Note: Britpicked
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Chapter 2
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"John, wake up!"
John awoke with a start, slammed in the face by his pillow.
"Hmm… What?"
"Wake up!"
"What? Whaddahell?"
Wading in the wobbly rest of sleep, John rubbed his befuddled eyes and made out the silhouette of Sherlock who fidgeted about in his room, throwing various clothes on the bed.
"A report has just appeared in news websites," he explained, "an apparent suicide in Greenwich. Come on; we're going."
John then had the idea to look at his alarm clock. The bright letters almost assaulted his vision.
"What? Sherlock, it's three o'clock in the morning!"
"Precisely, the crime scene will still be fresh. Come on, wake up!"
Realizing that he had no choice, John obeyed, yawned loudly, and then put his clothes on growling. Sherlock was already back downstairs to gather his belongings, John heard him whirling about in his room.
They managed to catch a cab and drove towards Greenwich.
"So?" John finally asked as they passed Oxford Circus. "What do we know about this case?"
"A man called the police saying he'd heard a gunshot in the flat next to his. The call was reported in an hour ago. The Met must already be on the scene."
"And why are we interested?"
"Apparent suicide. I love apparent suicides because they're only looking like one and it's always fun to prove that it's a murder."
"What makes you say that this is not really a suicide?"
Sherlock, who was typing various things on the screen of his mobile phone, looked up at him.
"The weapon. According to the information contained in the article, it's a firearm. A gun, to be exact."
"So?"
"Women rarely use firearms to commit suicide, unless they have no other choice. And even less in the temple. This is a way too violent, not feminine enough."
"Why?"
"Vanity, John. A woman always has the concern for her appearance at all times. By reflex, she'd choose a more discreet way or place. The temple with a gun is too messy."
"If you say so…"
John had finally learned to never stress out when Sherlock appeared to be so sure of himself. He leaned back in the seat of the cab, rubbing his still heavy eyes. Damn, what he would have given to stay in bed… He just hoped that the crime scene was not too long and that he would resist long enough.
They arrived in Greenwich, and the cab stopped at a sufficient distance from the crime scene so as to not attract attention to themselves. Except for a few lighted windows, the area where they had gotten out was empty, but they could already hear the siren of a police car that was going away.
They walked down a deserted street which led to a slightly wider street, in which some onlookers crowded. A swarm of coloured lights then drew their attention to a building façade where the Yard teams were gathered around.
Sherlock analyzed the scene in a glance. Two police cars, the van belonging to forensics. Obviously, they hadn't removed the victim's body yet, which was good news.
They went around the neighbourhood area to locate the access. On the other side of the building block there was a block of flats where the onlookers came and went; maybe they could enter there. There must have access to the roof, through which they could get access to the building that interested them.
They waited around, until a little old lady went. The two men rushed after her, Sherlock flashing a charming smile and joking about the animation in the street next door. The lady smiled back, adding that it was safer nowhere, which Sherlock didn't care about, but he refrained from showing it. John had patiently and bravely managed to make him understand that friendliness went much more unnoticed than haughtiness. They joked one minute with the lady who eventually disappearing into a lift, then went up the stairs to the roof. As expected, the two buildings communicated. It wasn't that difficult for them to find the emergency door leading inside.
The building was crowded, its occupants all milling around. They were talking to each other in the corridors and even standing on the stairs as they satisfied their curiosity as to what was going on. Sherlock winced because their presence would certainly complicate things, but for now it hid them from the police by making them look like they had a reason to be there.
The crime scene was three floors below the roof. The whole level was sealed off and tenants asked to stay away in order to facilitate the work of the police. With his natural authority and one of Lestrade's pickpocketed warrant cards, Sherlock made his way among the onlookers gathered before the blue police tape that closed access to the stairs and went below without ceremony, followed closely by John who took his notebook from his pocket and quickly took a few notes to get under the skin of his character. He prayed they wouldn't be recognized by an officer who had earlier experience of their intrusions; but luck seemed to be on their side as the young officer posted outside the door of the victim's flat nodded without blinking at the badge Sherlock waved under his nose.
"I've been informed that the witness is still present," he started immediately. "I want to talk to him."
The agent pointed towards an unshaven man in a t-shirt and a jogging bottoms.
"Right there, sir."
Sherlock immediately walked towards the witness, followed by John. He nodded, and then again cast an eye over the police team that milled around them in case one of them recognized them. He had already spotted the exit down the corridor.
"It was you who called the police after the shot?" he asked the witness straight off.
The man shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Fear reaction. Late thirties, only child, probably born and raised in the neighbourhood. No pet, single. His shirt stretched over a belly that showed the remains of the frozen pizza that had recently provided him with a meal. Engine oil under his fingernails: garage mechanic or similar. Sherlock also noticed his taste for low quality beers, nearly advised him to wear earmuffs at work judging by the way he turned his ear in their direction, but refrained, waiting for the answer.
"Yes, it's me…" the man replied in a breath that smelled of smoke and frantically scratching an arm studded with blood tests.
"Tell us exactly what you saw and heard."
"Listen… I already told your colleagues everything, what more do you want? I was quiet in front of my TV, and then 'bang! '. I swear, I freaked out."
"About what time, more or less?" Sherlock continued while John dutifully took notes.
The witness looked vaguely in the air, probing his memory.
"Gosh, I don't know. Something like half past eleven in the evening. It was in the middle of the last episode of NCIS on Channel 5. I could have imagined that it came from the TV, but it made such a racket…"
"You called the police immediately afterwards?"
The witness raised his hands in a defensive posture.
"Hey, you people obviously like to live dangerously. Me, I work in a junkyard, I watch films with a beer and a pizza. I hear gunshots; of course I won't dare to play the hero. Yes, I called right away, I wouldn't take the risk of letting this guy turning up at my place too."
"Calling the police is a brave thing to do," John suggested. "Most people would just prefer to hide and wait it out."
He glanced at Sherlock.
"Have you finished?" he enquired.
Sherlock turned, signaling that he was actually done. John thanked the witness with a smile and followed Sherlock who had taken the direction of the flat.
"Do you really want to take the risk of going in?" he asked apprehensively. "There must be a dozen in there."
"Precisely, we'll be less conspicuous."
John always doubted, but he was constantly impressed by the mathematics where the chances of being seen were inversely proportional to the number of people present at the scene.
The place was small, a two-roomed flat simply furnished. Sherlock immediately noticed the missing furniture and the few clothes in the bedroom's wardrobe. Financial problems, then. The small cabinet near the front door collapsed under mail. Bank, loan offices, life wasn't prosperous for the victim. A-side mail, an answering machine had the indicator blinking. Without waiting, Sherlock pressed the play button 'Hello, Allison, this is Mandy! You can call me as soon as you get this, please? Cheers! '. He noted the time of the call: 10:37 PM. He then turned to look at the door. It was picked, but discreetly so that it was almost undetectable. Professional job. Sherlock couldn't repress a smile: the suicide was actually apparent.
"Sherlock…" he suddenly heard John's voice.
He immediately recognized the urgent tone and straightened, leaving the flat immediately. In the hallway, DI Dimmock advanced, in conversation with what appeared to be the first police officer who had arrived on the scene. Dimmock hadn't seen them yet. Sherlock stifled a curse and, Dimmock still conversing, turned quickly to take a quick look at the main room where the victim's body still was. No signs of a struggle, no missing objects except those that had been sold, although it was difficult to tell the difference. Empty glass on the coffee table, two broken nails, heating off, clock running four minutes slow, a small circular piece of what looked like aluminum, he stored all he could see in a few seconds. Then just had time to turn and walk down the hall, John on his heels. At a brisk but sure pace, they advanced towards the emergency exit previously located, and fled.
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