CHAPTER 9: THE HUNT FOR CORPORAL MURRAY

THURSDAY, APRIL 23, 2015

Sally Donovan had just stepped from the shower when she heard pounding on her front door. She froze, thinking furiously, but she knew she was on top of her rent, and she doubted the building was on fire because none of her alarms had gone off. It might be an unwelcome early-morning solicitor, and if she ignored it, it would just go away. She could reasonably pretend to have already left for work. But then the pounding came again, even more insistent. She towelled off as quickly as her bum-elbow permitted, let her hair drip, and wrangled herself into a dressing gown. Then she lightly toed her way to the front of the flat. Before sliding the chain and unlocking the door, however, she lifted the flap over the peep hole. There, on the other side of the door, Thomas Dryers had just lifted a hand to pound a third time.

Before he had the chance, she wrenched the door open. 'The hell!' she shouted.

'Thought you'd still be here,' he said, and without making eye contact or begging permission, he stepped into the flat and paced to the opposite end of the room.

'Dryers!'

'Look, this is the only way. You're not answering my calls, you're ignoring my texts—'

'Yeah. Take a hint!'

'Kick me out then, after I've said what I have to say. But when I have, I'm guessing you'll change your tune. You're reactive, Sally, but not completely unfair—'

At that moment, he turned to look at her properly, and his eyes fell to her chest like a magnet.

'Ah hell.' His face reddened like a tomato. 'You . . . I can wait if you want to . . . that is . . . You naked under there?'

'Talk.'

In that moment, she would have given anything to fold her arms tightly across her chest. As it was, she held one arm in the other to keep the elbow at angle. She really needed to get it back in the sling. All the same, her glare was just as effective as a slap in the face, and he kept his distance.

'I lied to Lestrade,' he blurted out. 'Sort of.'

He was just feeding more kindling into the fire stoked by anger. Aside from idiotic curiosity, he now had professional misconduct stacked against him. 'You made a false report? You absolute bastard!'

'Would you listen? That night, when I came home, there was a man in my flat. He made me swallow that pill at point of gun. Okay?'

She waited for the punchline. Was this the best he could come up with?

Seeing she was unimpressed, Dryers threw up his hands. 'You think I would roofie myself? All alone, in the front room of my flat, still wearing my uniform? Come on, Sally, you're not stupid.'

'An unidentified gunman,' she repeated sarcastically, 'broke into your flat—the flat of the great Thomas Dryers—to make you swallow a date rape drug, and then what? Just walked out the door? What a master criminal.'

'It was to incapacitate me while he got away,' Dryers mumbled, face still coloured with embarrassment, but now for different reasons.

'And?' Donovan rolled her eyes. 'You've had days to cook up a story, and this is the best you got?'

Dryers sighed and closed his eyes, looking more serious than she had ever seen him. When he opened his eyes again, he said, 'He wanted me to deliver a message.'

She snorted. 'A mess—'

'To you. And shit, Sally, he scared me bad enough that I'm going to do it.'

Donovan skilfully controlled her reaction to little more than flaring nostrils, but she felt her heart sink a little. Had she got it wrong? Had Dryers been threatened? She remembered him lying unconscious in the hospital bed, the effects of the Flunitrazepam still in effect, and hoping—actually hoping!—that he'd been in some way victimised. At least that would mean he hadn't done it to himself. Then came Lestrade's report, that Dryers had confessed to taking the illicit drug willingly. She was disgusted, with him, and with herself, for having hitched her hopes, however tentatively, to yet another Yarder reprobate. So she silently vowed never to work with him again, to pretend she had never admired him, or trusted him, let alone had feelings for him, no matter how burgeoning or malformed.

Though she still kept hold of those strings, she allowed for the possibility, however remote, that she was wrong. But if she was, this was not good news. Victimisation was all at once the very least preferable of possibilities.

'All right,' she said softly, making deliberate work of removing the razor edge from her voice. 'What did this man say?'

'Two things.' His shoulders sagged a little, apparently relieved that she was allowing him to proceed. 'One: stop investigating Bill Murray.'

At that, her fingers loosened a little more around the strings. Among Yarders, only she, Lestrade, and a select surveillance team knew Watson had identified the man in the photograph. And they were in agreement that it should stay selective.

'What do you know about Bill Murray?' she asked.

'Not a damn thing. I thought he meant the actor.'

'And why am I to stop my investigation?'

'He didn't say, exactly. Only that it was pointless.'

'Wait, wait. Who is this guy? What did he look like?'

Case file shots of Sebastian Moran surfaced first in her mind, but if it had been Moran, Dryers would have known. Everyone at the Yard knew that mug. Perhaps it was one of his cronies.

'Old codger,' said Dryers. 'I'd put him at eighty at least. White man, brown eyes, couldn't have been more than five-seven and ten stone five, if I had to guess. Posh as all hell and in a suit that would have eaten up my salary over three months.'

'Not Moran,' said Donovan under her breath.

'I wouldn't think so,' Dryers agreed.

'But he doesn't want me to find Murray?'

'He wants you to solve a different case.'

'What case?'

'One headed by Tony Pitts, back in 1996. Unresolved.'

Sally Donovan's head was spinning. As though in a daze, she moved to an armchair and slowly sank down, resting her arm in her lap. She wiped the water dripping down her brow aside but felt the shoulders and back of the dressing gown growing heavy with wetness.

'October 4, 1996,' said Dryers. 'That's what he said.'

'What happened in 1996?'

Dryers shook his head. 'All he said was, it's urgent.'

'Now it's urgent?'

'That's what he said.'

'Bloody hell.' She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and when she opened them again, her resolve was solidified. 'Fine. Let's get you down to the Yard. You need to give a statement and talk to a sketch artist. Lestrade will lift your suspension, and we can get an APW out on this guy.'

'Uh.' Dryers shook his head regretfully. 'Can't do that.'

'Why the hell not?'

'He warned me. You can't tell Lestrade. You can't tell Gregson. Nobody.'

'Shit, Dryers.'

'I know.'

'So why you? Why did he go after you?'

'He said . . .' Dryers shrugged pathetically. 'He thought I was leverage. Said he couldn't approach you directly, but I could serve as his messenger boy. And if you didn't do it?' He turned his finger into a gun and mimed shooting himself between the eyes.

'Jesus,' she groaned. 'What the hell is going on?' She dropped her hands, angrily; the pain in her elbow flared. What was she supposed to do? Bill Murray was alead! And Lestrade was counting on her to follow it. She couldn't just abandon a lead to the psychopath Moran for some nineteen-year-old case because some nameless old crackpot had threatened Thomas Dryers!

A thought popped into her head: don't abandon. Delegate.

And then, a madder thought followed on: Sherlock Holmes.

Shit.

'What do you want me to do, sergeant?' Dryers asked.

She sucked in a long breath and sat back, rubbing her arm. 'Nothing. You've done what you promised to do. Go home. Enjoy your time off.'

Adamantly, he shook his head. 'I want to help. You and I are the only ones who now know about the file.'

Donovan stood. 'Go home. I need to get ready for work. It's going to be a hell of a day.'

'You doing it then? You going to get the file, investigate this old case?'

She ignored the question, not quite sure what she was going to do yet. 'Let me know when you're no longer suspended.'

Without seeing him out, she turned toward the hallway, but Dryers wasn't satisfied.

'What about you and me? Are we . . . you know. Okay?'

She paused and looked back over her shoulder. 'I don't know what you see in me. This isn't the first time I've turned against you, and been wrong. Why would you believe it's the last? I'm not reliable, Tom. I'm sorry. Best we both accept the fact.' Then she walked away.

It was the very last phone call she ever expected to make, even if she lived to be a hundred, which, given the state of things, she really didn't expect to.

'Who is this, and what have you done with Sally Donovan?'

'You're a riot, Holmes.' She sat in her car outside the Yard, watching the pedestrians amble by and wondering how many among them were future criminals.

'Not a butt dial then.'

'Shut up and listen.'

'I'm all ears. Hang on, I should grab a pen to take notes. John, do you have pen?'

God, he was insufferable. Gritting her teeth, she pushed ahead before he could get in any more sarcastic remarks. He probably had a whole list of them unspooling in that oversized brain. 'I have an assignment for you.'

There was silence on the other end. Complete silence.

'Holmes?'

'Sorry,' he said, his voice sounding dazed. 'I'm just revelling in the moment. This is historic: the day Sally Josephine Donovan hired Sherlock Holmes. John, take note of the date. April 23. I want to commemorate this annually.'

'If we're even alive by next April,' she heard John quip in the background.

'Touché,' said Sherlock.

'Shut up, the pair of you.' This was getting away from her. She shouldn't have called.

'Pray, what can I do for you, Sgt Donovan?' Sherlock asked with excessive servility.

'Find Bill Murray,' she said brusquely. Then added, 'If you think you can handle it.' There was another long silence. 'Holmes?'

'Find Bill Murray,' repeated Sherlock slowly. 'You want us, John and me, to find Bill Murray.'

'If you think can.'

Sherlock cleared his throat. 'Very well. I'll put it on my to-do list. Right at the top.'

'The sooner the better. Today, if it's not too inconvenient.'

'I'll start looking yesterday.'

The cheeky bastard. 'Yeah, you do that. And while you're at it, make a point of not telling Lestrade.'

'What, that you've outsourced? Why? What are you up to, Sally?'

'Can I trust you on this or not?'

'Discretion is my middle name. One Bill Murray, coming up.'

'Find him. But don't, you know, talk to him or give him a fright. We don't want him running.'

'Survey and report, aye aye, captain. Er, sergeant.'

'All right, all right. You boys have fun.'

He laughed. It sounded strangely genuine. 'Right-o. And best of luck to you on your duplicitous mission. I look forward to deducing the details later.'

She hung up on him. All right, she thought, sighing mightily, one box checked. Next: how to casually rummage cold case files from the nineties without raising eyebrows or making excuses. Only then would she know how all the rest of the boxes on her day's to-do list would read.

When Sherlock and John arrived in Edgware a day earlier, they were quick to suss out an immediate hurdle: the Murray's front stoop was being watched. They would never be able to just ring the bell and have a chat without word getting back to Lestrade, who would no doubt call them off. So they returned to Baker Street for the night and formulated an alternative plan: catch Mrs Murray unawares somewhere outside the line of sight of her monitors.

After running through several options, they settled on a course of action to be executed the next morning.

John stood across from her in produce, squeezing and sniffing tomatoes, hoping to be noticed. Quite against his nature, he was trying to be conspicuous. He sniffed loudly. Cleared his throat. He had even brought the cane, because what Sherlock said was probably true: people noticed you if you had a cane. He leant on it heavily and let his limp be a little more pronounced when he shuffled over to the onions to keep in her line of sight.

'Oh my God.'

He looked up and feigned surprise to see her staring at him. In any other circumstance, he would not welcome the attention, but today he was counting on the fact that his face had been in the news for the last six months, and given his history with her husband, surely she had seen it.

'Can I help you?' he asked.

'You're . . . you're John Watson.'

'Yes. And you are . . . ?'

'You knew my husband, Bill. Bill Murray. You served together.'

'Oh!' He let recognition register and hoped it wasn't too comical. 'Bill! Yes, of course. That would make you Frances.' He abandoned the onions and came around to greet her properly, shifting the cane into his opposite hand to shake hers. 'Is he here with you?'

Her handshake was limp, but she didn't let go. After a few seconds, he realised why: she was staring at the scars. They weren't too obvious, from a distance. But up close, they were unmistakable. He hated that look and fought the impulse to pull his hand away and create distance.

'I heard about what happened,' she said, lowering her voice. 'On the news. My God. I'm so sorry, Mr . . . Dr Watson, I mean. Or Captain Watson?'

'John,' he said, and finally let go of her hand and looked away. He had suddenly lost the momentum to keep this conversation going. He didn't know how to respond to this. All these months, and he still hadn't figured it out.

'I have to ask,' she said.

John braced for questions about those days in the basement of the convent. Already he was looking for an exit, and wishing Sherlock had come into the Tesco with him. But Sherlock thought it was best for John to approach her alone. Who knew how the media portrayals had influenced her opinion of Sherlock Holmes? They didn't need to set her on the defensive from the start. Then it would be harder to get information from her.

'Have you seen Bill? Talked to him? Lately, I mean.'

The relief was almost palpable. His head cleared of dark clouds and the tingling in his skin subsided. He was back on track.

'I'm sorry to say, we haven't been in touch in ages,' said John. 'Been meaning to, though.' Then, pressing his luck, 'Why?'

'Police have been 'round. Asking questions.'

'Is he in some sort of trouble?'

'He's missing. That is, they can't find him. I can't find him. I keep calling, talking to his friends, but I don't know what to do.'

'God.' John shifted his weight and shook his head concernedly. 'How long—?'

'Long time. I just. I don't know what to do!'

Mrs Frances Murray, as it turned out, was a wheel that didn't need much grease at all to start turning. Once she had identified in him a friend, he became a confidante, and she started telling him everything, everything she had seen, heard, and even thought in the weeks since she had last seen and talked to Bill. Some of it was familiar, what Donovan had already mentioned. Some of it was irrelevant, like how much of a struggle it was getting the kids dressed in the morning and bathed in the evening, what with Bill being gone. And some of it seemed, well, rather personal.

'He cheats on me, you know,' she said, oblivious to the Tesco shoppers pushing their trolleys behind her. Anger flashed in her eyes, but hurt as well. 'I know he does, he's been at it for years. I even met one of them once, 'cause she was feeling so guilty she had to come to my house and tell me about it. And there I am, seven months pregnant, consoling this little waif of a girl who's losing it on my doorstep.'

'I'm . . . so sorry,' said John. Not only was this a version of Bill he didn't know, and didn't want to know, but he had lost control of the conversation—if he'd ever had control to begin with—and was feeling like Sherlock's advice to just let them talk was a mistake. Until—

'Prostitutes, too. Can you believe it?'

'Mrs Murray—'

'One kept calling the house! I hadn't seen Bill since beginning of the year, but she keeps ringing me up through January, February, looking for him, says he won't return her calls, and I told the tart, I did, I said it very clear, never to call my house again. Haven't heard from her since.'

Maybe it was the timeline, but something about this story struck John as suspect, and he decided to probe. 'Was she asking for money? Had he'—it was an uncomfortable question to be sure—'not paid up?'

'No, nothing like that. Just wanted to talk to him, see him. Relentless, she was.'

'How is it you know she was a prostitute?'

Over Mrs Murray's shoulder, John saw a white-haired woman throw a scandalised look in their direction before pushing her shopping trolley ahead with overblown dignity.

'Well, I just figured, what with a name like that. Kitty. Only a prostitute would call herself that. No surname. Just Kitty.'

It was like a punch to the gut. Or maybe a bolt to the brain. But it was certainly one of the very last names John expected to hear Mrs Murray speak. He couldn't stop himself from blurting out in shock, 'Kitty!'

'Horrid name, I know!' said Mrs Murray.

'You're sure she didn't mention a surname?'

'Oh no. She wasn't calling to talk to me. Wouldn't hardly answer a single question. Just kept saying, Tell Bill to call me back. I'll make it worth his while, in that sultry whore-voice of hers. I'm not an idiot. I know what that means. If you want my opinion, she's the one he's shacked up with. Haven't heard from her in weeks, same as Bill.'

Mrs Murray didn't quite have the full measure of it, but then, neither did John. It was somewhere to start.

'Do you,' he said delicately, 'want me to see what I can do? See if I can find him, talk to him?'

Her eyes widened. 'The police are already—'

'I know a guy who may be a bit better at finding people.'

'You mean Sherlock Holmes.'

He smiled at her. 'I do. Look. Who knows if Bill is with this woman or not, eh?' He is most definitely not, John thought. 'But wherever he is, whatever he's doing, maybe it's best if, you know, a friend found him first. Not the police. What do you say?'

'Oh John, would you?'

That was easier than he'd expected. 'I'd be happy to. I want to know that he's all right. And what he's been up to.' He smiled at her, then dug into his coat pocket or his phone. 'Let me give you my number. Then if he calls, or if you think of anything . . .'

They exchanged information, and before they parted ways, Mrs Murray grasped his arm and said, 'Thank you, John. Thank you so much. I already feel better about this. Take care, yeah?' One last time, her eyes grazed his scars.

Leaving the tomatoes behind, John made for the exit and the Tesco car park. He spotted the rental, a black Jetta, and let himself into the passenger seat. The interior was toasty warm, and Sherlock sat with the driver's seat partly reclined, scrolling through his phone. 'Learn anything useful?' he asked without looking up.

'Yes. And you're not going to like it.'

Sherlock glanced over, then popped the seat back into its upright position. 'What?'

'We have to go to Kent.'

'Kent?'

John bobbed his head once. 'East Sutton Park Prison.'

Sherlock stared mutely while the information took a moment to register. Then his head hit the back headrest and he groaned.

Michaela Warner placed her phone face-up on the table between their two coffees.

'I want to say something first,' said Matilda Williams, putting a hand over Michaela's before she could tap the red circle to begin recording. Then, with a tone of shameful confession: 'I used to read Kitty Riley.'

Michaela grinned, eager to put Mrs Williams—who had been jittery since she walked through the door—at ease. People being interviewed gave miserable answers and lied desperately when they weren't at ease, even if they had no reason to. 'Most people did, I reckon.'

But Mrs Williams wasn't placated. She was twisting a paper serviette between her hands like it had personally offended her. 'No, what I mean is, I read her, and believed her. That James Moriarty was an invention. That Sherlock Holmes had orchestrated the whole thing, even the trial. I wanted to believe her. Because if what she said was true, then it wasn't my fault, you see?'

'It wasn't your fault either way. According to what you told police, you were threatened. Coerced into rendering a guilty verdict.'

'Yes.'

'That's the story I'm here for.' Her pen was poised above a blank notepad, her questions memorised and poised on her tongue. She just need to crack on.

Eyeing the phone and its red button like it was a cockroach that had found its way into the café and onto their table, Mrs Williams shook her head. 'It's not the whole story. So I'm just wondering . . . I've had a talk with my husband, and he reckons there may be legal troubles if I talk to you.'

Furrowing her brow, feeling the story already slipping away from her, Michaela said, 'Mrs Williams, you reached out to me.'

'I know I did, I know. It felt important, then, to get it off my chest. But now I think of it . . . Well, I'm just not sure how much I can say.'

Michaela slid the phone to the side and inclined toward Mrs Williams, creating a more intimate space where two women could share confidences. 'Have you ever spoken to a journalist before? Newspaper reporter, that sort of thing?'

'No. One rang the house, once, after my ex-husband was killed. Wanted me to comment, say what he was like, you know, but I hung up. Couldn't bear to talk to anyone.'

Mentally, Michaela riffled through her research on Matilda Williams. It was cursory at best. She didn't have an assistant to do this kind of work yet, and she had been so bogged down in Holmes-and-Watson research that she hadn't had time to prepare properly for her interview with Mrs Williams. Other than Mrs Williams' role as the foreperson on the jury, Michaela couldn't remember much else. Was there something about an ex-husband in there? Something she should know? Damn, nothing. She would have to ask.

'Your ex-husband. How did he die, if you don't mind my asking?'

Mrs Williams' eyebrows rose in surprise, like she was telling Michaela something she was supposed to know already. 'He was shot.'

'By whom?'

'Well, they don't know, do they?'

'I'm really sorry to hear that.'

'Why would you be? Why would anyone? Even me, when I found out who he really was . . .' But at last, Mrs Williams seemed to register Michaela's look of confusion. 'Oh. I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew. God, I've been so paranoid!' She put her hands on the side of her reddening face and shook her head back and forth as though chastening herself.

'What about?'

'We were already divorced when it happened, a few years already, and I'd hardly spoken to him since. Just a few times, when he came to see the kids. Jeff had very restricted visitation, on account of the drinking. But the police asked me questions, so many questions, trying to discover a violent history, but there was nothing, not really. Nothing I'd seen, anyway. Still, I lost sleep over it thinking I should have seen something in him that suggested he was capable of what he did. And all this time, I just figured everyone knew, like they were looking at me, wondering how I could have been so stupid, marrying him to begin with. God, I didn't sleep for weeks!'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Williams, but I don't know what you're talking about.'

'My ex-husband'—she looked around the café and dropped her voice so it was barely audible—'was Jeff Hope. The serial killer.'

Michaela almost screamed, but managed to keep it to a gasp, which she swiftly covered with a hand as the details of the case suddenly clunked into place, a case she knew only as 'A Study in Pink.' 'Sherlock Holmes solved those murders!' she said in a screaming whisper.

'I know!' Mrs Williams whispered back. 'And then the trial happened, and he was a witness, and I didn't make the connection at first. It had been so long since I'd heard the name. But then it came out, weeks later, weeks after that awful verdict, that he had invented Moriarty and all the crimes, and I thought, was it possible, that he set Jeff up to do what he did? Or frame him? I hated him. For years I hated him. I hated Jeff, too, for different reasons, but I never wished him harm. He was still the father of my children. But I didn't say anything. Not to anyone. What was the point? The man was dead, wasn't he? All of them. Jeff and Brook and Holmes. And then . . . the letters began to arrive.'

Mrs Williams stopped talking and put a hand over her mouth.

'Letters?' Michaela wanted to hit the record button on her phone, or at the very least take notes. But she didn't want to break the spell. 'What letters?'

'I think . . . Maybe I've said more than I should.'

'Matilda.' She had to handle this delicately. The woman had called her after all. She had her pick of the papers, and she had gone straight to Michaela Warner. That had to afford her some advantage. And wouldn't Mr Heinrich be pleased? This was a big story! 'The reason I asked whether you'd ever spoken to a journalist before is this: journalists cannot be compelled to reveal their sources. Check it out yourself: Goodwin v. United Kingdom. As part of the European Code of Human Rights, it is a basic tenet of free press. So if you talk to me, if you tell me what you know, I can offer you anonymity. If that's what you want.'

For another twenty-five minutes, the two women talked it through—what it meant to be a source, what legal protections were afforded sources, what possible ramifications might be in place if Mrs Williams' story (still undisclosed) came to light and was connected back to her. Michaela was patient. She was missing a meeting back at the office and losing out on writing time, but this was important. She felt it in her bones.

At last, Mrs Williams consented to talk.

'I think,' she began, 'that I've handled dirty money. Jeff's money. I didn't know it was dirty, but . . . You see, starting in 2012, somebody found out. That's when the first letter arrived. Someone was blackmailing me! I don't know who, I never found out, and I don't know how, but I think—I think—this is all to do, somehow, with Sherlock Holmes.'

Friday, April 24, 2015

East Sutton Park Prison was one of two women's open prisons in England, but it looked little like a prison and more like a holiday retreat in the country. Nestled cosily in the village of East Sutton near Maidstone, the three-storey brick Elizabethan mansion, erected in 1570, enjoyed sprawling grounds of well-manicured grass, skilfully pruned trees, and lovely stone walking paths. If not for the modest sign at the unassuming gate, one would be very unlikely to mistake it for a prison at all. A museum, perhaps.

John bent forward and craned his neck to see better through the windscreen. 'The poor woman,' he griped as Sherlock parked the car and killed the engine. 'She must be having a real rough time of it.'

A disgruntled grunt was Sherlock's only response. He'd said very little on the drive over, and John understood. Neither of them had any desire whatsoever—regardless of what they might learn or how useful it would be—to see Kitty Riley again. John's last encountered had felt more like an assault, and the memory still lanced him. As for Sherlock, he had had an entire city turn against him because of the lies and vitriol oozing from that woman's pen. At one point, he had even been stoned. John blamed Kitty for that one, too, and he had no intentions of forgiving it. She was here, now, because of what she had done to John. What she had done to Sherlock went unpunished.

Barely a week ago, Kitty Riley had been convicted on two counts of concealing evidence from police in an active investigation, and one count of maliciously targeting an innocent person. But it was only yesterday that she had been sentenced to eighteen months at East Sutton Park. All told, she'd been there for less than twenty-four hours.

'Now to see whether they'll let us in.' John unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the door when beside him in the driver's seat, unmoving, Sherlock hummed his agreement before adding, 'Yes, we can't both pretend to be DI Lestrade.'

John's fingers stilled on the door handle. So he'd figured it out then. Of course he had. He was Sherlock Holmes, and John knew it was only a matter of time. He settled back into the bucket seat. For a long moment, silence reigned, and Sherlock stared straight ahead, seemingly content to sit in the car for the foreseeable future.

'Something you want to say?' John asked. He didn't want to do this, but if forced, he would defend himself to the hilt.

'Not at all.' Sherlock still didn't move to open his door. His voice was soft, but the casual tone was forced.

It rankled John. 'Good. Fine.' He pulled the handle and popped open the door. He had one foot out when Sherlock continued:

'Just next time you borrow something from my sock drawer, I would appreciate your returning it.'

John pulled his foot back inside and slammed the door. 'Say what you have to say, Sherlock.'

'I've said it.'

'And I bet you're just dying to tell me how you worked it out.'

'No. And you don't have to say a word about it. Not if you don't want to. But I'll not hide from you that, yes, I know where you went. When you're ready to tell me why, and what Stubbins said to you before he met his untimely demise at the hands of incarcerated thugs, or perhaps we should say hired goons, I'll be happy to hear it.'

'Good. Fine,' John repeated, this time more heatedly. He couldn't help it. Despite the gentle tone, he felt he was being accused. 'And when you're ready to hear that I'm not imagining voices on the other end of a phone call, I'll be ready to tell you what they say, too.' He shoved out of the car and threw the door closed, harder than he had meant to, but it was done. He was glad not to have brought the cane today, glad Sherlock's damn boot would slow him down.

Only, it didn't.

Sherlock was out the door quickly and rushing to catch him up. He grabbed John by the arm to detain him. 'What's going on with you?' he demanded.

'With me?'

'You know something, and you're not telling me. Me!'

'Not now, Sherlock.'

He tried to step around, but Sherlock seized him by the upper arms to hold him in place. 'Did you know? That Stubbins would be killed. Did you know it?'

'Of course I knew it!' John said through gritted teeth, wresting himself free of the grip. 'I'm the one who delivered the sodding message!'

'What?'

'Moran made me do it. And I was going to tell you all about it, too, but you—!' John twisted away. He grabbed the back of his head with both hands and struggled to regain his composure. Not here. Not in public like this.

'John!'

His hands fell to his side. He looked up into the sky, shaking slightly. 'You put it in my head that I was crazy. You did that.' Then John sighed. He knew it wasn't fair of him to blame Sherlock. He couldn't stop Sherlock from thinking any more than he could stop him from breathing. As the anger leaked out of him, leaving behind only regret, his head fell forward, shaking back and forth. 'I believed you, Sherlock. I thought you were right. You were always right before, when it felt so real. When I used to see him, with my own two eyes, I had to rely on you to tell me he wasn't really there. And I thought, why should it be any different now? Maybe he didn't call, and I didn't hear him, it was all in my head. Trust Sherlock, I thought. You always have before.'

'I didn't want to doubt you,' Sherlock mumbled. 'Or maybe I did. In this, at least. So all I could do was look for the evidence.'

'Yeah. I was looking, too. And I found it. Look.' John glanced around and saw the gate officer watching them. 'Not here. Later, yeah?'

'Later,' Sherlock agreed. They stared at each other for a moment, like something was left unfinished, something more needed to be said, or done, but neither knew what. So they turned together and started walking toward the prison gate. 'I suspect I'd best apologise, then,' Sherlock said.

'Later,' said John.

Visiting hours at the prison were reserved for the weekend and allowed on the basis of prior appointment, making Sherlock and John a day too early, as well as lacking prior approval. As rare luck would have it, however, the governor—with whom they requested an audience first—was, and always had been, a fan of Sherlock Holmes.

'We've had five Holmes-arrested offenders come through here whilst I've been governor,' said Robin Eldridge, vigorously shaking Sherlock's hand. 'While you were dead, I thought, well pots, that's the end of that run. So imagine my delight when it came out that you were back! Six months later, and we have our first Holmes catch already! Good show! And Dr Watson, a sincere pleasure. It used to be part of my morning ritual, eating breakfast while looking for updates on your blog. You'll be back at it again soon enough, I hope? Please, have a seat.'

She was a tall, boxy woman—as tall as Sherlock and fifteen years older—with a severe blonde bob and quite the square chin, dressed smartly in a dark suit and shiny black shoes.

'On a case, is it?' she asked, a little hopefully.

'Yes, in fact,' said Sherlock, and John sensed his relief. It looked as though this was one roadblock that would be moved aside for them. All the same, to seal the deal, Sherlock put on the charm: 'But we've found ourselves in a bit of spot. Can't move forward, you see. Need more data. We think, though, that one of your new inmates may be able to shed some light on this. Now, I know it's Friday—no visitors on Fridays—and we're not police officers . . .'

Ms Eldridge tapped the side of her nose and winked. John bit his tongue. He'd seen this before, and it had always amused him. The woman was flirting with Sherlock. 'How can I help?'

Fifteen minutes later, Ms Eldridge had set them up in what looked like a tea room with a cosy sofa and two chintz armchairs. John took one, Sherlock the other, and there, with teacups in hand, they waited for the guest of honour.

'Stop me if I look like I'm about to throw tea in her face,' Sherlock said mildly, taking another sip.

John appreciated the attempt at humour, but he was nervous, and he hated Kitty all the more for making him feel so. It didn't matter that they were the ones free to come and go; he still felt an upset stomach.

Before long, the woman herself arrived under escort, but apparently she had not been told where she was going because when she stepped into the room and saw them standing there, she gave a little eep, as if they had jumped out and scared her.

She wore a grey turtleneck jumper overlaid with a black cardigan and what appeared to be black drawstring trousers without pockets—quite comfortable for a prisoner. Her ginger hair was pulled back into a ponytail, minus the fringe that still framed her face. She also wore glasses, a little bit of mascara, and pink lip gloss. Though she had arrived only the day before, she looked like one lounging comfortably in her own flat.

'Governor says take your time,' said the escort, then closed the door behind her to stand waiting in the hallway.

By this time, Kitty had quite recovered herself. She tossed back her fringe and walked with exaggerated dignity to the sofa, where she sat at an angle and lifted a leg so she could recline.

'Maybe dreams really do come true,' she said in her pseudo-sultry voice. 'Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, sitting an interview at last.'

'We'll be asking the questions, Ms Riley,' said Sherlock, his voice dark, all semblance of charm evaporated.

'Ask all the questions you like,' said Kitty. 'I'll not answer them.'

'I think you will.'

'Why? What's in it for me? What can you possibly do to me? I mean, look at me. Look where I am. You already put me in a prison. Granted, it is rather lovely. My roommate is a fifty-four year-old grandmother of six on a three-year sentence for embezzling. She's teaching me crochet. This afternoon, I'll be working in the garden. We're planting beans and squash, so I'm told. And all my meals are locally catered. There's a vegan option, you know. I think I'll give it a try while I'm here, see how I like it. And did I mention? Friday nights, it's karaoke down in the common room. Tonight, I'm singing Jewel.'

John felt it coming on—the tremor in his hand. He set his teacup down in its saucer on the table before it could give away his anger and crossed his arms over his chest.

'How does it feel, Ms Riley?' said Sherlock, and if he was equally disgusted with her, he hid it well.

'How does what feel?'

'Being wrong. All this time, you thought you had the full measure of things. You thought Moriarty was an invention. What was it like for you, when the tests came back proving it was not Richard Brook in that grave? How did it feel, when you realised you had been fooled, and that for more than three years, you had believed his lie? Your whole career was built on it.'

She sneered and let both feet hit the floor. Again, she flicked her fringe to the side. 'So what if he was real? That doesn't turn you into some sort of hero.' She sniffed and looked at John. 'I read your recent blog post. Your tribute. My inbox was flooded with it, with people telling me I just had to read it.' She shook her head, smiling wryly. 'You're a good storyteller, Dr Watson. I'll give you that.'

'You were, too, once,' said Sherlock. 'That's all your journalism amounted to, in the end. Stories. Fiction.'

'Are we done here? I need to get back to my tai chi class.'

'Just as soon as you answer a few questions.'

'I don't talk without my lawyer present,' she said. 'It's my new rule.' She laid her arm along the back of the sofa and once again adopted an air of chilled superiority, like a queen in her castle. 'And besides, you're not police. You have no real authority.'

This was taking too long. She was being too stubborn, and Sherlock wasn't getting anywhere fast enough.

'Cut the shit, Kitty,' said John. 'What the hell do you want with Bill Murray?'

At his outburst, her mouth fell open, stunned. But whether it was by the eruption itself or the question, he couldn't instantly discern.

'Oh, I see what this is.' She laughed shortly, incredulously. 'Your old mate hired you on, has he? Add another count of stalking and harassment, and my sentence goes up another few months, is that your game? Pathetic.' She leant forward and repeated herself for emphasis. 'Pathetic. I never even met him.'

John shot Sherlock a look, trying to tell him to go after her, break her down, or he'd break her teeth.

'Doesn't it make you mad, Ms Riley?' Sherlock said, still calm and collected. 'Moriarty saw an overlooked but ambitious young reporter, hungry for that big story, and he took advantage. He lied to you. Manipulated you. In the end, he made a fool of you, and it landed you in prison. Doesn't that make you furious?'

John's teeth were clenched so tightly his whole head hurt. What the hell was Sherlock saying? Kitty Riley wasn't the victim here!

'He had evidence,' she said, nostrils flaring with the effort to breathe and stay calm. 'Damning evidence, about you.' Her fingers were digging into her palms.

'I know.'

'It was real.'

'Much of it, yes. But not all.'

'I couldn't just ignore it.'

'You did what he meant for you to do. We all did, back then. And I'll give you credit. You played your part well. Very well. And I made it easy. I'm an easy man to dislike.'

'Sherlock,' said John, both to admonish and to disagree.

'But facts care little about feelings,' Sherlock continued placidly. 'You may hate me all you like. That doesn't change the fact that Moriarty murdered a man named Richard Brook and assumed his identity, nor that he fooled you with it. The subsequent trail of destruction has come at great personal costs to John and me, as well as to countless others. We are now in the business of setting things to rights, and we need your help to do it.'

'From here?' Kitty sniffed and rubbed her nose. 'With all my powers of the press from behind bars.'

'I see no bars,' said John, and he meant it as an indictment.

'It's time to pull back the cloak on your anonymous sources,' said Sherlock, 'and tell us what they said.'

'Which ones? I have sources all over England,' she said proudly and in the present tense, as if she still had a career. 'Plenty in New Scotland Yard, which should come as no surprise. When you died, they came out of woodworks, all wanting to tell their stories about you, about how much they hated you. They called you a freak and a psychopath, and that was when they were being kind. So when you came back, do you think I had any shortage of insiders? Where do you think I got all my information?'

'You still don't get it, do you?' John seethed. 'Your informants were the people who kidnapped me and killed Mary. Not Yarders.'

She shook her head in denial and looked out of the unbarred window. 'There's no proof of that.'

'The photos you published,' said Sherlock, 'the ones from the convent—'

She laughed, actually laughed. 'You are kidding, right?' she said. 'Where do you think those came from? Perhaps a certain forensics specialist wanting to show the world exactly what you are capable of?'

Sherlock scowled. 'Anderson.'

'Of course.' She cocked her head, regarding him with something close to pity. 'You really are off your game when you're not the one crafting the crime.'

John was suddenly on his feet without any recollection of deciding to stand. 'You're unbelievable.' He took a menacing step forward; she shrank back in surprise. 'You have the truth of things right here'—he raised his own hand to just inches in front of his eyes, and it shook with rage—'and you still say it doesn't exist. You're blind. Blind. Come on, Sherlock, she's not worth our—'

He turned away, toward the door, but Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm, detaining him. Still staring at Kitty, still as placid as ever, he said, 'Tell us about your association with Bill Murray. Then we will happily leave you to your tai chi.'

'Whatever he told you,' said Kitty, 'it's a lie. I did not harass him. I called once—only once—and he refused to meet me. End of story. I couldn't even tell you what he looks like, and that's the God's honest truth.'

'When was this?' Sherlock released John's arm, but John, breathing heavily, refused to sit back down.

'December, it must have been. Before Christmas. And yes, I've called since, but I only ever got the wife on the line.'

December. Before Bill had disappeared then, thought John. Before the Slash Man's first killing.

'How did you get his number?'

At first, she made no indication that she would answer. Then, she turned her neck, let it cracked, and sighed. 'It was in the email.'

'What email?'

'One of my sources.'

'Which one?'

She glared. 'I don't know. Never heard from them before, haven't heard from them since.'

'Why the hell would someone give you Bill's number?' John demanded, crossing his arms.

Kitty Riley simpered. 'An excellent question, Dr Watson. Evidently, someone wants something to come to light. Do you know—every paper in the city wants the story. Your story. Who you really are, what really went on in that convent. I've offered you quite a handsome sum for an interview before, haven't I? The offer still stands. The Sun would make you rich.'

'Fuck you.'

'John.' This time, it was Sherlock who was being admonitory.

'Talk to Bill Murray, the email said,' said Kitty. 'Ask him about a man named James Sholto. That's where John's story starts.'

John felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, but he stood unmoving, arms still folded, jaw still tight, and face reddening. He had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. Still seated, Sherlock looked to him expectantly, waiting for him to shed light on Kitty's revelation. But he was too much blindsided by it himself to offer any sort of elucidation.

'John?'

'Why?' John whispered.

'Who is James Sholto?' Kitty asked. 'I never did find out.'

'Are we done here?' John said, turning to Sherlock. His desire to storm out of the room was growing in urgency. 'She never talked to Bill. She doesn't know anything.'

Sherlock looked torn, and John knew why. Kitty had opened up a new line of questioning he wanted to follow, as far as he could, as far as she could take him. But he saw, too, the desperation in John's stance, in his troubled expression. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

Kitty did, too.

'I never talked to Bill Murray,' she said, as though she were upset at their leaving prematurely. 'But I did find the mistress.'

Sherlock froze. He glanced at John again, as though seeking permission.

'Which one?' John growled spitefully.

'I'll tell you,' she said, 'if you tell me who James Sholto is.'

John huffed, his ire making him see spots, and he twisted away so he wouldn't have to look anymore at her ugly visage.

'Sorry, Ms Riley,' said Sherlock, conceding to John's obvious distress. 'We don't bargain with criminals.'

'Her name,' John said to the wall. 'Her name and how you found her, or I tell you nothing and walk straight out that door.'

'You don't have to do that,' said Sherlock. 'The mistress is irrelevant.'

'Maybe not,' said Kitty, a touch of excitement now infusing her voice. She was eager to show off. 'Fine. I'll tell. It was really quite clever how I found her, if I do say so myself. This old journalist has a few tricks up her sleeve. I placed an ad.'

'What?' said Sherlock, bemused.

'That's right. The wife, she screamed at me on the phone, accused me of having an affair with her husband, being one of his hussies. So I knew there were others. I wasn't likely to get the names from her, though, was I? So I placed ads in the papers throughout southern England. I really did, you know. I have connections at every paper in the country, given my reputation.'

John sneered, but he was glaring at the carpet between his feet.

'Personal ads, you know. They were simple: To Bill Murray, you forgot your pants. Come and get them. Signed, Mindi.'

'You're not serious,' said Sherlock.

She laughed. 'I figured, any woman having an affair with Bill and reading that was sure to call the number and chew me out. But weeks passed, and nothing, and I thought, well, it was worth a shot. But then, I got the call. Anita Heslehurst of Colchester. Go on then, look her up. I met her for lunch, and we exchanged sordid stories. I was a sympathetic ear, and a creative storyteller. But she couldn't lead me to Bill.'

'Anita Heslehurst,' Sherlock repeated, and John, too, filed the name away in a mental cabinet. 'When was this?'

'February. Just after Valentine's. She didn't take too kindly to being jilted like she was.'

Sherlock shot to his feet. 'Thank you for your input. We'll now let you get back to serving time.' He strode to the door and twisted the handle, holding it open for John.

'Oi!' she said. 'What about Sholto?'

John didn't even glance her way. 'He's dead,' he said, catching Sherlock's bewildered eye only briefly as he exited. To the guard, he threw a thumb back to the room and said, 'We're done with her.'

They drove straight to Colchester, John now at the wheel and Sherlock searching on his phone for Anita Heslehurst. Conversation was terse. Sherlock hadn't exactly expected their tête-à-tête with Kitty Riley to go smoothly, but he had imagined that—of the two of them—it would have been John who would keep a level head and cool demeanour. As it was, he had barely offered two words unsolicited since leaving the prison. The rest were a chilled response to what Sherlock considered basic and necessary questions.

'Who was James Sholto?'

'Later.'

'If you and Bill both knew the man, and if Moran was the source of the email, then the military connection may be stronger than we originally—'

'I said later, Sherlock. I'm thinking.'

Sherlock debated whether to push him, but judged that he best not. Not now, in any case. John was too volatile. But after they found Anita Heslehurst, this lack of communication needed to be addressed. If it was true that John really had spoken to Moran (and he wasn't sure which was worse: the hallucination or the reality), then John had access to data, and it was intolerable that he wouldn't share.

For now, though, John was dealing with something, and he needed time.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sent off a text:

Update please.

A couple of minutes passed before he received a reply.

Mr Holmes' condition is
stable but unchanged. Last
toxicology report came back
negative for all toxins. Still
needs breathing assistance.

As he held the phone in both hands, one behind the other, he softly began to scratch. Mycroft had been on the ventilator for a week now. If he wasn't breathing on his own, the most likely explanation—all factors considered—was brain damage. The aconitine was a neurotoxin, making brain damage the most logical assumption. Sometimes, Sherlock thought, logic was a bitch.

'We're here,' said John. His voice had softened considerably from when they had last exchanged words, and Sherlock felt some of the tension ease between them.

They pulled into a car park of a sixth form college where the Internet indicated Anita Heslehurst worked as support staff. The plan was to intercept her as she left work for her car. They didn't know the car, but the website had also provided a photo of the woman.

'That's her,' said Sherlock.

In perfect sync, they unbuckled their belts, opened the doors, and stepped out of the car.

Anita Heslehurst was petite and girlish in manner and speech, though she must have been in her early thirties and a career woman. At the mention of Bill Murray, they had expected her to become defensive or cagey, but she was neither. She was angry.

''E's a right bastard, 'e is,' she said, standing in front of her car with hands on hips and legs spread in a stance of defiance. 'All sob stories and lies, yeah? And 'im telling me I make 'im feel alive again, like 'e ain't been alive since before going off to war, like that weren't 'is own damn fault. Like, ain't nobody to blame but 'isself. Comes and goes as 'e likes, never a word of warning, and then 'e off'n disappears. 'Aven't seen 'im in a month or more, but 'e's sticking me with 'is bills, all the same.'

'What bills would those be, Ms Heslehurst?'

'I got'em right 'ere, I do.' She opened her back seat, which looked like a contained disaster. But it must have had some organisation to it, because she returned quickly with a small stack of torn envelopes. 'Been paying for 'is phones, 'aven't I? And other things. Swore 'e'd pay me back, but 'ave I seen even so much as a ten pence? Owes me upwards of three thousand quid by now. I'm thinkin' I'll take 'im to small claims. Put 'im up before Judge Rinder, 'at's what'll I'll do, let the good judge rip into Bill for me.'

'May I?' Sherlock asked, extending a hand.

She shrugged. 'You're the detective, innit?' And she passed them over. As he riffled through the pages and peered inside torn envelopes, she continued, 'Kept all them receipts, too. I paid for meals, petrol, shaving cream, 'otel rooms, cleaning service, train tickets . . .'

'Hotels? You know where he's staying?'

'Only where 'e's stayed. Weeks and weeks ago.'

'And cleaning services?'

'Yeah, got that one right 'ere.' She stepped closer and found the proper receipt, setting it on top for Sherlock to read. 'Don't know what it were for, exactly. But I paid it. 'Cause 'e asked it of me. I was a fool. Me bank accounts empty and me credit card's all maxed out.'

It was a carbon copy of an invoice for a cleaning company called Andre's General Repair & Renovation Assistance. Attached to it was a carbon copy of a cheque she had written for £821.98 on March 7, 2015.

Sherlock passed it all off to John.

'We're going to spend some time looking at these receipts,' he said to her. 'See what we can make of them. They just may point us to Bill.'

'I should hope so, Mr 'olmes.'

'Here's my number. If he contacts you . . .'

'You can be sure you'll be 'earing from me if 'e does.'

They returned to the car, but John came slowly, staring at the stack of papers in his hand. Sherlock took the wheel this time, but though he started the engine, he didn't put the car into gear. He was looking curiously at John, who sat staring at the carbon copy of Anita Heslehurst's cheque, made out to A.G.R.A.

'All right there, John?'

Like he was coming out of a daze, John slowly turned his head, and to Sherlock's surprise, his eyes were misted.

'What is it? What's wrong?'

'I . . .' He was searching for the words. 'I think I have something to tell you,' he said at last.

Sherlock turned in his seat, hands falling off the wheel. 'What?'

'Sherlock. I think . . . I think this is to do with Mary.'