The Perilous Day
A Dangerous Discovery – Sleep First – Lestrade is Unhappy – Mycroft's Getting of Knowledge – The Bigger Picture – Attack – A Fatal Act – An Abdication of Privilege.
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As he logged onto his internal email, Colin Ward noted the brief message from his new manager to say that she was working from home for the day and that if anyone wanted anything from her, they should email as she'd be online virtually all day reading policy documents.
Responding tartly that rank had its privileges, the young man grinned widely and set about getting the place back into shape. Knowing the computer technicians and installation people would have completed their upheaval of the department, he'd decided to come in earlier than usual so that he might begin imposing some order on the chaos. It would be great if they could get everything shipshape and back to full working condition before the boss returned the following day, but he somehow doubted everyone would be as keen to get things organised as he was.
Colly sighed. He was fated to be one of nature's more organised individuals with an innate dislike of mess and disorder. Standing in the doorway of his own small office, he rested both hands on his hips and looked around for the best place to begin.
There were several large cardboard boxes piled higgledy-piggledy in one corner; they would make excellent containers for all the waste-product wrappings and packing materials that inevitably accompanied any kind of delivery these days. And since there had been so much new stuff brought into the general department space over the last three days, then a great deal of the mess that so offended his eye was all this loose rubbish piled everywhere.
He would start with clearing up the wrappings and smaller boxes and leave them by the door for the cleaners to take.
No sooner decided, than he hung his jacket around the back of his chair and began in his own space. It was amazing just how much crap there was associated with the unpacking of a new computer these days, even a laptop and keyboard and mouse, and there was plastic everywhere and annoying bit of polystyrene that floated away when swept into a bin. Eventually, however, he was satisfied that he'd been able to reclaim his own space from the explosion of rubbish that had started to take over.
Once that was cleared, he ventured out into the wider communal space that linked all the other offices. Based on the time it had taken him to clear his own small space, Colin felt his heart sink. This was going to take ages. It would probably be less demotivating to attack it in smaller sections throughout the day; attempting to do the whole space in one go was a big ask.
Checking his watch, he realised he had maybe another fifteen minutes before the rest of the team trooped in, so he might as well make the best use of it and have a go at clearing out one or two of the other offices before their owners arrived.
Heading directly into the office to his left, thankful that each door had remained unlocked while the technicians needed to do their thing, Colin began dragging the heavy lengths of clear plastic and protective cardboard into one of the big boxes he'd brought with him. Having to step into the box and jump up and down on the contents a few times, he nevertheless managed to get all but the smallest pieces cleaned away. Checking that there was still time, he grabbed another empty box and stepped into the office next to the one he'd just tidied, and repeated the task.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Colly noticed that there were broken chunks of polystyrene all over the desk, and he dragged the box closer as he hooked his arm across the desktop, pulling all the floating white bits into a pile and thence into the box. In doing so, his fingers accidently nudged the wireless mouse, and the dual screens of the new computer sprang to life in glorious Technicolor. The computer screen had obviously been left on from the previous night, and needed only the smallest movement to awaken and be ready for use.
It was only then, as his eyes were naturally dragged to the visual stimulation, that Colin saw something was ... different. The images that he saw on the computer's desktop were not those that he had seen before. Of course, everyone refreshed and updated their screen savers and desktop images from time to time, but this ... this was odd for some reason, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. It was just ...
But what did he know? There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for the images, and it was really none of his business. Pushing the mouse back towards the keyboard, he completed clearing away all the large pieces of white crumbly stuff, packing the rest of the box with a few loose bits of paper on the floor. At least the cleaners could get in here tonight and clean the place properly.
Dragging the half-filled box out into the middle of the room by the new circular table he realised the others would be here soon and any attempt to clean around them would probably be met with complaints. He'd go and grab himself a cup of tea before getting to grips with his usual daily routine.
Ruth Lannagan was the first in, peeling out of her heavy coat as she made her way into her office, realising that someone – probably Colly – had started on the mess. She decided to see what she could do to clear out her own office before she got into anything too heavy to stop. Right after she got her morning caffeine fix.
Stratford was next, checking his text-messages as he shambled slowly into the main office. Blinking as he looked around, all he could see was that things were finally nice and quiet again. He could get back to his work without having to keep dodging men in grey overalls, carrying large boxes and yelling at each other in annoyingly loud voices. Shane Meath was right behind the older man, speaking over his shoulder with Magda Borowski as they walked past the older man, almost unaware of his presence, so deep were they in their conversation. Sighing, Stratford waited patiently until there was sufficient space between them for him to slip into his own room.
"I'm having a bit of a clean-up in case anyone wants to get rid of anything major," Colly sang out as he walked back in with a mug of steaming tea.
"Have you been in my office?" Ruth stuck her head out the door. "There's all sorts of things been moved around."
"Yes I was, about ten minutes ago, but I only picked up the rubbish the technicians from Premises department left lying around," the young redhead's answer was only half-focused as he checked his own email again in case there were any further messages from She Who Must be Obeyed. "If there's anything gone missing, then speak to Premises, not me," he yelled back, his eyes still on his own computer screens. "I'm only the low-paid underling who cleans up the mess around here," he muttered as an afterthought.
"Seen the Boss yet this morning?" Shane Meath wandered back into the main central space, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Oh yeah, she's not coming in today," Colly looked out through his office door at the older man. "Doctor ... Grace emailed me and said to tell everyone she was working from home today; something about a pile of reading to get through."
"So she won't be in all day?" Ruth joined them, her arms folded across her chest.
"Not according to her email," Colin looked at the two of them hovering outside his door. "Why? Is there a problem? She said anyone could email her if they wanted something as she was going to be online, reading."
"Who's been messing about with my desk?" Stratford Thomas appeared behind them. "My stuff's all over the place."
Sighing loudly, Colin turned to deal with the new complaint. "I went around a few offices this morning to pick up the worst of the rubbish which is now over there," he pointed to the stacked cardboard boxes in the corner by the main door. "I tried not to touch anything else. If there's any other mess, then it wasn't me that did it."
"Not to worry, lad," Stratford wandered off back towards his own private bit of space. "We'll have the place looking nice for her before she comes back," he chuckled quietly.
Rolling his eyes, Colin Ward shook his head at the pettiness of people. He had only been trying to help. Let them take care of the mess by themselves, if that was all the gratitude he got.
He had no idea one of his colleagues was ready to commit murder.
###
Grace cleared up the kitchen after Gregory's grand gesture, smiling when she saw he'd stacked everything neatly in the sink to soak before they were to go in the dishwasher. Clearly being divorced had brought a certain amount of domestication with it.
Filling the dishwasher one-handed was a slower-than-usual job, but within a few minutes the kitchen was its glossy, pristine self and she could put her mind to other things.
Wondering if she should bother getting properly dressed, Grace wrinkled her nose and thought what the hell; she was hardly expecting any visitors today; who cared what she looked like. Her hand was throbbing quite badly though, so she took a couple of Nurofen and walked to her desk in the book-room wondering if she should use the sling she'd been given at Barts.
Booting up her computer, she had to wait a little longer than normal as her start-up routines expanded to take in the new software she'd uploaded for her work at MI5, including a whole load of new security and encryption programs. Fortunately, she had invested well when she'd bought the computer and had ample storage and processing power for any work she may choose to do at home, such as today.
Typing out a brief email message to Colin Ward saying she'd be working at home if anyone wanted to speak with her, she checked on any incoming mails, smiling at another message popped up – a cheeky reply from Colly. Sitting waiting for any other messages to come through, Grace felt her eyes closing and realised she'd be good for nothing without some sleep first.
Leaving the computer on, she rolled herself out of her chair and plodded into her bedroom, closing both the navy ceiling blinds and the substantial window curtains to bring the large room into several wonderfully dim shades of deep blue. With everything closed up like this, she always felt as if she were in a submarine world of silence and safety.
Ensuring her phone was by the bed, she curled up under the duvet, her throbbing hand resting on top of the bedding as her eyes closed again and the soft coolness of the pillow felt so satisfyingly comforting.
She was asleep in less than a minute.
###
Deciding to first alert Lestrade as to the less than promising results of the various tests thus far undertaken on the photograph, Sherlock hailed a cab and directed it to the far end of Northwick Close, where a plain black-painted door set into a large brick wall bore a sign on the letter-box flap advising passers-by to beware of the dog. There was another sign on the door that strictly forbade any parking in its general vicinity, a proclamation Lestrade clearly felt able to ignore as his roughly-parked silver-blue BMW attested.
Fully aware that the inspector had never owned a dog in his life, Sherlock lost no time in hammering on the door with his fist until the curtains of several upstairs windows further down the street twitched at the racket.
Finally, the black door swung inwards to reveal a very groggy and rumpled-looking officer of the law.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," the silver-haired man groused, thoroughly unhappy being woken up less than an hour after going to sleep. "You mightn't need to get your head down while you're working, but the rest of us mere mortals actually need a bit of shut-eye on a fairly regular basis," he grumbled, inviting his visitor in while rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand and filling the kettle to make tea.
The kitchen of this house was sufficiently compact that Lestrade's lean length was able to brace itself against one side and rest a foot against the opposite cabinetry.
The house was something of an anomaly, being built almost as an afterthought once the other mews cottages had been completed and there was a tiny, odd-shaped sliver of land going begging at the end of the street; too small to make much of, but too big to leave unoccupied.
Regardless of architectural fashion, no builder at any time in the last one-thousand years has ever been accused of wasting space in London, and so the smallest of homes was wedged into the gap; a single, unlikely door facing out into the mews, while the back of the dwelling abutted the gardens of the much larger St John's Wood Road houses behind it.
After his divorce, Greg had actually been looking for a small flat but was alerted to the possibilities of Number Six, Northwick Close, after a drugs raid by Vice further down the mews.
"Something you might like down the end of the road," D.I. Burdett gave him the nod. "Heard you was after new digs; better grab it fast."
Greg had gone round to see it that very afternoon and made the agent an offer on the spot. Given that he was with the police and that the house, tiny though it was, needed a fair bit of putting right, the current owner was only too glad to shift the sale as rapidly as possible. Lestrade had moved in ten days after he'd first seen it and had no intention of moving anywhere else.
The weirdest combination of bungalow and granny-flat, Greg had fallen in love with this, literally a hole-in-the-wall house, and had spent the time since his divorce putting it to rights. It now suited him down to the ground and was half home, half office and half workshop.
Overshadowed on three sides by houses taller than his, Lestrade had had the builders punch holes in the new roof he'd had to put on, getting them to install a series of polycarbonate skylights all the way through the L-shaped property, letting buckets of natural light inside but without any privacy worries. He had also ripped out just about every non-load bearing wall, making several small rooms into one much larger space, far easier to navigate. What had once been a dark and unloved little house was now a place of open legroom and relaxation.
The long end of the 'L' was the part of the house immediately accessed by the deceptively weather-beaten door to the mews, and encompassed his living space, including a large lounge-diner and a galley-style kitchen, with a tiny closed-in laundry and covered outside area where he could hang his washing to dry. Right next to the laundry was a new bathroom which was basically a large shower at one end and a sink and mirrored cabinet at the other. A separate toilet had been installed in what used to be a large, walk-in cupboard opposite the bathroom entrance. Right next to that was the one single bedroom. It used to be two small ones, but Greg had figured anyone wanting to stay with him would probably be prepared to kip down on the sofa, and had knocked the two bedrooms into one decent-sized one which he had turned into a comfortable place of dark browns, taupe and white. It was easy on the eye and took little caring for.
The middle, corner-part of the L-shape was his office because there were more walls left there than anywhere else and what wasn't covered with window, was covered with shelves and filing cabinets. He had additional security added into the new windows, and paid for some good-quality alarms to be fitted everywhere. Just in case.
The last section of the house, farthest from the street entrance, was what he liked to think of as his man-cave. Essentially a workshop, there was a big central workbench fitted with electricity; several skydomes for additional light; a couple of old leather armchairs and a small table with a lamp for him to sit and watch the ancient old TV hanging from the wall on a large L-bracket. A small bar-fridge stood off to the left of one of the chairs, currently filled with his favourite beer and with a bottle of decent vodka stashed away in the minute freezer compartment.
The workbench was covered in all sorts of half-completed things; bits of carpentry; a shelf he was fixing, two mugs under repair. Simple stuff, really.
But it was his stuff, and things he was able to do when he felt like doing them. Lestrade hadn't been this at peace with his life in years. He liked living here; it wasn't far to work, only taking him anywhere between twelve and twenty minutes to get to the Yard in the morning, depending on traffic. Even the people in the street liked having a copper around the place, saying how much quieter and nicer it had become since he'd moved in. That had made him smile a bit.
Pointing the younger Holmes towards a seat in the lounge, Greg was still yawning are he carried in two steaming mugs of tea, plonking one down in front of the younger man with more than a touch of irritation.
"I'm not as young as some, y'know," he muttered pointedly, settling into his usual armchair. "I find I usually do better on several consecutive hours of sleep rather than half-a-dozen random ones scattered about over a twenty-four hour period."
"There's no time for sleep until we find out who's behind the photo-drop, and exactly how, whatever it is they're doing, is actually done."
"No joy on the photo, then?" Lestrade felt his brain coming slowly online as he sipped the scalding hot tea.
"Not yet," Sherlock frowned mightily. "Mycroft's waiting for other tests, but I believe our resident document expert should add her voice of experience to the mix."
"Grace?" Greg shrugged. "She did say she was the professional in this game."
"She did indeed," Sherlock passed him Mycroft's file. "There's not much, but you will probably want to see it."
"And what makes you think Grace can add anything to this?" Lestrade squinted once again at the image of the child in the garden.
He calls her Grace, Sherlock noted, narrowing his eyes at the thought. "I'm sure Doctor Chandler will have some suggestions regardless," he waved his hand airily as he sipped his tea. "We can call in to see her once you have made yourself somewhat more respectable."
"Not for the next few hours, we're not," Greg shook his head. "She's got a bashed hand and she was almost out on her feet when I left her place after breakfast this morning," he added. "No way are we going to drag her awake the way you've done me."
They had breakfasted together.
Sighing loudly and rolling his eyes, Sherlock looked very much put-upon. "Then at what time do you suggest we awaken our document expert from her slumbers?"
Greg checked the wall clock. It was just after nine now. "Give her until midday," he advised. "That way, she'll have had five hours and will probably be awake in any case, doing her reading."
Sherlock felt the inspector knew far too much about the Chandler-woman's schedule than was warranted. His eyes narrowed again in contemplation. "Then in the meantime, I suggest we consider our next possible steps in the investigation," he said. "Especially if the photograph proves to be unhelpful; we need an alternative way forward."
"Did Mycroft have the CCTV going after you told him where we were headed?" Greg wanted to know what information they had to play with.
"Yes, but again, nothing was terribly useful. Apparently, the cameras only caught the backs of the few people who entered the premises after we did, and we can't even be sure the man wasn't already here before we arrived."
"And what about after the power cut?" Lestrade wanted to be sure. "Anything of use on the cameras then?"
"Only a small mass of shadowy forms struggling to get away from the building as rapidly as they might make good their escape, and a few car registrations," Sherlock grimaced. "All in all, not a terribly helpful state of events."
"The what are we left with?" Greg rubbed his eyes again. "I doubt he, whoever he is, is likely to head back to Milton's after last night's little debacle; nor is he going to be handing out business-cards at his new choice of drop."
"Quite," Sherlock steepled his fingers. "The perhaps we may need to do this the old-fashioned way and investigate each and every member of Doctor Chandler's team."
Lestrade grinned. "You mean actually resorting to good old coppering?" he asked with a laugh. "Taking statements and comparing bank accounts and the like?"
"If absolutely necessary, then we must," Sherlock sounded less than happy. "And in the meantime I shall review all the CCTV tapes to be quite sure none of my brother's minions missed anything. I suggest we meet up at the Chandler residence immediately prior to noon."
"Great," Greg yawned. "Means I get to crawl back into my nice, cosy bed for another couple of hours," he waved at the younger man as he stood. "Lock the door behind you," he said, yawning again, heading towards the bedroom.
Walking down the mews towards the main street and the nearest probability of a cab, Sherlock had two key thoughts on his mind. The first was some way to connect a man in Grace Chandler's team with a visit to Milton's Gentlemen's Club the previous evening; it simply couldn't be that difficult to do.
The second was how to keep the inspector away from a woman he was showing every sign of finding increasingly attractive.
###
Mycroft replaced the red phone onto its receiver. He was not terribly pleased with the progress of events. While it was clear that at least one member of Grace's team was likely to be involved with the ongoing conspiracy to sell classified materials, there was no way, as yet, to be sure who it was. Simply because a man was the one who usually delivered to materials to the bordello, did not mean he was in the Archive team; he could be another intermediary, although that was on the unlikely side.
And if it was one of the men in the team, then which one? There were only the three of them. Young Colin Ward, barely out of school and not yet in his twenties, hardly an obvious candidate for the role. Even if the boy was sufficiently clever to mastermind such a technically convoluted orchestration of events, nothing in his background suggested he'd lived long enough to garner enough knowledge and skills to engineer anything of the kind. Regardless of whether Mr Ward might have wanted to become a villain, the odds were strongly against his current ability to be one.
This left the two older men.
Stratford Thomas was certainly old enough and experienced enough to manipulate the missing information in a variety of ways; he probably knew just about every possibly method of converting one form of information into another. But he had led a blameless and somewhat desultory life after his wife had died several years ago, and had moved into the upstairs room of his youngest daughter's house and, by all accounts, was perfectly happy there, as was the family to have him in their midst. Though he wasn't a wealthy individual, the man had the proceeds from the sale of his house, a not insubstantial sum, as well as the modest insurance pay-out upon his wife's untimely death of heart disease. That, combined with both his current salary and the solid pension awaiting him in a couple of years, made it less and less likely he would involve himself in such a venture. According to all intel there was to be had on the man, he was perfectly happy living an almost invisible lifestyle.
That only left Shane Meath. A much younger man in his late thirties, still recovering from a double disaster. First, a financial one in which he lost his own company, a dire situation, almost immediately followed by a swift and acrimonious divorce which cost him not only his marriage, but also the custody of his three young children, all currently abiding with the ex-wife in the north of the country. Such events would leave anyone feeling less than satisfied with their lot, perhaps to the point that some measure of recompense might be sought, even if such recompense might be taken in a form considered illegal by others.
Of the three men in the Archives Department, Meath would appear to be the most likely suspect, except he had been nowhere near Milton's last night; a tail had been placed on all the staff the minute Grace had agreed to monitor the actions of her team.
Nor were the two women likely participants either, with both of them reported as staying at home last evening; Ruth Lannagan in her small studio flat in Battersea, and Magda Borowski at her brother's house at Wembley. According to the reports, neither woman had gone out at all. Nor had any of the Archive's team left a digital train of any real indiscretion; a few ill-worded emails, some questionable website visits, but nothing at all out of the ordinary. And other than Shane Meath, there wasn't even a financial motive for any of them.
Which was all entirely frustrating and got the investigation nowhere.
Sitting at his desk deep in thought, Mycroft's contemplations were interrupted by Anthea with tea and a small plate with two, he counted them carefully, two chocolate digestive biscuits. He leaned back, an expression of wary expectation written across his features.
"How bad is it?" he asked, wondering which particular ceasefire had collapsed in the last ten minutes. "Domestic or foreign?" he added quickly, his mind poised to fly along any one of a dozen different pathways of calamity.
"Nothing disastrous," she smiled, pouring his tea. "But there are a few things in here you should really know, but which I doubt you do," she added, placing a solid-looking text book on the table beside him, a number of pages already marked with different coloured sticky labels.
Genetic Variations of Homo Sapiens Sapiens.
Frowning, he tapped fingertips on the shiny cover. "And why am I to read this now? In the midst of several, time-critical operations, with not only our own, but at least four other semi-friendly governments breathing down our proverbial necks?"
"Never said you needed to read it now," Anthea grinned as she turned to leave his office. "Only that there was information in there you should know, and I recommend you read it at some point, especially the passages I've tagged."
"Perhaps, when I have time," he muttered, pushing the book to one side and pulling the tea closer.
"As you say, sir," Anthea left the dimly lit office with a half-smile on her face.
Sitting back in his perfectly comfortable Eames chair, Mycroft used the tool that had always stood him in the best stead; his mind. Thinking the situation through from one end to the other; reversing the possibilities; changing the few variables that were known and adding in speculative potentials, he hammered away at the problem, until even he had to accept that, without additional data, no immediate resolution would be forthcoming.
Letting his eyes slide across to the biscuits on the plate, he sighed. This meant another ten minutes on the treadmill tonight, but his internal frustration demanded a blood sacrifice of some description, and an extended workout was the least problematic.
Sipping his tea, he idly brought Anthea's book into his eyeline. Nibbling one of the digestives, he flicked through several of the pages, pausing as he reached the first of her bookmarks.
The Chemistry of Genetic Variation: Alpha and Omega. He turned the page and read, with increasing surprise, a textual blueprint of his own particular mutated physical chemistry; its newly mapped weaknesses and strengths; its profoundly obstinate preferences and tendencies and the way the Alpha behaviour, including sexuality, might be manipulated.
Most of the basics he already knew; had known since attending the mandated special classes from the age of eleven when the cruel claws of puberty wrenched him from the relatively happy innocence of childhood. Not only had he to go to school, but to special classes, a marked humiliation he recalled to this day. Of course, it had been easier for Sherlock when his time came; all things had been easier for his brother. Though Mycroft felt himself above the usual pettiness of siblings, he was aware that somewhere deep and unrecognised, that knowledge still rankled.
According to the text before him, a great many things had been discovered since his time in those dreaded classes. As he read down to the following sections, that of the chemical responses between Alpha and Omega, both initiated and received by the twin mutations, he forgot his tea and the second biscuit, and began to read in earnest.
###
It was dead on the stroke of midday that Greg rang the doorbell of Grace Chandler's apartment in Barge House Street.
Moments later, the door opened, revealing a slightly dishevelled Director of MI5 Archives clad in the same track-pants and Cambridge sweatshirt he'd left her in several hours earlier.
"Get some sleep?" he asked, stepping inside the opened door. "How's the hand?"
"Enough," she smiled, waving the bandaged limb a little as she waited for Sherlock to come in. "It's fine, although I wasn't expecting to hear from you again so soon today," she raised her eyebrows. "Cancelling on me already?"
"Cancelling what?" the younger Holmes was pointedly curious.
"If he's not changed his mind, Greg's taking me out to the flicks, aren't you?" Grace laughed as she preceded them into the kitchen. "Anyone want tea or are we all okay for the time being?"
"Done enough caffeine for the moment, thanks," Lestrade grabbed a high stool by the stone workbench. "We came here for your expert brains rather than your expert tea-making skills."
Lestrade had engaged his brother's archivist for a social meeting?
"Indeed," Sherlock looked sideways at the blonde woman. "You boasted last night that you were the professional and we the sad amateurs, and I think it's about time you made good on that claim," he added, sliding the thin file across the counter towards her fingers. "My brother's people have, thus far, found nothing of value."
Deciding not to keep using the sling, Grace was able to hold the photograph edges between the palms of her two hands, her eyes narrowing while she scanned down the list of tests undertaken so far. Of course, there were a number of other tests that could still be done, some requiring a significant level of sophistication, but she had a feeling that anything picked up along the delivery route they had unearthed last night, would need to be effective but simple.
There was one obvious test that hadn't been done, in that case.
"Come with me," she said, carrying the photo with her into her circular office and library.
Opening a deep drawer on the left side, she pointed to a slim steel case and smiled at Lestrade. "Be a darling and lift that out for me, please, would you?"
Happy to oblige, Greg had the lightweight steel box out and resting on the desktop in seconds. Opening the catches with one hand, Grace assembled a piece of technology that ended with a flat glass screen over a light source, while a very short steel arm unfolded above containing a wide lens that looked down to the surface of the image.
Plugging a USB connection into her computer, she turned the device on, laying the photo face up, on top of the glass screen. With the light switch on beneath a vastly magnified picture of the entire photograph appeared on her computer screen.
"Back in the days when all texts were handwritten, usually by clerics and monks, it became a known way of passing along hidden messages," she mused, sliding the photo back and forwards across the glass while her eyes stayed focused on the computer screen. "Tiny, tiny details, sometimes smaller than the width of a human hair, were painted into the illuminated headings and borders," she added. "When I was at the Law Archives, I saw quite a few instances where prisoners had communicated with their outside people by adding or changing some small details in a family bible, for example," she added. "It strikes me that it's more than possible a similar technique might have been used here."
"But there have already been two micro-image tests," Sherlock objected. "And I'm reasonably sure the equipment at the lab possesses a little more grunt than your domestic facilities."
"Yes, but look at the magnification levels," Grace didn't take her eyes from the screen as she gradually moved the photo, millimetre by millimetre across the lit screen. "The highest they bothered to go was 400 mag, and this little beauty ..." her words trailed off as her fingertips focused the overhead lens a fraction tighter. "Can go a lot higher than that," she grinned, rotating the computer screen to face them. "Et, voilà!"
Greg wasn't sure at first what it was he was looking at. The image of the boy in the garden by the toy slide had entirely vanished, even the colour seemed to have been bleached out of the screen.
In its place was a regular series of small boxes, each perfectly square and regular. Row after row of them, all marching across the screen from one side to the other in perfect symmetry.
"What is this?" Greg rested a hand on the back of Grace's chair and leaned close in, his head mere inches from her own as he stared at the screen. "Why are some of those squares lumpy?"
"This is pixel level," she nodded, smiling up at the silver-haired man beside her. "The photo has been magnified out to the individual blocks of colour that make up the image as a whole and those," she pointed to several of the lumpy ones, "are what we call Textels," she added. "Textured pixels."
"And why do you have us staring at a screen of small textured boxes?" Sherlock stood behind Lestrade, his eyes assessing everything, both on the screen or off.
"Because of this," Grace pointed the tip of her right index finger at a very small collection of slightly differentiated boxes clustered together. "This, I believe, is the manufacturer's brand," she said, peering down at the actual photograph to check and then back at the vastly magnified section of her screen. "Looks like it has several passengers; shall we attempt to see what they are?"
Without waiting for a response, Grace repositioned the photo so that the section of the toy slide with the manufacturer's label was directly under the centre of the overhead lens. "Cross your fingers," she said, turning a small metal dial a few microns further.
The section was at the highest resolution she could get it with her little box of tricks; a serious optical lab could probably do a bit better, she knew, but not that much. She'd need to have access to a digital resolution to make it any larger.
"And this is the best I can do without digital enhancement," she said, sighing and leaning back. "Do you want me to email copies to anyone in particular?" her finger hovered over the screen print key.
On the screen was a clear indication of miniaturised pages of printed writing, black-on-white, still far too small to read, but easily large enough to be able to see them for what they were: stowaways.
The photographs were being used to carry miniaturised print-outs; not a terribly sophisticated method of transferring materials, but effective enough.
"Send one to my phone and I'll make sure everyone who needs to see this gets a copy," Sherlock sounded vaguely approving. "It's clearly micro-text," he said. "But what's that last square?"
"I have no clue," Grace squinted dreadfully. "It looks like a page of writing, but not like any writing I've seen."
"Excellent," Sherlock's slow drawl was full of anticipation. "If our man's using code," a ferocious smile flicked on and off. "Then we have him."
###
It was already well into the afternoon by the time Colin Ward realised someone had borrowed the stapler from his desk. Sighing heavily, he walked over to the black cabinet in the corner of his office which now contained the department's entire storage of things that were goodly, only to discover that the three spares he had stashed away were likewise missing. It looked as if someone was playing a silly joke. Looking around, he saw all the office doors were shut, and if there was one thing you did not do around here without extremely good reason, it was to barge into a closed office.
There was nothing for it; he'd have to go down to the main storage facility in the sub-floor and see if he could wangle a few additional spares if nobody was there to object.
Whistling softly to himself, he took the stairs at a run, nodding to a couple of people he knew along the way. Reaching the basement storage area, he input the four-digit door-code and let himself into a large room populated mostly by large cabinets, storage boxes and enormous wide drawers of different kinds of printable materials.
It was totally silent. He was alone, not an unusual state of affairs; people rarely came down here unless they knew what they wanted. And what he wanted were usually stacked in their little boxes on the second shelf from the top of that cabinet over there.
Pulling open the twin metal doors, the squeak of un-oiled metal hinges an irritating interjection in the silence as he picked out the shape of the boxes of staplers at the back of the shelf. Reaching forward to grab a few, Colin paid no attention to the faint noise behind him until it was entirely too late to do anything about it.
Something hit the side of his temple blindingly hard and he knew nothing else.
###
After her co-investigators vanished as quickly as they had arrived, Sherlock taking particular care to wangle a lift with Lestrade in his car back to Mycroft's office in Whitehall, Grace managed to wade through a surprising amount of reading by mid-afternoon. Making herself a pot of tea, she realised her hand was feeling quite a lot better; still sore if she tried to clench her fist, but the ice-packs she'd been applying seemed to have done the trick and the swelling was well down.
Looking at the clock in the kitchen, she saw it was only three-thirty and she leaned against the stone bench top, thinking what to do with the rest of the day.
She could try and finish the rest of the reading, but her brain had reached saturation-point, and she knew she wasn't going to be able to absorb a great deal more before everything turned to nonsense.
She could take the rest of the afternoon off and either be a slug in front of the TV, or she could put a load of laundry on and maybe go for a walk and get some fresh air. Scanning the skyline of London through the wide windows of her kitchen, Grace saw that the weather had at least made an attempt to cheer up; a pale sun was glinting between the afternoon clouds, and it hadn't rained all day, so the pavements were looking dryer.
Sipping her tea, a sudden desire for the smell of cold air overcame her and she pulled on a thick pair of socks and her trainers, threw a loose padded gilet on top of her sweatshirt and wrapped her old Cambridge scarf around her neck. Shoving a few things in a small leather satchel, she slung the bag's long strap across her body, leaving her hands free.
Feeling a joie de vivre she hadn't felt in a long time, a smile curved her mouth as she headed out towards the river where her feet often went on those occasions her thoughts were undirected. Wandering, semi-aimlessly, she strolled along the river's broad, stone-paved walkway, heading nowhere in particular, and thinking about a tall, silver-haired police inspector with dreamy brown eyes and an innocent smile that could lead a saint astray.
Her wandering feet had brought her around the front of the National Theatre and along beneath Waterloo Bridge. Strolling on around the wide swathe of riverbank, she watched the London Eye, its silver-white steel and glass pods making a never-ending circle, full of tourists and school tours. It was only as she meandered under Westminster Bridge, that she realised Millbank was in sight almost directly across the Thames. Her absent-minded stroll had brought her within spitting distance of work.
Feeling sheepish, Grace shrugged and realised she may as well pop in and see if there was anything waiting for her attention; she needn't stay long, or try and do anything.
Continuing along the riverside walk, right past St Thomas's and Lambeth Palace, Grace hit a right to cross Lambeth Bridge into Millbank. In less than two minutes, she was walking through the revolving glass doors of MI5 and waving at Wilson and Noodles at the security desk.
"I probably won't be long," she called, lifting her bandaged hand. "Just calling in to say 'Hi'."
"Take your time," Wilson waved back. "Ain't nothing going on around here."
Sprinting up the stairs to the fifth-floor, Grace slowed down as she felt her hand start to ache. Walking with a little more care into the Archive Department, she waved at Stratford through his open door, looking for Colin Ward and any mail that might be waiting for her.
There was nothing on her desk and she looked around for her young assistant.
"Anyone seen Colly?" she checked the time; not that long after four, and, though it wasn't too early for someone to have knocked-off for the day, she knew the lad usually stayed until around five by choice.
"Not for a bit now," Stratford ambled out of his den. "He was here earlier, then disappeared." The older man poked his head inside the small Admin office. "His coat's still here, so he hasn't left for the day."
Wondering if anyone else had seen the boy, she knocked on a couple of the closed doors before sticking her head inside. Ruth was proofreading a typed document, her hand wrapped around a steaming cup of tea.
"Seen Colly anywhere?" Grace asked.
"Oh, Hi," Ruth smiled and stretched her back. "He was here after lunch, but I haven't seen him since," the Intelligence Officer looked puzzled. "Why? Is everything alright?"
"It's probably nothing," Grace shook her head. "But it's not like him to have vanished. I'd like to know if he was feeling unwell, or something."
"Well, there's not that many places he could be," Ruth looked thoughtful. "If he's not in the café, and he wasn't when I was in there ten minutes ago, getting my tea, then I have no idea."
"Well, where else did his job take him in the building?" Grace wanted to know. If Colin had merely been distracted and forgotten the time, it wasn't an issue. But if he'd been taken ill somewhere; the winter flu was pulling down even the healthiest among them, then she needed to know and do something about it.
"Other than the café and the tea-room, he only ever went to the mail office, sometimes the Ops rooms and the supply depot down in the basement," Stratford scratched his ear. "But he might be anywhere, really."
"It's not like him to simply vanish," Grace frowned. "I think I might have a bit of a wander around and see if I can track him down. If I catch him chatting up any nice young men, I may have to tease him unmercifully for a couple of hours, or possibly a day or two ... maybe a week," Grace grinned and walked back out the department's main entrance, thinking about where to start.
Logic suggested she either start at the top and work down, or the other way around. Pressing the UP button on the lift, she waited for it to arrive so she could go up and check there was no lingering by her staff in the rarefied atmosphere of the higher levels.
As she waited, a lift heading DOWN arrived, and she stepped inside; it really didn't matter where she began the search.
Travelling all the way down to the sub-basement, Grace fumbled with the door-code pad. She knew all these doors needed a four-digit code, but she also knew that they were different on each floor. What was the code for this level? It took her a good ten seconds of reflective thought to arrive at a number which, she hoped was the correct one. If not, she'd have to go and see the chaps at security and ask them.
Keying in the numbers, Grace smiled in satisfaction as the lock clicked softly and she was able to depress the handle without effort. Stepping inside the large room, a quick glance around showed it to be empty. "Colly?" she asked aloud, just in case.
When there was no response, she was about to leave the storage room when something odd caught her eye, though she wasn't sure what it was. Turning her head slowly, she scanned everything from floor to the high ceiling, trying to catch whatever it was that she saw the first time.
A shoe.
A man's brown shoe, lying on its side, half-hidden by the shadow of the large black cabinet beneath which it lay.
Walking over, Grace picked it up, unsure whose it might be. Was it Colin Ward's? It could be; it was certainly long enough to fit him.
"Colly?" Grace looked around again, a strange sense of unease filling her chest. "Colly, are you in here?"
There was no answer, nor could there be.
On impulse, Grace wrenched open the cabinet's metal doors, pulling them wide as her mind tried to accept what she saw within.
Colly Ward, hanging by the neck inside the steel box, his face purpled, his own belt the only thing that kept him from crumpling to the floor.
"Colin!" Grace screamed, lunging in to take the boy's weight off that vulnerable neck. "Colin!" holding the young man close to her with her injured hand, she tried to reach around the back of his neck to undo the leather knot, but it had pulled too tight to do anything single-handed.
She was stuck. She couldn't let the boy go, nor could she help him as things stood ... she needed assistance.
Managing to pull out her phone from her pocket, she dialled the main desk number and then the extension 0007. Wilson's voice was possibly the most wonderful thing she could have heard.
"Wilson, this is Grace Chandler. I'm in the storage basement and I need an ambulance and someone to help me ... there's been a terrible ... thing ... please come and help me now," she gasped. "I can't hang on much longer," she groaned, as the boy's lean weight started to bear down on her. "Hurry!"
Gritting her teeth, Grace wedged her heel into the corner of the tall cabinet and simply pushed the solid weight of the boy as high up against the back of the cabinet as she could, anything to take the pressure off his neck. She counted in groups of five ... one ...two ...three ...four ...five, she pushed harder as the weight slipped. One ... two... three ... four ... five...
God ... where were they?
Tears of exhaustion and pain blurring her closed eyes, it was only the sound of running feet and loud voices, followed by several strong pairs of hands lifting the weight from her in order that she could fall back and breathe, everything shaking as her legs refused to hold her own weight and she fell, rubber-kneed to the grey, vinyl floor, her breathing harsh in her ears.
"Is he alive?" she struggled with the words. "Is he breathing?"
Managing to lift her head, she watched as Wilson Burberry performed CPR on Colin Ward's slender frame, the older man's hands sure and confident as he pressed and compressed the boy's chest.
"There's a pulse," Wilson paused as the Paramedics came flying into the room with a wheeled stretcher, their rubber-soled boots squeaking on the shiny floor. They gestured for him to move back. "But it's very weak," he added, watching the two professionals fall into a smooth and well-rehearsed routine of saving a life. "What's up with your hand?"
Barely able to move, Grace let her eyes fall down to the back of her right hand. Though there was absolutely no pain, the entire bandage was soaked with bright red blood.
"I cut my hand last night ..." she moved to her knees to try and stand, only to realise that everything was going grey around the edges ... she was babbling incoherently ... everything was spinning ... there was a muffled voice saying her name ...
As the paramedics fixed an oxygen-mask to their patient and wheeled him from the room, Grace slumped bonelessly to the ground.
###
There was the faintest smell of antiseptic around her when she opened her eyes.
Grace saw she was lying on her side beneath a light blanket as her eyes flicked around, assessing and absorbing her surrounds.
A small room; plain white walls, a blind-covered window; several cabinets on the wall above a small sink with big steel taps. The smell of pine disinfectant.
She closed her eyes again and drew a deep breath. Some kind of medical room, obviously, but not a hospital. What would she be doing in a hospital? What was she even doing in a medical room?
The realisation that she had fainted clean away, dawned, and she squeezed her eyes tight in embarrassment. Why on earth had she fainted? She hadn't fainted since she was twelve and about to go into her first major heat.
As the recent events sharpened once more in her mind, Grace felt her heart-rate speed; an icy panic gripped her.
Colin?
Pushing herself up for the bed, she realised her left hand was throbbing horrendously. Lifting it out from under the cover, she saw a clean white bandage had replaced the blood-soaked one, and she was grateful for small mercies.
There were voices outside the door and she groaned. Oh god, there was no way she could escape from any of this with the slightest shred of credibility.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled the blanket away and sat up, her legs dangling off the side of the bed. Feeling a slight wash of nausea make her stomach heave, Grace took another deep breath and slid down until her feet hit the floor.
Her gilet and bag was on a nearby chair. She dragged them on, her left hand complaining loudly at the additional movement. Standing, she walked to the door and inhaled hard yet again to try and clear her head. Grace turned the handle and opened the door towards her.
At the sound and movement of the door, all parties to the conversation in the passageway beyond ceased speaking and turned, as one, to examine her face.
Greg Lestrade was the first to move, stepping forward and sliding an arm around her back, helping her to stand. "You should go back and lie down again," he said. "We're still debating about getting you checked out at hospital before I have to talk to you about what ... happened ... downstairs."
"I'm sorry I've caused a fuss," Grace's smile was wobbly. "But I'm perfectly okay; no idea why I fainted. It's not something I do, as a rule, and definitely no need for a hospital," she stood a little straighter. "How's ... Colin?"
The thunderous silence told her what she couldn't bear to ask.
"Oh god," her voice caught, and she pressed her unbandaged hand tight across her mouth to stem the grief. She had known the boy less than a week, but he had been such a lovely soul. "What happened?"
"He never regained consciousness," Mycroft was standing beside Gerald Palmer, the both of them looking somewhat uncertain, the elder Holmes clutching the handle of his umbrella so hard his knuckles were ivory.
"He wouldn't have done this," Grace felt her defences start to weaken again, as the knowledge rolled over her. "It wasn't in him to ..."
"It was murder," Sherlock stepped forward, "and we all know it," he added. "Now it really would be a good idea for you to go and lie down again; your hands have started to tremble quite significantly, usually a sign of imminent emotional and physical ..."
"Oh, do shut up, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped the words as he stepped forward and re-opened the door into the small medical room. "Please," he spoke to Lestrade without meeting the older man's eyes. "Have her lie down."
"Come on, Grace," Greg found his voice was nearly inaudible. "Come and lie down for a bit until you're more yourself. I'll be here," he added. "I won't leave you alone."
"I'll have someone administer a sedative," Mycroft straightened his back, tipping his head back and looking down his nose in his usual manner. But there was no directive in his words, rather a soft regret that had Sherlock watching his sibling with ill-concealed curiosity.
Shepherding the blonde woman inside the small room, Greg found his arms were sliding naturally around her torso as she stood there, shaking.
"It's all right, babe," he crooned gently. "There's nothing anyone could have done."
"If I have been here all day instead of taking time off for this blasted hand ... I might have been able to ... I could have ..." Grace let her head fall forward until it rested against his chest.
"Nah, don't think anyone could have," Lestrade held her close to his body, allowing the feeling of warmth to grow between them. "You did everything you were able to do and none of it's your fault, okay?" he added. "I don't want you thinking that there's any blame here other than on the killer."
"Oh god, he was only a kid," Grace let the tears slide down her face unchecked, too shocked to care.
"And we'll get whoever did this, I promise you," Greg wrapped his long arms around her and simply held her against him as the ravages of her emotional distress took their toll.
A quiet knock at the door and a small man with a doctor's bag entered the cramped space. "I believe you might benefit from something to make you relax a little and possibly even sleep, hmm?" the stranger's words floated around her head, but they held no comfort, no real meaning for her.
He undid his black case, locating a small plastic vial of white tablets, he checked the quantity; there were six.
"Take two of these now and go directly home," he advised, turning to look at Lestrade. "Can someone escort her?"
"I'll make sure she gets there myself," Greg nodded, filling a glass with water from the tap. "Here," he said, giving the glass to her. "Take the pills and then let me take you home; I've got the car outside."
"There's another four tablets in here," the doctor dropped the tiny bottle into Lestrade's hand. "If she has trouble sleeping for the next couple of nights, one or two will help her relax, and the lady will soon be feeling a lot better."
Grace doubted she'd ever feel better.
"Come on, let's get you to home and to bed," Greg's arm was tight around her shoulders as he guided her out of the room and down the corridor.
###
Mycroft watched them go, watched as Grace accepted the inspector as her support and her saviour, and all he could do was stand there, unable to say a word to ease her grief, or lift a finger to reduce her distress. He had abdicated that privilege on a summer's evening nearly two years before, and had no right now to step in and dare to assume he might be able to alleviate her pain. He had made a decision and he needed to stick to it or chaos would ensue and the heavens would fall.
Distantly, he noted his hand was paining him again and he looked down to see a scalpel-slice across the palm where the handle of his umbrella had cracked in his grip.
No, he had no right at all.
He closed his eyes as she disappeared into the lift.