The body still hadn't been removed. It lay just outside the kitchen door. Wasyli had been wearing sweats and a t-shirt, feet in old, once white trainers, now speckled with different coloured paint.
There was no doubt about the cause of his death, yet John examined the body conscientiously.
"Shot, close range, not more than two feet, not closer than six inches. There may be blood spatters on the shooter. The bullet entered at an angle on his chest and went straight through the heart. He was killed instantly," he confirmed the forensic pathologist's earlier findings.
Sherlock did his own inspection of the body, but found nothing of interest (smoker, recreational cocaine user approx. once a month, gym three times a week; didn't wear protective gloves or masks at work, if he could get away with it; vain about his looks but no fashion sense, so relied on his sister when clothes-shopping; mother recently deceased – was that important? Probably not, as she lived in Poland and hadn't seen his son in nearly two years.)
Forrester listened to the list of deductions dumbfounded. The famous detective had to be either a clairvoyant or a hoax. He didn't seem to mind that Hayter had also tagged along, curious about the local crime as well as Sherlock's methods. Hayter had to agree with John. The man was unique. Though maybe not in the most wholesome way.
Sherlock proceeded to scrutinise the wrecked kitchen door. It had been pried open from the outside. A lock wasn't much of a help if the frames were so feeble that a single man could shatter them with a crowbar. The door would have given with less force, the splintered wood as if on display, a specimen on the effects of crime.
"What does that mean then?" Forrester asked, the chippings refusing to communicate with him as they seemed to be doing with Sherlock. Sherlock turned to John quizzically.
"Whoever broke in, didn't care about being inconspicuous, but wanted to make an impression," John ventured and was rewarded with an approving nod from Sherlock.
"Ah," Forrester was still baffled, but if that had some meaning to these Londoners, perhaps all would become clear in time.
"Now," Sherlock addressed the Inspector, "the Cunninghams, if you please." Forrester made to take them in to the house, but Sherlock had him bring the father and son outside.
They were alike in build, the round type that still looked spry. Mr. Cunningham appeared ever the country magnate in his green corduroys and a fresh shirt with a tan that suggested regular trips to Spain. Alec Cunningham was more casually dressed in jeans and a polo-shirt. He was in his late twenties with a posture slacker than that of his father, trying to pass off relaxed and unaffected.
Upon Sherlock's request they indicated the route the shooter had taken. He had ran across the pebbled courtyard on to the grass, curved left and jumped over the newly planted hedgerow, hitting a small ditch before stepping on to the road and disappearing. After establishing the course accurately, Sherlock got on all fours and started to follow it, eyes fixed on the ground, popping out his magnifier ever so often. Alec Cunningham looked at the proceedings with scorn until a uniformed officer escorted them back inside.
"We have been over it, Mr. Holmes. There are no tracks," the Inspector told him.
"And that in itself is suggestive, isn't it?" Sherlock remarked, not lifting his gaze from the patch of grass he was poring over.
Forrester shook his head perplexed, trying to find some explanation from John, who could only shrug his shoulders in ignorance. It hadn't rained in…what? Three days at least. There would be no foot prints to find.
"Is your… friend alright?" Hayter inquired John after a while.
John studied Sherlock. He was focused, his brow creased as he leaped up, taking in his surroundings before bending down again energetically.
"Yeah, he's fine, surprisingly so. Back to his old self," John assured him. "Though he is more polite than normally. But that's aftereffects from the case we were on. It'll wear off, I'm sure."
"If you say so. His methods just don't look very… sensible."
"Don't be put off by appearances. The sense lies in the findings and, trust me, the deductions he'll make will be amazing." Not that John could fathom either why Sherlock was halfway in a ditch at that moment.
"Well, John. I'd say this country retreat is proving out to be a success. The case is quite interesting. Nice little touches, yes," Sherlock announced as he rejoined them.
Inspector Forrester drew a sharp breath and protested:
"What touches? Surely there's nothing to go on!"
"There is the note at least," Sherlock smirked good-humouredly.
"But that doesn't tell much. We would need the rest of it. Or if we even knew who wrote it. As such, I don't know what could be done."
"It's a post-it note, Inspector. It can only mean one of two things and in this case it's evident which. The rest of it we'll find in the pocket of the shooter," Sherlock brought him up to speed.
"The pocket of the shooter! Surely we need the shooter before we find his pockets!" the Inspector was exasperated.
"Well, well, worth thinking over," Sherlock declared cheerfully.