That afternoon and evening, Sherlock disappeared to skulk and snoop and research. In the meantime, he instructed John to canvas the park and surrounding sidewalks. The neighborhood of Boscombe Hill – not ostentatious, not old money, but decidedly comfortable with a sprinkling of posh – was well suited to his interviewing skills. Almost everyone who was out and about was a mother, a nanny, or an elderly person who was happy to have someone to talk to.
In the cab, John reported back:
Charles McCarthy kept to himself and no one knew much about him. His son James was a nice enough chap, often seen riding through the neighborhood or the park with Alyssa Turner.
Some people knew about the Turners, and if they did, the conversation inevitably went there when the McCarthys were mentioned.
Joanne Turner was an Australian businesswoman who'd moved to Boscombe Hill about fifteen years ago. Recently divorced, she'd come here alone with her young daughter, Alyssa and bought a house near the park. ("I had to sit through an entire lecture on the history of Edwardian architecture for this tidbit, Sherlock," John grumbled. "I hope you appreciate that." Sherlock clearly did not.) She was outgoing and got to know some of the neighbors. But the interesting thing was, McCarthy showed up shortly after that, a widower with his young son in tow. People thought they had known each other in Sydney, though no one really knew where that came from. But they certainly knew each other well. Turner – who must have done quite well for herself in Australia – actually bought McCarthy a house in Boscombe Hill. ("Well. The only reason I know that is that my realtor handled that sale, and she said it was just odd, the way Turner bought the house like you'd buy lunch for your friend," a neighbor had confided in John as he pushed one of her twins on the swing.) So James and Alyssa had grown up together, and anyone who knew the two families assumed that Mr. McCarthy and Ms. Turner had a rather unusual but very close friendship.
"Alyssa rides her bike in the park too, you said? What kind?"
"Don't know. There's more… Joanne Turner is ill. Terminal cancer, apparently. They say she doesn't have long. Do you think, if Charles was in her will, wouldn't James have a motive…?"
Sherlock gave John an indulgent smile. "Leave the deductions to me."
Lestrade texted first thing the next morning. He had a warrant to search the McCarthy's house, and Sherlock could come along if he solemnly swore not to touch anything.
"Anything," Lestrade repeated outside the house, his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for emphasis.
Sherlock stared him down silently. John bit his cheek anxiously. Sherlock was enduring a lot of orders lately. John wasn't sure exactly how much pressure could build up before Sherlock would blow.
"Anderson's not here," Lestrade added, and John exhaled in relief.
There was nothing in the house of any interest, as far as John could see. He stood by, watching Sherlock hover around the police like a hungry hyena just outside the lion pride, ready to rush in and grab a mouthful of zebra at the first opportunity. John kept his hands free and ready to reach for Sherlock's arm if he needed to.
Lestrade had briefed them already on Donovan's interview of James McCarthy. Nothing much to add to his initial statement. He swore he didn't do it. The argument had been stupid, he said. His father was always trying to manage his life, he was sick of it, and that's why he'd raised his voice, and yes, his hand, but he did not hit him, never would have, and most certainly did not kill him. He'd said things he regretted. He was the only thing his father cared about in the world, and he'd been a terrible son, and he had some karma coming to him for that, but he would never have hurt his father intentionally, would never have done that. He was exactly the same height as Charles McCarthy, and wore size seven shoes.
"I think that's it, sir," Donovan said with a shrug as the team finished searching McCarthy's study.
Sherlock snorted.
"We've found nothing useful," Lestrade said in exasperation.
"Maybe there is nothing useful," Donovan answered.
"Nothing you know how to use, apparently," Sherlock offered.
"Alright," Lestrade said, turning to face him. "Go on then." Donovan crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.
Sherlock headed directly for a wood panel on the wall behind the desk, identical to every other panel. Except, John noticed only now, the polish was worn down, ever so slightly, on the lower right corner of the beveled edge. Sherlock pressed firmly on that spot and the panel swung open, revealing a safe.
John let out a low whistle.
"I'll get a safecracker down here…" Donovan was saying to Lestrade, but Sherlock was already working on the combination.
On the second try, there was a click, and Sherlock opened the door with a flick of his wrist. He reached for the stack of files inside, but John coughed, once and very loudly, and Sherlock froze. Lestrade was there already, grabbing the files and taking them to the desk, and the look on Sherlock's face broke John's heart.
Sherlock, John, and Donovan all leaned over Lestrade's shoulder as he poured over the files. They were accounting printouts. Several hundred pages.
"It's in dollars," Sherlock said. "They're from his time in Australia."
"He lived in America too, you know," Donovan pointed out.
"Yes, of course I know that, but look at the font and the ink, this clearly matches up with the time when he was in Australia."
"Well," Lestrade said with a sigh. "We're going to need an expert on this. It means nothing to me."
"You don't need an expert, you have me," Sherlock snapped.
Lestrade frowned. "Five minutes," he grunted, and stepped aside so Sherlock could pour over the ledgers.
John looked on, but they meant nothing to him either. He never ceased to be amazed by Sherlock's knowledge of arcane and seemingly random subjects, but he had never known the man to have any prowess in complex accounting. Quite the opposite, knowing the way bills got paid – or didn't – on Baker Street.
"That's enough," Lestrade announced when Sherlock had flipped through the last page, eleven minutes later. Sherlock reluctantly stepped away.
"Whatever it is, it was important to him," Lestrade continued, carefully bagging the file. "What was the code anyway?"
"His son was the only thing he cared about. And he was an accountant, he lived in a world of numbers. James' birthdate, with each pair of digits added together. Ridiculously simple. As I said, you don't need experts when you have me."
"Aren't you going to tell him about Joanne Turner?" John asked as they walked away from the McCarthys' house.
"What about her?"
"Everything. Her illness. The house. Their friendship."
"They weren't friends."
"What? Why not?"
"There's not a single photograph in the entire house of either of the Turners. No momento that would indicate they exist. The only photographs in the house are of James."
"So he wasn't a sentimental man. Doesn't mean he couldn't have friends. You don't have any pictures of me."
"We're not raising our children together."
John blinked mutely at the absolutely surreal image that had just blossomed in his head.
"It was a business relationship," Sherlock continued.
"What business? Where are we going?" Sherlock had suddenly turned away from the main road and back towards the park.
"To ask Joanne Turner that very question."