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Chapter 7
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Given the resounding failure that had been Peckham, John and Sherlock decided by mutual agreement that it had become risky or even impossible to continue the investigation. With a heavy heart, Sherlock finally put away the file in his mind palace, letting the dust cover it. He didn't forget, however, to follow the progress on Lestrade's computer, which for him was a small consolation.
They stayed for a week without a case, at least Sherlock managed to stay a week without a case before his underemployed brain might come to claim a distraction by all its neurons. Much to John's dismay, he turned on the police radio again, hoping for an interesting mystery.
There had been a homicide, which Sherlock proved to be an accident in a few hours, then a burglary, which he resolved just as quickly. And a jewellery theft, which turned out to be an insurance fraud, and a new fatal burglary. Sherlock never resolved this latest case, the culprit having given himself up to the police, which made John laugh out loud. And all of this in few days.
And then there was this call for a homicide, suddenly in the middle of the day. A woman had heard her neighbours having a heated argument and then a thud. Few minutes later, she had heard the flat's door open and someone run away. The woman, wanting to make sure that everything was fine, had gone at her neighbours' home, whose door was found to be left open, to find the wife's body on the living room floor.
Refusing to be fussy, Sherlock jumped at the chance. But following the example of the Peckham case's disaster, he had also called on the utmost caution, what John considered as a first. However, understanding the rationale for the reflection, he had prepared his things for a night out.
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The cab that took them to the crime scene stank of tobacco, and Sherlock had to remember not to point at his incipient lung cancer. John watched the streets pass by the window, silent. As a precaution, they didn't speak anymore about a case in public, let alone in a cab, by fear that too attentive ears might hear their conversation.
The crime scene was in a building in Ilford, near North Circular Road. Sherlock appreciated the quiet neighbourhood, pledge of peace, but the accommodation pleased him less: he preferred individual houses, easier to infiltrate, to buildings where chances of meeting a neighbour were bigger.
Entering the building was child's play, Sherlock just had to pick the lock of the emergency door. Then he and John edged quickly their way into the staircase, with the attitude of tenants returning home. It was the only advantage of this kind of residence: tenants were so many that the probability of meeting someone who knew everyone there was almost nil. They rang for the lift and then went up to the sixth level.
The floor was quiet and all-purpose. Only a door let out music. John listened absently, recognizing Billie Holiday.
"It's here," Sherlock's voice then came.
He was standing before a door barred by the recognizable blue police tape. Pulling a kit out of his pocket, he pulled out a pair of picklocks and sank on a knee. A minute later, the latch opened and the door revolved. Sherlock put his equipment away, pushed the door open, and slipping between the tape stretched across the opening, he edged his way into the flat.
Forensics had already worked on the crime scene, but Sherlock had come to know how to manage. Surfaces were covered with fingerprints powder, markings indicated the presence of a footprint or drops of blood, a white outline showed the location and posture of the victim's body who had been there.
John looked around the motionless housing. Except furniture and objects that the Met had worked on, the rest of the flat was left unchanged.
"So, what do we know about the case?" he finally asked.
"Quarrel couple, at least according to the neighbour who heard their argument. Then she perceived what she identified as the sound of a thud and a few minutes later, a flight in the hallway. She found the victim's body here, wanting to see if everything was okay."
"So, nosey neighbours can be useful, sometimes," John philosophized.
Sherlock didn't answer, already looking at the dried blood on the corner of the table. From the very first elements of the case, the victim had the back of her head smashed in after a violent blow against a hard angle. The cause of death was beyond any doubt, but what interested Sherlock was to know the circumstances of death, and especially what could help him to find the under suspicion husband who resolutely couldn't be found.
John walked around the flat to ensure that there was no other focus. He picked up traces of investigation in the kitchen, noticed markers that indicated the kitchen utensils that were found there and many fingerprints again.
"There has been ructions in the kitchen," he informed Sherlock before taking the direction of the bedroom.
The room was more or less orderly, and seemed to have been favoured by many investigators. The bed was briefly made, the blanket just pulled on the pillows. A pile of clothes was put on a chair, the desk along the wall. John guessed by spaces in the dust that it had supported a computer, which would certainly be between the hands of Scotland Yard's experts. Pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, he opened the closet, but he got nothing special out of it, except that the person in charge of the dirty linens had gaps in ironing. The bathroom didn't tell him anything more, typical of a couple, with its profusion of women's products. Nothing seemed to have been moved from the room.
He returned to the living room, where Sherlock had already begun to collect clues in various Petri dishes.
"The biggest clues about the death appear to be gathered in the living room and the kitchen," John announced. "There's no sign of a struggle in the bedroom and the bathroom. The experts took the computer, but there is nothing more. I guess you still wish to have a look, in case you discover that one of them had an affair or something like that."
John had said that last sentence with a half-smile. Because if there was one thing in which Sherlock was strong, it was to discover vital information in the at first sight most insignificant clues.
He rose, closing his magnifying glass with a small sharp gesture, then took charge of the kitchen. He scanned the room with a wide gaze, lingering on the marks left by the investigators.
"The fight started here," he concluded then.
John scanned the room too.
"How can you tell?"
Many fingerprints stained the worktop where trailed remains of vegetables: one of the protagonists was cooking. A knife was missing from the block just at hand, it must certainly be in the Yard's lab. Sherlock made a note that he would have to check in the file who had it in hand. The floor was covered by pulp scattered by footprints. So someone was cooking when the argument had started. During the quarrel, vegetables on the cutting board had fallen to the ground – no, had been brushed aside from the cutting board, judging by the uniform traces they had left there. Sherlock noticed in the rough plastic two hairs that had to belong to a male arm.
"It was the victim who cooked," he said, emphasizing his words with gestures. "And the husband, under the influence of an anger whose reason is still unknown, brushed aside the vegetables, spreading them on the floor, and the couple, in their exchange, has stamped on them without noticing."
Sherlock noted, in the juice left by a tomato, the very narrow imprint of a stiletto heel. This information made him wince a little. Who cooked in stilettos?
Following the footprints, Sherlock found himself in front of the fridge, also covered with fingerprint powder. The steel grey door was smashed in, but the sinking was too pointed and not deep enough to belong to a skull or a fist. Elbow maybe. He looked at the top of the fridge and noticed an overturned small decorative vase. A gap in the dust made him understand that it hadn't been overthrown a long time ago. So someone had toppled over the fridge, with enough force to overthrow the vase that was on it. And this person had thrown his elbow back to absorb the shock. Sherlock took a new note to remember to check the victim's elbow in the autopsy report.
John, who had followed the statement without saying a word, ventured to ask a question:
"Okay, but what makes you say the argument started in the kitchen? It could have started in the living room."
But Sherlock pointed to the carpet under the coffee table. The strands were clearly soiled by residues of vegetables that the couple had stamped in the kitchen.
"Okay," John summed up. "So the victim is in the kitchen, presumably cooking… And what? The husband suddenly gets angry and smashes her skull against the table? It doesn't make any sense."
Said like that, no, it didn't make any sense. But the footprints in the kitchen indicated that there had been fighting: the victim defended herself. A case of domestic violence, perhaps, although this scenario was challenged by the shoes of the victim. Stilettos weren't usually the prerogative of battered women.
Sherlock stood up and took the direction of the bedroom. He quickly went around, also opening the closet, noticed the badly ironed clothes too. Then he went into the bathroom, his gaze passed over the multitude of beauty products.
"Our problem," he admitted, "Is that we don't know the circumstances of the argument. The neglected state of the wardrobe and the quality of some beauty products don't describe a patriarchal model. So this is not a case of domestic abuse."
He returned to the living room and looked around.
"We know how the events took place, but it's impossible to determine the cause…"
"Did the victim have a diary, or a PDA?" John asked. "It could teach us things."
"It's already in the hands of the Met," Sherlock sighed bitterly. "All that are diaries, computers, and telephone books has been seized, and the file doesn't mention where the husband works."
John raised a sarcastic eyebrow.
"Are you serious?" he quipped.
"What?"
John dropped his shoulders and looked up at the sky.
"You're lucky that I spend my time on the computer, and on anything else other than the Yard database. We have their names, no?"
He turned to the flat's door, beckoning Sherlock to follow him.
"You'll see," he promised with a smile, "The incredible number of things we can learn about people on the internet."
He walked around the table, taking the direction of the exit. But at this moment, the door swung open, and the light of an electric torch blinded him. He turned instinctively, protecting his face with his arm.
"What are you doing here?" a voice called out dryly. "Don't move and hands up!"
A policeman. John stifled a curse between his teeth, but in the end, it wasn't as surprising as that. After their raid at Peckham, the Yard had certainly had taken action. They must have placed a security officer, in case these intrusions phenomena recurred.
His body reacted before his brain. He lunged forward, suddenly. The officer, who was speaking in his walkie-talkie, not really had time to react. John crashed in his stomach, cutting off his breath and swinging him to the ground. Grabbing the electric torch, he hit his neck, making him lose consciousness.
John and Sherlock froze in the hallway, attentive to the slightest noise. Then they heard movement in one of the nearby flats, followed by the crack of a lock being opened. Immediately, they fled down the hall, where the fire escape was. They rushed down the stairs, almost broke open the exit door, and fled down the street.
Sherlock immediately looked around in search of the police vehicle, but didn't see it. He then rushed to the side of the road in search of a cab. But at this hour, in this area, there was little chance of finding one. Cars passed in the street, ignoring the man in the long black coat that stamped with impatience on the kerb.
John, who had put on a further look around, finally came to him and put his hand on his arm to calm him.
"Come on," he said, "There is a station not far, perhaps we will have more chances there."
Then he ran along the pavement, Sherlock on his heels. They soon arrived in a commercial area, aligned with various shops, and finally saw the red and white logo. As John had assumed, some cabs were there, waiting for the proverbial night owl. Sherlock immediately hailed one that stopped at their height. They quickly went in, gave the driver the address of Baker Street, and the car moved off.
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Notes: shit will start to get real next chapter. Be prepared to brace yourself.
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