In the taxi, dad hands me the book, and I flick through it, seeing the date stamped in the front. This has the possibility to tell us a lot. The book belongs to the West Kensington Library, and is dated for the day he died. He would of camehere to get the book.
We stride through thedouble doors at the front of the modern building, and I lead them onto a escalator that will lead us to the isle where this book is from. I know this library like the back ofmy hand, as it's often thebuilding of choice for me to go to when I think.
"Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died," dad states, for Johns benefit. He checks the reference number stuck to the bottom of the spine, then wanders down the shelves, taking outbooks and examining them.I look further down, whilst John starts pullingsome out opposite dad.
"Sherlock," Johnmutters, and I spin around to look at thespace where the books were. Another tag sprayed in the same paint as before fills the gap. Seeing this, dad steps forward, and takes a handful of books in each hand, revealing another identical set of graffiti then the one in Sir William's office. Instinctivley, I reach for my phone, and dad takes out his, snapping two or three pictures each of the new graffiti, then we begin to leave without warning John, who has to run to catch up with us.
"Will you please stop doing that please?" He mutters as he catches up, but we step into a cab before he can say any more. We sit in silence, our thoughts churning over in our minds. John looks idly out of the window as we work. Two sets of graffiti, both exactly the same, but what's the link? The murderer needed to send the same message - a threat - to two people, but why?
I step out of the cab first and sprint up the stairs to the printer, printing off the new photos and sticking them above the others on the mirror so that there is only a small gap in the centre that I can see myself in. The boys join me by the fire, and together, we stare at the images.
"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in," dad recites, using the information we have to piece together the china fragments. "Hours later, he dies."
"The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home," John continues.
"Late that night, he dies too," dad adds.
"Whydid they die, Sherlock?" John asks softly. Dadtraces his fingers over the line painted overSir William's eyes.
"Only the cipher can tell us," dad says, tappinghis finger against the photo. We need some advise, something I don't like admitting too, especially when they know I'm the apprentice of a Consulting Detective. Dad's expression sharpens as he too reaches the same conclusion. "Come on John," dad says brightly, standing up and striding towards the door.
"Hmm?" John murmers, following us. I tap a small message into my phone, send it, and recieve one straight back. Smiling, I step into the cab dad hailed before my arriveral, and feed him the address.
We walk across the centre of Trafalgar Square towards the National Gallery, trying to ignore the funny looks we're getting. Obviously John's blog is picking up on followers, and more people are recognising who we are.
"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John," dad states randomly. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."
"Yes," John mutters sarcastically, "okay, but ..."
"... but it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it." And we're not speciallised in that.
"Where are we headed?" John asks.
"We need to ask some advice," I grimace.
"What?! Sorry?!" Dad throws him a dark look and John smiles in disbelief.
"You heard her perfectly," dad mutters
"I'm not saying it again," I pipe in.
"You need advice?" John asks skeptically.
"On painting, yes," dad says. "I need to talk to an expert."
Dad and John follow me around the side of the Gallery to where a boy around my age stands, spray-stenciling onto a grey, metal door which leads into the back of the building. The image seems to be of a policeman holding a rifle in his hands, but in the place of his nose, he has a pigs snout. Near the bottom of the image, the graffitiest has sprayed his tag, 'RAZ'. Raz continues spraying as we approach him, a canvas bag overflowing with spray cans at his feet.
"Attractive," I call out as we get nearer. "Very fetching." Raz rolls his eyes at my sarcasim.
"Part of a new exhibition," he smirks, continuing to paint.
"Interesting," dad says, just as intrested as I am.
"I call it 'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy'," Raz chuckles quietly.
"Catchy!" John mutters sarcastically.
"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner," Raz says, looking around to face us, looking cocky. "Can we do this while I'm workin'?" Dad slips his phone out from his pocket and holds it out to Raz, who turns around and tosses the spray can in his hand to John. Instinctively, John catches the can and looks at us in bewilderment, as if imagining what the policeman around the corner would say if he saw him. Raz takes dads phone and begins to scroll through the pictures of the ciphers from the office and from the library.
"Know the author?" Dad asks, his eyes staring intently at Raz.
"Recognise the paint," he answers, still scrolling. "It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."
"What about the symbols: d'you recognise them?" Dad questions, mentally logging the paint type, as I do too. Raz squints at the images on the screen.
"Not even sure it's a proper language," Raz replies and I sigh in disbelief.
"Two men have been murdered, Raz," dad continues, studying Raz sternly. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."
"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz taunts, vainly."It's hardly much, now, is it?"
"It's all we've got," I say, gritting my teeth with anger. "Two men, Raz,the next could be any of us and the clue to stopping this is in the graffiti!"
"Are you gonna help us or not?" Dad asks, a little more calmly. Raz sighs, beaten.
"I'll ask around," he shrugs.
"Somebody'must'know something about it," dad continues and Raz runs his tongue along his teeth. I hear approaching footsteps, and look around.
"Oi!" The PCSO calls, and the other three look around. Dad instantly grabs his phone back and grabs my hand, tugging me away. Behind, Raz drops a second spray can from his hand and kicks the bags towards John, leaving him to take the blow from the officers. Around the corner, we stop, panting and laughing.
"Any information, however small, you know where to find us," dad speaks to Raz. He nods, then scarpers off.
"Should we help him?" I asks, gesturing around the corner to John and the officers.
"Nah," dad says, smiling. "Let's leave it to him."
We make our way back to 221B in silence, as we quietly mull over the new information that Raz was able to give us. I file the paint type into its respected department, then continue to piece together what we already know about the crime. There is a gang operating in London at the moment which is threatening seemingly random people through a set of ciphers sprayed in places where the person of which it was aimed at would see it and be able to recognize it.. The paint, as we now know, is fairly cheap to buy, coming in at just under £5. That would mean it's easy to get hold of, and that opens up the field of potential buyers of this paint considerably. All we can hope to do now is to wait and see whether these graffiti artists decide to show up again.
Around half an hour later when I emerge from my thoughts, I realize I'm back in Baker Street as dad pins some more images of various pictograms and ciphers onto the mirror. I also realize that I'm holding a book that I don't remember taking, and I look down to read the information on the page. It seems to be a book on codes and ciphers, but my dormant mind obviously didn't find anything of use on the pages before, so I just continue to flick through the book, occasionally glancing up at the mirror to compare an image. Dad stands beside me, mirroring my actions with another book containing similar translations. The slamming of the kitchen door awakens my mind a little, but I continue to hold my head low, appearing to be studying the book in great detail. I hear Johns heavy footsteps and assume that he is quite angry at us leaving him behind. It's just a guess.
"You've been a while," dad announces, not bothering to turn around. John walks a few more steps into the room, and I look up in the mirror to analyse his body language. His shoulders seem rather bunched up, and he holds his fists in clenches, stopping to blink back the anger at dads steady calm as he turns to us.
"Yeah, well, you know how it is," John says tetchily, and my head snaps back down before he notices that I'm trying to hide a smirk. "Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" He begins to pace, and angry grimace on his face as he begins to speak again, getting louder as he voices the consequences of us leaving him behind. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet; and I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday." Dad doesn't seem to be listening.
"What?" he replies, absently, looking up to check another image, but I can see a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday," John yells, seeming to me to be rather angry. He puts on a rough London accent, not too far off the ones the so called 'gangstas' use on the streets. "They're givin' me an ASBO!"
"Good. Fine," dad continues to half listen, and I watch Johns face tighten.
"You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time," he says, a little more calmly as he turns to look out of the window. Dad and I slam our books shut in unison.
"This symbol: I still can't place it," dad mutters to himself.
"It's not in here either," I conclude, tossing the book onto the cluttered desk. Dad walks over to John, who's just started to shrug off his donkey jacket and pulls the jacket back over his shoulders.
"No, I need you to go to the police station ..." dad says firmly, wheeling John back around so that he's facing the living room door.
"Oy, oy, oy!" John protests indignantly.
"... ask about the journalist."
"Oh, Jesus!" John says, exasperated as dad grabs his own coat from the back of the door, and throws mine over.
"His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements," dad continues, unaware or just not caring about Johns argument against going. I don't know why he wouldn't want to go.
"If you look to seeexactlywhat he does after going abroad, then that'll mean we're one step closer to piecing this damn story together," I say as we go downstairs and out onto the street.
"Why, what're you going to be doing?" John asks, obviously still a little annoyed with the both of us, even me!
"Gonna go and see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide," dad tells him as we part ways. On the other side of the road, I see the same Chinese lady from before, but as I glance around to look at the path in front of me, she disappears.
"I would like to see Edward Van Coon's P.A.," dad demands, as he strides up to the desk, flipping open his Police Identity Card which he took from Lestrade.
"Just a minute sir," the woman says, before she buzzes us through to the trading floor. I walk on through first, walking directly to the approximate place of Van Coon's office, where his P.A. sits by her laptop. As we walk in, she doesn't look surprised, so I'm guessing the receptionist phoned ahead to warn her of our arrival.
"Good afternoon," she says, standing up and letting us walk over. "I'm Amanda, Eddie's personal assistant. But, of course, you already know that." Amanda titters slightly. She leans over and taps a few things into her laptop, bringing up an online calendar of Van Coon's meetings and business trips.
"We just need the last two weeks before his death," I say, pacing the room as to take in as much as I can.
"Right, okay," she types a few more things in, and brings up a bigger version of the dates, ones mainly focused on the days around his death. "Ah, here!" she cries out, and we lean over her to look at the screen. "Flew back from Dalian Friday. Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team."
"Can you print me up a copy?" Dad requests.
"Sure," Amanda replies, leaning over to type a command to print into the computer.
"What about the day he died?" Dad asks. "Can you tell me where he was?"
"Sorry," she apologizes, looking at the screen. "Bit of a gap." I sigh through my teeth and twirl around, frustrated. The calendar shows no entries at all for the day he died, Monday the 22nd. Dad also looks away, annoyed, and something clicks. "I have all his receipts," Amanda realizes, and stands back up to shift through a draw.
"Something isn't right, and I'm not on about how it was that Van Coon didn't have anything written down for the day he died," I mutter to dad. He frowns at me, looking puzzled.
"How d'ya mean," he asks.
"Look at the dates," I say, pointing to the computer. "Van Coon supposedly returns home on the Friday, yet when we come to his suitcase on the Monday, everything's still inside, untouched. Now we know the body was fresh because the graffiti warning was, so why was his bag untouched?" Dad looks up, frustrated, I think, that he didn't notice that. "Doesn't that strike you as odd?" He nods, but there's no time to continue, as Amanda stands back up with a file of crumpled receipts, and spreads them over her desk.
"What kind of a boss was he, Amanda?" Dad questions, probably trying to delve into their relationships. "Appreciative?"
"Um, no. That's not a word I'd use." Amanda says, fiddling around with her ring, a clear sign that she's not telling the full truth. "The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag." Dad kneels down on the floor to get a better look at the receipts and I cross to the other end, squatting down where I can still see Amanda, suspicious. I notice a pump-action bottle of luxury hand lotion nearby, and realize that it's the same make as the one in Van Coon's flat.
"Like that hand cream," dad states, obviously noticing the hand cream for himself and latching onto the fact that she may not be telling us the full truth. "He bought that for you, didn't he?" Amanda looks at him in surprise, fiddling around with an emerald hair pin. I shuffle through the receipts, trying to order them in a way that'll give us a vague idea of the things he did leading up to his murder on Monday. I push towards dad several taxi receipts dated for around the 22nd March. He picks one up and hands it up to Amanda."Look at this one. Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."
"That would get him to the office," she says slowly, looking down at the piece of card as dad continues to sift through the paperwork.
"Not rush hour; check the time. Mid-morning," dad corrects her. "Eighteen would get him as far as ..." he fades off as he tries to think.
"The West End," Amanda realizes. "I remember him saying." I hand dad a London Underground ticket for Piccadilly with the same date, but of a time later then the taxi. He glances at it before handing that one up to the P.A. as well.
"Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly."
"So he got a Tube back to the office," Amanda frowns. "Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?"
"Because he was delivering something heavy," dad says, still sifting through the receipts, but beginning to form a chronological order of events. "Didn't want to lug a package up the escalator."
"Delivering?" Amanda questions, skeptically, obviously wondering what, like all of us, was being delivered.
"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station," dad repeats. "Dropped the package, delivered it and then..." Dad fades off as he finds another receipt, standing up as he looks at it. "... Stopped on his way," he looks up. "He got peckish." Dad turns around and heads for the door. Amanda looks at me in surprise.
"Thanks for the help!" I call as I jog after him.