"We need the opportunity to take a few photos so that we can look back to them at a later date," dad explains as we walk away. "The average human brain only remembers 62% of visiual matters, and I can only remember around 96%, so we need to collect the evidence now before it's removed." I nod in agreement, and pass dad the card I pickpocketed from Sebastian in the reception. He slides it through the scanner and the door clicks open. "Sophie, search the room for anything that looks out of the ordinary," he orders as he walks towards the wall, pulling out his phone as he reaches it.
"Got it, but what do you mean by 'out of the ordianary'?"
"Something that looks out of place in an office which has been untouched for several months," dad mutters as he takes the first photo. "Start in the corner, by the window." Nodding, I stride over, and pull my pocket magnifying glass out. A thin layer of dust lies untouched in the corner, but as I move closer to the windows, the dust fades away, as if someone or something has stepped on it.
"Over here!" I call, and dad pockets his phone and walks over.
"What is it?" He asks as he arrives next to me.
"The artist came through those doors. I believe they lead onto a balcony of sorts." Dad looks up and out of the window, taking in the stunning view of London and the Swiss Re Tower that stands before us. Frowning, he walks over and pulls up to blind to reveal the door that I mentioned lead onto a balcony, and he steps outside. Dad gazes around at the spectacular view without taking in any of the beauty, before he looks down. Jist the sight of him leaning over the edge is enough to make me feel dizy. He looks sideways along the balcony, before he bites his lip thoughtfully and comes back through.
"You're right, the grafitiest certainly entered through that door, but he would have had to climb up the building to get up here." I nod, thoughtfully.
"So what's our next plan?" I ask him as I stand back up.
"We need to see who the message was aimed at," he says thoughtfully. "See the way the desks are arranged?" he asks, pointing through the window to the workers outside. I nod, silently. "The pillars mean that only a handful of people can look into this office, and that can tell us a lot. Our next job is to find the spots that workers can see the graffiti, from that, we will be able to deduce who it was for." I nod in agreement, and we exit the office. On a silent agreement, I take one half of the trading floor, and dad takes the other, and we immediately begin ducking and weaving between the pillars. I keep my eyes fixed on the office as I move through each desk, but all of the angles seem slighly off. I can see most of the room, but the graffiti is in my blind spot. I enter one of the other offices to the side of the main trading floor, the rooms for the Japanise, Hungarian, Russian and French employees, but the view from these rooms completely cuts my line of vision off interally. Dad smiles at me as he enters the room, holding a slip of paper naming a man called Edward Van Coon.
"Found him?" I ask, rhetorically. He nods and we file out of the office. Some of the traders send us some dirty looks for disturbing their work, whilst others smile in amusmant after our little dance around the room.
Soon after, we meet John in the reception and I pull put my phone.
"Two trips around the world this month," John says as we travel the escalator. "You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him." Dad gives him a small smile, but doesn't respond. "Howdidyou know?"
"Did you see his watch?" dad asks.
"His watch?" John repeats, looking puzzled.
"The time was right but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."
"Within a month?" John says."How'd you get that part?"
"New Breitling," dad smiles as he names the make of the watch. From memory, it was a 'Breitling Chronometre Crosswind'. "Only came out this February."
"Okay. So d'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"
"Got everything I need to know already, thanks."
"Hmm?" John says, waiting for dad to explain.
"That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and ..." He trails off deliberately to allow John to think for himself, like he's done to me many times.
"... they'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finishes, hesitantly.
"Obvious," dad mutters.
"Well, there's three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?"
"Pillars," dad says, and John looks lost.
"What?"
"Pillars and the screens," dad explains. "Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot." Of course! People come and go inthat back at different times, according to the time zone of that country. Someone would have come in around midnight, and they wouldbe the one it was aimed for.
"Does it?" John says, completely clueless as usual.
"Traders come to work at all hours," dad explains as we walk through the revolving glass doors and onto thestreet outside."Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight," he says as he holds the name card up to show John.
"Not many Van Coons in the phonebook." A taxi comes round the corner, and he lifts up his arm to hail it. "Taxi!" He calls loudly, and it comes to a stop in front of us. "Sophia, the address," he mutters to me.
"Er, Docklands, please," I say to the cabbie, ensuring I take a good look at him before I get in, memorising his appearance after our last fiasco.
Twenty minutes later, we step out of the taxi, and I lead them to the block of flats the phonebook says he lives at. Dad steps forward and presses the door buzzer underneath the label 'Van Coon'. Releasing it, he steps back and looks into the security camera above all the buzzers. There's no reply for several seconds, sohe steps forward and presses it again. There's no response.
"So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?"
"It'll take too long," I mutter to him as dad looks at the number of buzzers on the wall. "He could be inside already, or gone into hiding since getting the message." John nods as dad steps back, looking at us triumphantly.
"Just moved in," he smiles.
"What?"
"The floor above," he explains."New label." Dad points to another buzzer which says 'Wintle'. Going by the layout of the flats, that would put the position of their flat at being just above Van Coons. The balcony's get bigger as they come lower, which would mean we could get down into the apartment via the balcony.
"They wouldn't have seen Van Coon then yet, would they?" I question, looking at the handwritten label.
"No, I hoping not, anyway."
"How do you know they've just moved in?" John challenges. "Could have just replaced it." I scoff as dad steps forward to press that buzzer and John looks at me hurt.
"No-one ever does that," dad sneers.
"Hello?" The supposed Ms Wintle says over the intercom. Dad turns to the security cameraand puts on his fake innocent voice, as I turn on my role, sighing and looking at my nails.
"Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met," he says as he grins flirtingly into the camera.
"No, well, uh, I've just moved in," Ms Wintle replies. Dad turns around to throw a brief 'told you so' glance at John before he turns back to the camera.
"Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat," dad says, grimacing and biting his lip plaintively.
"D'you want me to buzz you in?"
"Yeah. And can I use your balcony?"
"What?" Ms Wintle says, sounding surprised. "Er yea, come on up." She buzzes us in, and we climb the stairs up onto Van Coons floor.
"I'll wait here, let me in, yeah, Sherlock," John says, stopping.
"Yeah, of course," dad agrees half heartedly, although I know he won't. Once we've reached the next floor, dad leads me down the corridor to Wintle's front door. He knocks hesitantly, and puts on his false smile once more.
"Oh hi," dad says, smiling nervously. Ms Wintle, a young woman in her thirties who has an obsession with collecting teapots and curtains welcomes us in and shows us to the balcony.
"Just shout if you need me," she calls, as she disappears into one of the rooms. Dad walks out onto the balcony, and I follow behind. I look over the rail and see the ground is several floors below. I step back, feeling dizzy. Dad climbs over the side, and I feel my heart skip a beat as he drops down out of sight.
"Sherlock?" I call, croakily.
"I'm alright," he shouts upwards. "Swing your legs over and hang down as far as you can. I'll catch you." I do as he says, despite my heart beating hard against my chest . I drop down, and stumble towards the rail in front of me, but dad catches me before I can tumble over. "You okay?" He asks, seriously before I nod and he swings the balcony door open. It's a good job it is open. I can just imagine how much fun Lestrade and the police could have if we were locked out here.
The apartment is very elegantly decorated, and at a single glance you can tell it belongs to a wealthy bacheolor. There is plush, white leather furniture and glossy black surfaces and minimal clutter. The arrangement of the phone and paper beside it leads me to believe he's left handed. I examine everything I see for any signs that would link him personally to the graffitiest, but I see none. I'm aware of dad walking into the kitchen and pulling open a fridge full of champagne. I frown at the oddity and stand up, just as the door buzzes.
"Sherlock," John calls from outside, thinking that I'm still up with Ms Wintle. Dad ignores him, and moves into the hall. "Sherlock, are you okay?" John repeats to no success. I follow dad into the hallway and glance into a small bathroom which has a few items on the shelf in front of me, incluing an expensive bottle of soap. I shut the door behind me, and follow dad to a larger door which seems to be locked. "Yeah, any time you feel like letting me in," John says again, sarcastically. He'll only get in our way and possibely disrupt the evidence. Dad turns side-on and shoulder-barges the door so that it burst open at first contact. I follow him in but he stops suddenly in front of me. I can't see, but I can deduce it's a body.
"Sophie," dad mutters, "fetch John in." I peer around him to look and see the body sprawled on his bed, a bullet through his right temple and the gun on the floor, which makes me second guess my deduction which I made just now. I walk across the apartment and unlock the door.
"Sophie, I thought you were-"
"No time," I say, inturrupting his useless mutter. "We've found his body." John opens his mouth in shock, and I lead him through to where dad stands stiffly, holding a phone to his ear and talking in a hushed voice to Scotland Yard, possibley Lestrade.
"Just get here as soon as you can," dad hisses quietly.
"He's been delayed," I whisper to John, who nods. Dad slides his phone shut in annoyance and grabs the gun from the floor. He strides back to the balcony and I hear three gunshots.
Barely five minutes later, a whole procession of police cars file into Docklands, and a team of forensics enter the flat. I stand in the hallway, directing some into the bedroom, whilst others mill around in the living room, kitchen and bathroom, dusting fingerprints off of surfaces and taking pictures of the intact lock on the door. A young, plain clothed officer, a Sergant going by his age, enters the flat and looks around, before looking to me.
"Where's the body?" He demands.
"In the bedroom," I say, gesturing down the corridor, then I attempt to lead him to it, but he becomes side-tracked at ordering one of his colleuges to do something.
As I join dad and John in the bedroom, I look around and see the crime scene photographer taking a few photos of Van Coon's body which still lies on the bed. A forensics officer is dusting a few fingerprints off of a mirror. Dad hands me some latex gloves as John stands beside us, just looking at the body with distaste.
"D'you think he'd lost alotof money?" John asks. "I mean, suicide is pretty common among City boys."
"We don't know that it was suicide," dad says, and I go through the evidence we have so far through my mind. Most things do seem to point to suicide, apart from the position of Van Coons gun.
"Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony," John says as dad squats down by a suitcase on the floor.
"Yes, but the same thing happened at the bank, but I think it's impossible for a wall and painting to spray itself," I explain as dad opens the lid and looks at the contents of it.
"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," dad points out. I come over and see a large indentation in the clothing. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."
"Thanks – I'll take your word for it," John says uncomfortabley.
"Problem?" Dad asks, and I pause to look up at John
"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear." Dad ignores him and walks over to the foot of the bed, whilst I continue to route through the case.
"Those symbols at the bank – the graffiti. Why were they put there?" Dad asks out loud.
"What, some sort of code?"
"Obviously," dad replies and looks closely at Van Coons shoes and legs, then moves up to his jacket and into the the pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"
"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John suggests.
"Oh good. You follow," dad says.
"No." John gets a look of exasperation thrown at him a dad continues his secondary servey down to Van Coon's hands.
"What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?" Dad asks, trying to get John to think, but he just frowns in confusion.
"What about this morning – those letters you were looking at?"
"Bills," John says simply.
"Or?" Dad continues, waving at me to answer.
"Death threats," I conclude in realisation as dad prises Van Coons mouth open gently and pulls out a small black, origami flower from inside. A build up of air realises from the dead mans lungs.
"Yes," dad says grimly. "He was being threatened."
"Bag this up, will you ..." I hear the Sergeant from just now call outside the door as John looks at the flower closely before dad lifts up an evidence bag to slip the paper inside.
"Not by the gas board," John jokes, dryly.
"... and see if you can get prints off this glass," the Sergeant says again, before he finally enters the room. Dad turns and walks towards him.
"Ah, Sergeant," dad says, offering his hand for a handshake. "We haven't met." The officer declines the offer, and plackes his hands in his hips.
"Yeah, I know who you are; and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." I raise my eyebrows in disbelif of his attitude - after all, we did just discover a body for him. Dad lowers his hand and hands over the evidence bag, before turning sulky.
"I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" Dad asks.
"He's busy," the Sergeant declares."I'min charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." Dad and I look at him in suprise, not expecting him to be at the DI rank at his age. Not to be offensive or anything, but he looks like he should still be at school, let alone in the police force. Dad turns around to share his shock with John as Dimmock walks back out of the room, without giving the body a proper look over, and we follow him out into the living room before he hands the evidence bag containing the paper flower over to forensics.
"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock states, incorrectly. It's wrong for him to assume at his level of investigation, as he's clearly got no idea of the circumstances of how the body ended up with a bullet through the opposite temple to the victims dominant hand.
"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," John agrees, narrow mindedly. Dad and I shake off our gloves, before his dad turns back to John.
"Wrong. It's onepossible explanation ofsome of the facts," he says, then turns to Dimmock.
"You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."
"Like?" Dimmock questions.
"The wound was on theright side of his head," dad begins.
"And?" Dimmock asks stupidly, causing me to roll my eyes at his ignorance.
"Van Coon was left-handed," dad says as he mimes to demonstrate his point, attempting to try and point a gun to his right temple with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion," dad concludes, outting his arms down.
"Left-handed?"
"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice," dad says sarcastically. "All you have to do is look around this flat." He points to the table beside the sofa.
"Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. D'you want me to go on?"
"No," John says tiredly, "I think you've covered it."
"Oh, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list." John nods as if to say 'yea, I thought you might', as dad points around to the kitchen.
"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." He turns to Dimmock with an impatient look on his face. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in theright side of his head."
"And it would be a hell lot easier just to shoot himself in the left side of his own head," I pip in. Dad nods in agreement and continues.
"Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of allthe facts."
"But the gun: why ..."
"He waswaitingfor the killer," dad inturrupts Dimmock. "He'd been threatened." He walks away and puts on his outdoor clothes.
"What?" Dimmock asks, completely puzzled by this new bit of information.
"Today at the bank," John mutters to him. "Sort of a warning."
"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," dad continues.
"And the bullet?" Dimmock questions.
"Went through the open window."
"Oh, come on! What are the chances ofthat?!" The window must of been open, but why? Is it more evidence to the theory I had earlier about them climbing through the windows? It would certainly makd sense.
"Wait until you get the ballistics report," dad continues. "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."
"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?"
"Good! You're finally asking the right questions," dad says, patronizingly as he dramtically slams his hand into his glove and turns to strut out of the room. I follow behind him, and leave John to apologise for our behaviour to the pompus little idiot who thinks he's a DI.
After we've caught a taxi to the place dad's deduced Sebastian Wilkes would be, we enter the resturant, and weave our way through the tables to find him and some colleagues talking together.
"... and he's left trying to sort of cut his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!" Sebastian laughs, as we reach the table.
"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant," dad says bluntly, getting straight to the point.
"I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" Sebastian asks, sounding annoyed.
"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed."
"What?" Sebastian says, looking confused.
"Van Coon. The police are at his flat," dad informs him.
"Killed?" He replies, looking shocked.
"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," dad says sarcastically. "Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" Wilkes places his glass of water back onto the table before he runs his finger along the collar of his shirt, as I've noticed he does as a nervous habit.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Sebastian says as he stands up from the table and leads us down towards the toilets. I wait outside as the boys go in to sort the situation out, and tap into dads phone security. I hear the speakers buzz in awakening, and hear the conversation occuring in my ears. "Harrow; Oxford," I hear Sebastian say, and I'm aware I've already missed some of the conversation. "Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so ..."
"... you gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John finishes.
"Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had," Wilkes says.
"Who'd wanna kill him?"
"We all make enemies," Sebastian says unhelpfully.
"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple." I hear the distinct beep of a phone, and for a second I think dad's doing the texting stunt again.
"Not usually," Sebastian replies."'Scuse me." I hear a scuffle as he reaches into his pocket, supposedly to get his phone. "It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."
"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian," dad speaks for the first time. "He was murdered."
"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that," Sebastian argues.
"Seb..." dad says warningly.
" ... and neither does my boss," Wilkes continues, ignoring dad. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked." I turn my phone off as the door to the toliets swings open. "Afternoon," he says bitterly to me before he strides off again. A few seconds later, dad and John emerges from the same door.
"Hear anything you liked?" Dad asks me, John looks up in confusion.
"What?" He questions.
"He seemed keen to turn the argument around when he got the message through, which leads me fo believe he's hiding something," I begin, ignoring Johns puzzled stare. "He doesn't trust our judgment, so why employ us?" Dad nods his head thoughtfully.
"Wait," John buts in, "you were listening into our conversation?" I roll my eyes and nod. "But how, the door is sound proof?"
"I'm a hacker, John," I say impatiently. "A phone which is in the room beside me is hardly a difficult job to hack into. I just had to find the connection I've made before now, and listen in via my phone to the sound waves the speaker on Sherlocks phone was giving me."
"You could have just rung him," John suggests.
"And have Sebastian and yourself know I was listening in?" I say, unimpressed. "Not likely. Wilkes could have changed his view if he knew he was being recorded." It's John's turn to roll his eyes. I look to dad and see him smiling proudly at me and my extraordinary skills.