself was unremarkable. Brown hair, brown eyes, white, ordinary, a regular joe. But John stared long and hard. So this was the man who had been watching him for untold weeks and months, who had been reporting everything to Sebastian Moran before the abduction, and who, afterward, had done everything in his power to misdirect the police and keep Moran invisible while Mary was killed and John remained imperilled.

'No,' he answered, throat rasping, needing water. 'Never.'

He saw the same photograph just one more time, when it was printed in the newspaper to accompany an article regarding his prison sentence.

'Hello,' said John.

The door was closed behind him. Five feet and a metal table separated him from the man who had pled guilty to feeding information about Lestrade's investigation to John's kidnappers. And it was because of that plea deal—alongside police failure to adequately protect him when an unknown assailant had attempted to kill him—that he had not been charged for far more heinous offences. Like murder.

'You're not allowed to be here,' Stubbins said. At John's appearance, he had drained pale, like a fish, and his eyes bulged like one, too. As an ex-officer of the law, he knew damn well how visitations went, and this wasn't right. John was not just a civilian, but a victim. If he were allowed in there at all, it should have been under the escort of a detective, at the very least, and perhaps a solicitor or security officer as well. But he was alone.

John slowly advanced toward him. Pulled out a chair. Sat. Not once did he break eye contact.

'I'll call the guard.' Stubbins shifted anxiously. His cuffs rattled together like loose teeth.

On the train, John had thought of a thousand things he wanted to say to the man who, for ten days, had played stupid while just five miles away John was being beaten and brutalised, while Mary was murdered. And he knew. Oh god, he knew. Stubbins had seen the photos, heard the reports, recovered Mary's body. He had arranged for it to happen, all of it. He had actively impeded the investigation. He had let Mary die.

John wanted to kill him.

'One shout, that's all it'll take.'

'You'll do nothing of the sort,' John said.

It would be so easy, grabbing the chained man's head and smashing it into the table. A broken nose, at least. At least. How much more damage could he do, before they rushed into the room to stop him? An arm around the throat, and with one powerful squeeze, he could crush the trachea flat like a pinched pipe.

'Won't I?'

But Stubbins' voice was weak, not defiant. Being a prisoner for six months had taught him to be wary of attack. He had turned skittish. John knew a thing or two about what it felt like to be constantly looking over your shoulder, let alone staring down a madman. But he had no pity.

'Not until you've told me what I want to know.'

'Everything I've got to say, I've said to the police. I'm not telling you jack shit.' His eyes darted past John's shoulder. He licked his lips, sucked in a breath.

'Scream, and I smash your face so hard into this table you'll need rhinoplasty to get something back that looks like a nose. No one can get in here fast enough to stop me. And don't think for one second I give a shit about an assault charge. Either I leave this place with what I came here for, or I get the satisfaction of breaking your nose. Either way, I'm a happy man.'

Stubbins was perfectly still, but the dilemma danced in his eyes.

'You have two seconds to decide.'

'This isn't right, this isn't fair. Dr Watson, you're not a violent m—'

In one swift movement, John shot to his feet and made an aborted lunge at the table separating, and Stubbins gave a shout and threw himself backward. But the chain snapped taut, keeping him within easy reach.

'All right! All right! Just don't . . . !'

With both hands planted solidly on the table, John gave a glance to the door and nodded sharply at the eyes that had appeared there. When they disappeared again, he lowered himself back to sitting.

Stubbins laughed shakily. 'God, look at you, playing bad cop. You having fun on that side of the terrorist game? You feel strong, going after a man in chains, a man with a wife and children who pray every night that he'll be safe . . .'

'Stop snivelling. You're not a victim.'

'Well. Not the kind that spends most of his time down on all fours.' John's jaw locked tight and Stubbins, emboldened by this reaction, inclined forward in the chair and dropped his voice. 'Don't forget, Johnny, I've seen you trembling in the Pit, back used like a carving board while you cowered like a bitch.'

But John schooled his reaction to a single twitch of the eye. 'I've a message for you,' he said.

'I'm sure you do.'

'From Colonel Moran.'

The two men stared at each other, unbreathing, unmoving, waiting for the other to blink. John's words had sent a shockwave through Stubbins' whole body; he waited for the reverberations to subside.

'Bullshit,' said Stubbins, with barely any breath at all.

'You answer my questions, you get your message.'

'I don't believe you have any message.'

'Does he scare you, Stubbins? I don't think he likes it very much, when his thugs get caught. They might talk. Then someone has to shut them up.'

This time, it was Stubbins who twitched, and his teeth snapped together.

'Are we paying attention now?'

Stubbins quirked his neck, licked his lips. 'You're lying. Moran didn't send you. You overheard something in the Pit, that's all. Moran didn't send you.'

John didn't reply. He didn't need to. That was twice now Stubbins had called the convent basement 'the Pit'. He'd never heard it himself, not from Moran, not even while he'd languished there for endless hours and days. Had Moran called it that after the fact? Or was this a term that had sprung up among the horde of voyeurs to another man's torture, the same onlookers who had been privy to the photographs? John had a sudden cramping dread that somewhere, in some dark online forum, they gathered to laugh.

Focus. Focus.

Stubbins shifted anxiously, throwing a glance at the door and likely weighing his odds. Was it worth screaming for help? 'What's your game, Watson? Why are you here? And where's Lestrade? Where's your precious detective? They say he's back. Everyone says it.'

'Damn right he is.'

'So Moran was right. I mean, I knew it. You tell him. You tell the Colonel. I trusted him from the start. I was loyal. Always loyal. I helped ferret the bloody murderer out of hiding. If not for me . . . You tell him. I'm loyal still.'

'Trying to worm your way back into his good graces, are you? You're still a Moriarty man, through and through, even though he tried to kill you. How noble.'

'That wasn't Moran. He wouldn't.'

John scoffed. 'You gave him up. You named names. Of course he would punish you.'

'He wouldn't, he wouldn't.' Stubbins gripped his hair on both sides of his head. Then his fist came down on the table, hard. 'Don't forget it, Watson. When he sinks his claws into you again and drags you back to that dark place where you gasp your last breath, don't forget: It was me who put you there.'

'Are you finished?'

Stubbins grimaced and glared, apparently upset that he had failed to intimidate. 'What's the fucking message?'

'First,' said John, 'you'll tell me about Bill Murray.'

In the silence that followed, Stubbins appeared to be chewing on his tongue, like he was debating whether to fess up or play stupid. Then he shook his head, slowly, and closed his eyes. 'So. You've finally drawn the line to that old cog. I wondered when you would.'

John felt something wrench in his stomach. Since seeing his old friend's face in the photograph, he hadn't had time to give it much consideration, not with Mycroft's imminent attack. But whenever he did, he felt a well of denial rising up inside of him, and he hoped to God that Bill being there, in the pub, beside Everett Stubbins, had just been a coincidence. Chance. Maybe Stubbins really didn't know him after all. Maybe Bill had nothing to do with Moran whatsoever. But now, against his most ardent hopes, Stubbins was confirming it, and John wanted to scream.

'Was he arrested, then? Think they'll assign him my new bunkmate?'

'Talk,' John said through gritted teeth, not sure if he trusted himself to say more just then.

Stubbins laughed tiredly. He put both elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes. 'He's still out there, isn't he? The son of a bitch.'

'Get on with it.'

'What do you want me to say?' But he couldn't hide his mounting anger or disguise his fear, and Stubbins was cottoning on. 'Oh wait. I know what you're hoping I'll say. That it was all happenstance. That Bill didn't know what he was a part of, or that his actions may have been rotten but his intentions were pure. Sorry, John.' His arms fell; the cuffs cluttered noisily against the metal table. 'That's not how things went down. Bill knew everything, right down to the last fuck.'

You bastard. You lying bastard. Not Bill. Bill is the reason I'm still alive today. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.

'You want me to tell you about Bill Murray?' Stubbins set his shackled wrists in his lap, looking resigned. 'I'm telling you right now. You won't like it.'

'Stop running your mouth, and talk.'

Stubbins lifted his hands in feigned surrender. 'You're not a cop. And this isn't a statement. Hear-say won't hold up in court, and I'll deny I ever—'

'I said talk, you miserable cud.'

Stop. Don't get emotional. That's what he wants to see—that he's getting to you.

'Put on your thinking cap,' Stubbins said, 'and you'll see how easily it came about. My orders were to tail you, learn your patterns, your habits, everything about you. In short, gather information.' He shrugged. 'I'm a cop. Was a cop. It should have been easy. But you, Dr Watson, were not an easy cockroach to pin. As a citizen, you were . . . unremarkable. No family. Barely any friends. Boring job. And your military record? Sealed.'

John's eyes narrowed. Sealed? What for?

'I combed for dirt, but reading your emails was like watching paint dry, and your criminal record turned up nothing more interesting than a couple of ASBOs.' Then, out of nowhere, he chuckled. 'But that damn blog of yours. That's how I found Bill, if you want to know. He used to leave comments all the time, didn't he? Until Sherlock rolled over and played dead. If not for that blog . . . So, in a way, I suppose you could say that you led me straight to him. In time, he led me straight back to you.'

A dull roaring was beginning to sound in his ears, and once again, John fantasised about throwing his fist across the table and crunching Stubbins' nose so hard blood burst out his ears. Instead, he planted his feet solidly on the floor and worked to control his breathing.

'I caught him in a pub, thinking I'd have to, you know, coerce him. But he was already sloshed to the eyeballs, his wheels already greased. I had barely said the words John Watson before he went off on how you should have died on the battlefield.' He shook his head, correcting himself. 'How he should have let you die.' He must have known the effect his words were having on John, how it felt like getting shot all over again—the shock before the pain—because he leant into the table to drive the point home. 'Bet you didn't know this: He was ordered to let you die.'

John's teeth were gritted together so hard he spit as he spoke. 'I don't believe you.'

'As you like it. I'm just telling you what he told me.'

'I don't believe you. That kind of order doesn't happen. Sure as hell not for the medical corps, and Bill was a CMT. Class 1 Standard Corporal. Every single person in the medical field is in the business of saving lives, by any means necessary. Even in the most extreme of circumstances, or the most dire of cases, even when resources are low or time is running out—'

'Deny it all you like, captain. It doesn't change anything. Bill defied orders. He saved you, and he's regretted it ever since.' Stubbins smirked. 'Practically leapt at the chance to right his wrongs.'

'How?' John asked, though he had lost all will to hear the answers.

'Oh, just keeping tabs. Providing intelligence. A bit of legwork. I couldn't dog your steps twenty-four seven, now could I? I had appearances at the Yard to maintain. No, there were half a dozen of us with eyes on you. Bill was one of them. And let me tell you: he was a good little soldier. Some of the most thorough notes I've ever seen. Without those, we would have had a devil of a time arranging your kidnapping.'

John's vision was swimming. It didn't add up, it didn't make sense. He needed Sherlock there to make sense of things, to ask the questions he couldn't think of and put together the puzzle pieces that painted the truer picture, not this corrupted story. But he was alone, and the world had ceased to make sense. The lights above his head seemed to dim and grow bright again. He needed to leave. He needed air. If he didn't get it soon, he was going to throw up.

'My question for you is, why aren't you asking Bill all this yourself? Why come all the way down here, to jolly ol' Belmarsh? Don't tell me Bill's gone AWOL.'

John pushed back the chair and stood. The blood rushed from his head, but he managed not to sway as he turned toward the door, where he gave the sign to the officer that he was ready to go. He needed to go.

Stubbins slammed a hand back down against the steel table. 'Wait, you can't go yet! What about my message? Is Moran coming for me? What does he want me to do?'

As the door screeched open, John turned and looked over his shoulder. 'Down comes the rain.' He shrugged. 'He said you'd understand.'

Then he left. As he stepped out into the hallway, however, he chanced one more glance back and saw that Stubbins had gone as still as stone. His hands were flat on the silver table, and his eyes were round with horror. John had seen that look before, in faces of soldiers who knew they were about to die, and nothing he could do could save them. This time, though, he didn't even want to.

John left on foot and walked as far as he could before he couldn't walk anymore. His chest was too tight and his leg was on fire. In his haste to get away, he had pushed too hard and was now suffering the consequences. So he found a bench at a bus stop and rested, but the tremor in his hand was acting up. Sweating, he opened his coat and fanned himself with the flap. Because no one was around, he allowed himself a whimper, then a hard sniff, then a sharp exhalation.

'You're okay, you're okay,' he said to himself. 'Dammit, you're okay.'

But his mind was awash with images of the attack near Kandahar.

He had been unprepared—they had all be unprepared—and suddenly the air and the ground shook with explosives. The cacophony of gunfire punctuated his eardrums, and sand jumped skyward beneath a hailstorm of bullets. He remembered running, nearly blinded by dust and debris. He remembered falling to his knees beside a fallen soldier, and the gore that burbled up from what used to be an eye socket. But the boy was moaning. Still alive, still alive, he had a chance. But the men were screaming at one another, screaming at him, orders to Take cover! Take cover! And he remembered Corporal Murray, taking cover behind the Land Rover Pulse battlefield ambulance. They locked eyes. And then—

He shot to his feet, breathing hard. Walk, he needed to walk.

John didn't remember much else. Enemy fire speared him straight through. My heart. He remembered that much. He believed the bullet had lanced his heart. In that moment, his medical reasoning abandoned him. As the blood poured from his body and mixed with the sand, he was certain he was dead. Not dying, but dead already, and in death he found not relief but pain. He had most surely been cast into hell.

And yet, it wasn't until much later that he had met the devil.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated in the inner pocket of his jacket, close to his heart. John gasped sharply and fumbled for the phone, fearing to see the familiar and dreadful phone number on the caller ID. But it wasn't his old number.

'Hey.' He closed his eyes and covered them with a hand, trying to calm himself.

'St Mary's wasn't secure. He's been moved.'

Though John's heart was racing, his mind felt sluggish, and it took him a moment to cotton on. 'Is he okay?'

'No worse.'

It was strange. Sherlock hadn't said much at all yet, and yet just hearing his voice had the same effect his violin so often produced, and pacified his anxious heart.

'Where is he?' John asked.

There was a pause. 'Somewhere with nine rooms. You once had a shave there.'

John squinted in thought. What was that supposed to mean? Was it code? Why would Sherlock be speaking in code? Unless . . . unless he thought he might be overheard. For one, he hadn't mentioned Mycroft by name. He was definitely being cautious.

Presented with a puzzle, John put his mind to the task, and the fog from the onset of a panic attack began to dissipate. Somewhere with nine rooms where he'd once had a shave? But he only ever shaved himself. He began to cast his mind back, but then it suddenly clicked, and he didn't have to remember back too far at all. After the attack in the flat, after he'd been released from hospital, he hadn't returned at once to Baker Street. Instead, he and Sherlock had stayed a few nights with Mycroft. In a two-storeyed flat with nine rooms. There, Mycroft's barber had attended to them both.

'Is that wise?' he asked.

'It's safe,' said Sherlock simply. 'The assistant has arranged everything. Machines, drugs, medical staff. Everything.'

He was avoiding saying Anthea's name, too.

'Where are you?' John asked.

'Almost there. I want to check it out myself.' Another pause. 'Will you come?'

John calculated quickly. Taking the Tube would cost him over an hour, which would raise Sherlock's suspicions, and furthermore, he didn't believe he could abide the crowds. Not right now. A taxi would cut the time in half, but only if he caught one from here. But the thought of taking a taxi, given his current state, seemed equally unwise. Even though he knew it would take the better part of an hour, he would have to phone Smalls.

'John?'

It seemed he had no course but to lie.

'Quick shopping run. I'll be about an hour or so. But I'm coming.'

He waited for the farewell, and when it didn't come, he thought maybe Sherlock had hung up on him without bothering to say goodbye. He checked his screen, but the call timer was still running.

'Where are you?' Sherlock asked, a note of misgiving in his voice.

'Chemist's,' he blurted out, then winced, wondering where that had come from. 'Just, erm. Stocking up. We're low on plasters and . . . surgical spirit.' Was that true? It might be true. Dammit, he'd have to make a stop after all.

'Right,' said Sherlock. Yes, that was almost certainly scepticism in his voice. Or maybe John was just being paranoid.

'Right, so. See you soon,' he said.

He hung up before Sherlock could manage to work out that he wasn't even in Central London anymore. Even so, before he looked up the number for Julian Smalls, he glanced down at his feet to see if he'd picked up any mud particular to Thamesmead. Don't be a fool. He's a genius, not magic. He jerked his tie loose and shoved it in the pocket of his jacket, hoping only that Sherlock would be too distracted by Mycroft's new facilities to notice John's uncustomary choice of blazer, or at least to think anything of it.

Molly Hooper was reconstituting the body of Adam Davenport. His organs—following removal and examination—were placed in plastic bags and returned to his torso, including the lungs and heart, which had served as her primary indicators of cause of death. Though unconscious, Mr Davenport had inhaled water into his lungs, leading to haemolysis and dilution of the blood. He had an increased blood volume of about two litres. Additionally, his heart had been overtaxed, as in approximately three minutes of suffocation and drowning, he had suffered pulmonary oedema, a sodium deficit and an excess of potassium, and consequently arrhythmia. All textbook signs of drowning.

With the organs returned to the torso cavity, the body lined with cotton wool, and the ribs and breastbone replaced, Molly was now sewing shut the Y-incision with her well-practised baseball stitch. Once the police released the body, there would be a wake, and a burial service, and a grief-stricken family would begin the long, seemingly insurmountable challenge of pulling their lives back together. At sixty-four years old, a mild-mannered man with a quiet job as a private chauffeur was dead. His wife and children would never understand the war he had been caught up in, or why such violence had come to someone so innocent.

The door to the mortuary creeped open, and Donna Ure, a mortuary technician, poked her head inside.

'Now a good time?' she asked.

Molly waved her in with the needle, accidentally tugging the skin of the right breast. But it didn't tear. 'Did you run the comparative bloodwork?'

Donna came into the morgue and stood on the opposite side of the table from Molly. 'It was the exact same stuff as from the Jane Doe: sodium thiopental. Same brand and everything. Just a higher dosage.'

'Yes, it would have been.'

'So was he, you know, awake when it happened? When the car hit the water?'

'The evidence suggests he was still unconscious.' Molly accepted the bloodwork and toxicology report from Donna and reviewed it herself. 'A small mercy.'

Leaving the needle and thread for a moment, Molly pulled off her gloves and moved toward a table to sign off on the report.

'News isn't giving us any more answers than when the story first broke,' Donna continued. 'Like, who did it? Why? All they're saying is, Sherlock Holmes is still in hospital. But he wasn't in the car, so it doesn't make a lot of sense.'

She was fishing for answers, and Molly knew it. As a low-level technician, Donna was not privy to many particulars about anything, but she had a thirst for details about anything regarding the mysterious Sherlock Holmes. Molly, she seemed to have concluded, was her ticket to a sort of insider's celebrity gossip, and since Molly's reinstatement following the April attacks, Donna had been particularly cosy and confiding with the woman who was such a close friend to Sherlock and who also happened to be dating the lead detective on the case. Molly didn't appreciate the faux friendship.

'The police are still piecing it all together,' she said vaguely. 'And we here are bound by confidentiality strictures.'

'Oh come on,' Donna whined. 'You know more than that, you have to.'

'You know I can't say anything, Donna, even if I did know something.'

'You do know something. Don't tell me there's no late-night pillow talk with the cop.'

Molly closed the file and handed it back without a word. It was a funny thing, her so-called friendship with Donna. She didn't have many work friends, and the last few months had strained her once-cordial though always professional relationship with most of them. From false accusations about a romantic connection with Sherlock, to her temporary suspension on account of the documents she had falsified to help Sherlock fake his death, they watched her with a wary eye. And that was before she had come to work with a battered face and stitches in her scalp. Donna was sympathetic, but she wanted information. Storytelling. And she believed that getting close to Molly was the way to get it.

'The city's in danger, you know,' said Donna. 'You know that better than anyone. No one in London is safe, not if an ordinary driver and some Jane Doe can get caught up in a Sherlock Holmes attack. That's terrorism, is what it is. Those others, the homeless people. It was terrible, of course, but they were, you know'—she put up air quotes, as though she were not adopting the words as her own—'the dregs of society. But this man had a family and a job. That could've been any one of us.'

'I need to finish up with the body,' said Molly, returning to her needle.

But rather than feeling dismissed, Donna continued prattling on. 'I mean, I get it. I do. Don't think I don't! You're dating a detective. You're friends with Sherlock Holmes. You know what really happened to Watson.' She pretended to not care, but left a pause in case Molly wished to elaborate on anything. When she didn't, Donna switched tracks. 'How are things going, by the way? With the detective?' She winked.

'Good. Fine.'

But if Donna had been any sort of true friend, she might have said that she was actually a little concerned. Not about their relationship, which she knew Donna was asking about, but about Greg himself. The attack on Mycroft had shaken something deep inside of him that, even after all that had happened, had hitherto been left untouched. Now something was wrong. Still, after the attack, he had thrown himself to work, which is just what Greg Lestrade did. He didn't wallow. He felt no self-pity. No, he faced his problems head on, and even when he didn't know where to go next, he kept putting one foot in front of the other. Last night, however, he'd come home in one of the worst moods she'd ever seen him in. The slamming cupboards and swearing under his breath kind of moods, and when she ventured to ask him what was wrong, he snapped at her: 'Don't ask.' They'd barely talked again the rest of the night.

But Donna didn't need to know even a fraction of that. No one did.

'Still house hunting,' she added, trying to sound agreeable, or at least not so chilly.

'Do I hear wedding bells in the distance?' Donna teased.

Molly wished she'd kept it chilly.

'I mean, you're buying a house together. Buying. Not renting. Kind of a big deal.'

'No, it's perfect. No more landlords nosing about, we can paint and do renovations—'

'Yeah, but . . . not something you can easily walk away from.'

'Who's walking away?'

'Yeah, but.' Donna's head bounced from shoulder to shoulder. 'You gotta lock that down.'

Uncomfortable with the trajectory of this conversation, Molly just laughed.

'Any talk of a ring?'

'I don't think that's something Greg is interested in.' Unaccountably embarrassed, Molly bent further over the corpse to hide her face as she worked on the final stitches.

'Sure, but are you?'

Molly tied the knot and snipped the thread on her baseball stitching with a sharp jerk, and the skin tore, just a little. She would have to use the clear glue to patch it properly. 'I need to get back to work,' she said shortly.

Recognising her defeat, Donna put up her hands as though in surrender. A little sulky, she turned to the door. 'Take care of yourself, Molly,' she said as she left. 'It's dangerous out there.'

'Matilda? Hello, this is Michaela Warn— I'm doing just fine, thank you. You? Lovely. And the kids? Lovely. Look, I hate to do this again, but I'm going to have to resched— I do apologise. I know it's not the first time you've cleared your calendar for me. But I promise you, your story is important, and people need to hear— Yes, I understand. Yes. Yes. No, I realise that. It's terribly unfair. Mrs Williams, I sincerely believe that what you have to tell me has great bearing on the present Sherlock Holmes situation, I do. And it's not that I feel no urgency. I think it's appalling that the police aren't . . .'

As Mrs Williams continued to voice her disappointment on the other end of the phone, Michaela, who was sitting at her desk littered with sticky notes, empty paper cups once brimming with coffee, stacks of old Guardians, and scraps of tissues in her fight against hay fever, she looked down at that morning's headliner:

Baker Street Attack: Sherlock Holmes Not Hospitalised

Special Report, by Michaela Warner

London – Initial reports got it wrong: Sherlock Holmes was not attacked at his residence on Baker Street late Wednesday night. Instead, both Holmes and his partner John Watson have been spotted coming and going from the nearby St Mary's Hospital, quite unimpeded but for injuries sustained during previous attacks. Though they acknowledge an attack did take place, both police and hospital workers have declined to release the name of the actual victim, and have requested that the privacy of Mr Holmes and his family be respected. Therefore, any assertions as to the identity of the victim are, at this point, pure speculation.

Which leads one to wonder: Why the knee-jerk impulse to hasten the facts, to the point of invention? Journalism has become a game of spicy insinuation and baiting, and news outlets have become, first and foremost, a vehicle of amusement, not factual reportage . . .

She had carried on in that vein for another two hundred words, and after its printing, she had received her first official dressing down by Mr Heinrich. Yes, he had approved it, and mostly out of haste to reach the deadline, but—

'You're not writing editorials anymore, Michaela. A column on the first page of this paper is not space we are giving you for your platform.'

'The story was thin,' she said in her own defence. 'If anything, it was an absence of story. I was just trying to, you know, pad it out.'

'So pad it out with facts. This is journalism at its most basic: Who saw what? When? Where? Are you not a champion of facts?'

She saw his point, and, chastened, promised that her next story would be a reflection of the serious journalist she aspired to be.

'I'm telling you,' he said, waving her out the door, 'John Watson. Get me John Watson. That's your story.'

'Yes, sir,' she mumbled, making a certain effort to keep her head held high as she retreated from his office.

And indeed, John Watson was on her list, but bold as she was, she felt funny trying to approach him, like doing so was less than inconsiderate but downright rude and invasive. Maybe that was why she was distracting herself with side stories, like that of Matilda Williams. It was a loose thread of a story she wanted to follow to its conclusion, but was that all it was? A curiosity?

'Yes, yes, I'm still here,' she said to Matilda Williams, refocusing. 'I was just checking my calendar. If you can make Wednesday . . . No? Well, what about Thursday? Anytime Thursday after five. I'll come to you. Oh, yes, if you're more comfortable, a café. Yes, that's fine.' She jotted down the address. 'Thursday at . . . half five? Lovely. I will see you then. Yes.' She forced a laugh. 'No more cancellations. I promise. Good day, Mrs Williams.'

Putting into practise one of his many underappreciated talents, Thomas Dryers returned home whistling 'Killer Queen'. With a little dance in his step, he slid the key into the lock, twirled inside, tossed his keys into the air, and shut the door behind him with his foot. That's when the whistling stopped.

'Mr Dryers, take a seat.'

Dryers still wore his uniform: a white collared shirt and tie, a black, zippered, tight-fitting jacket emblazoned with the logo of the Metropolitan Police, and the com device attached to his shoulder. At his side, in the holster of his belt, he carried both cuffs and PAVA incapacitating spray.

'Don't touch it.' The warning came with the little waggle of a pistol aimed at his stomach, a reminder of who had the upper hand.

Slowly lifting his hands in compliance, Dryers' gaze followed the point of the pistol to the wooden kitchen chair that had been set in the middle of the room, just for him.

'Look, mate,' he said, pretending his heart hadn't just plonked into his stomach, 'you're just inviting a world of hurt for yourself. I'm a cop. I got cop buddies. And you do not want to cross my girlfriend.' He lowered himself gingerly into the chair, hands still raised to show he meant no funny business. 'Well, I say girlfriend. For the moment, she's unequivocally refusing the classification.'

'I talk. You listen.'

The man was old. Quite old. A pensioner, Dryers would say, if not for appearing so well-to-do in a sharp dark suit and a haircut worth at least three hundred quid: every alabaster strand trimmed to perfection. But Mother Nature had staked her claim, and his age-spotted skin wrinkled and sagged around the eyes and below the chin. But he levelled the pistol with a steady hand, and Dryers, who knew a thing or two about firearms, recognised it as a Swiss Arms AG, attached with a silencer. Perfect. So if the old codger shot him, his neighbours would be none the wiser, Sally would figure he was wilfully ignoring her and write him off completely, and no one would find him until morning, at the earliest, when he failed to report for work.

'I'm not here to kill you,' said the old man. He spoke like an old man, something wet and phlegmy in his throat.

'Just to talk to me,' Dryers repeated.

'Yes. But first.'

The old man fished inside his suit coat pocket with gnarled hands and withdrew a little foil packet, which he tossed to Dryers.

'Fluni—' He sounded it out carefully. 'Flunitrazepam. Wait, are you serious? You're trying to roofie me?'

'Take the pill, Mr Dryers.'

'Who the hell are you?'

'The sooner you swallow, the sooner I talk. The pill will take effect, and once you're incapacitated, I'll take my leave.'

'Incapacitated. You mean, collapsed on the rug, face-planted in my own drool?'

'I'm not unreasonable. You may relocate to the sofa.'

Dryers laughed to cover his fear. 'This is barking mad, you know that?'

'Don't test my patience. Swallow the pill.'

'And you'll shoot me if I don't?'

'Are you familiar with a certain man by the name of Sebastian Moran?'

Quite outside of his control, the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention as his mouth ran dry. He liked to think of himself as cucumber-cool, self-confident bordering on smug, and never easily ruffled. But in that moment, he could not deny that he was scared. When it came to Moran, no cop was immune from the passing thought: he'd rather end up a Tony Pitts than a John Watson.

'Of course,' he managed to reply.

'I'm worse. Mr Dryers: Take the pill.'

'You know this causes amnesia. Don't you? So whatever you have to say to me—'

'You won't remember me leaving. But you'll remember this. Now, Mr Dryers. I grow impatient.'

He knew what would happen to him. He had seen cases in young men and women all over the city, especially as a beat cop assigned to patrolling streets outside of clubs. As one of the most powerful sedatives on the market, he would soon fall into a state of complete muscle and skeletal relaxation and become irresistibly somnolent. And he would remain that way for hours. Eight, ten, twelve. He didn't know. He'd never been roofied before. He was just familiar with the reports. But at the moment, he couldn't recall if any of those cases had resulted in death.

'This is by far the stupidest things I've ever done,' he said, as with shaky fingers he tore into the foil and extracted an olive-green pill. 'I can't believe this, I just can't believe this,' he repeated to himself under his breath. It was like he was standing outside of his body, watching a man just like himself become an absolute idiot as he stuck out his tongue, placed the pill at the back of his throat, and tossed his head back, swallowing mightily.

The old man wasted no time.

'When Tony Pitts was murdered on New Scotland Yard's front doorstep, he left behind extremely sensitive information linking him to a host of conspiracies and the most dangerous and felonious organisation of the current century. It must be removed.'

'Say what now?'

'Naturally, your people have spent months dismantling his computers and phones, and examining every scrap of evidence in search of anything that might link him to Moran. But you are looking in the wrong place, and for the wrong evidence.'

'Then what—?'

'An unresolved case file from an incident that occurred October 4, 1996. Detective Inspector Pitts, as he was back then, is listed as the lead detective on the case. Only a hard copy of the case exists. The file must be found, and removed from the Yard.'

'You want me to steal files. From New Scotland Yard. That's . . . not something I can do. I don't even have access to cold case files.'

'I didn't say cold, I said unresolved. But in either case, you're just the messenger. You're access is limited. That's why you're going to convince Sgt Donovan to do it for you.'

Dryers felt like the gun had gone off, and he recoiled.

'If I am not mistaken—and I know I am not—she does have access.'

'No.' Dryers shook his head, which was already beginning to feel heavy, and the movement made him a bit queasy. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Maybe if he'd eaten something, the drug wouldn't be taking effect so quickly. 'No, I can't ask that of her.'

'How quaint. A white knight.'

'Hardly that. I mean, she'd never—'

'You'll convince her, Mr Dryers. That is your only worth to me. It's Donovan I'm interested in, not you. You're merely a means to an end, given that I cannot approach her directly. So besides your utility in mobilising her to action, I consider you utterly disposable. That is why you will do as I say, and why you will mention this conversation to no one save her. Not Greg Lestrade, not Luke Gregson, not your ailing mother in Soho. No one. Not if you value your life. And if Sgt Donovan values it equally, she'll also keep silence. Won't she?'

'Well shit,' said Dryers. His vision was starting to blur. If he knew one thing about Sally Donovan, it was that she would see justice done at whatever cost, even at great sacrifice. And she would never betray NSY. Dryers was as good as a lamb for the slaughter.

'October 4, 1996,' the old man repeated. 'Say it.'

'Four-ten-ninety-six.'

'Tell Sgt Donovan to resolve the case. That's her new assignment. Bill Murray is inconsequential; she need not waste her time with it.'

'Bill who?'

'Impress upon her the urgency of her solving this case.'

'A nineteen-year-old case?'

'You won't be hearing from me again. Not if you do your job.'

'And if I don't, you'll just come back to kill me. Is that it?'

The old man smiled. He pulled the trigger.

Dryers jolted in the chair and his body twisted wildly.

But he was unharmed. The gun wasn't even loaded. All the same, being startled had unseated him: too groggy to regain control of his muscles, Dryers felt himself slumping out of the chair and falling to the floor, barely able to brace for the impact. Then, as he settled his head and body, the room spun around him.

'You see, constable. I did not come to kill you. I never even had the chance. But I know how to get men to do as I command. In the interest of the greater good, of course.'

'Wazzat s'posed to mean?' Dryers mouth rubbed against the rug. He was so tired, he thought he might sleep for days. Maybe a week. He couldn't fight it much longer. 'You sayin' you're one of the good guys?'

'Oh no, Mr Dryers,' said the old man, as he faded from sight, and his voice became muffled as though Dryers had cotton shoved into his ears. 'I am certainly not that.'