The Devonshire Squires Chapter Four
The nerve. Sherlock was still seething about the camera while the taxi fought its way eastwards on the Euston Road. Saturday traffic was different from the rush hour. More idiots about. The regular commuters knew where they were going. But with Euston, Kings Cross, St Pancras and Liverpool Street rail stations between him and the crime scene, he was bound to get caught up in tourist and traveller traffic. Predictably, there were also road-works, as contractors decided that weekend traffic would be lighter. So up came the barriers, diversions and lane closures that had the exact opposite effect of making the traffic even worse than on a weekday.
He found himself fidgeting in the back. With so little sleep over recent days and nights, Sherlock's mood was foul- and that was before discovering his brother's snooping. He just wanted to get to the case so he could stop thinking about anything else. He needed the focus.
Traffic eased a bit past Angel and they positively whizzed through the Old Street roundabout, but then the so-called silicon businesses in that area seldom worked on weekends; they were probably plugged into their computers at home, moaning about work-life balance. Then it was down the City Road and a right turn onto Bishopsgate, where the backside of Liverpool Street station came into view, bracketed by the modern buildings, almost all of which were occupied by financial firms. Then a left turn onto Brushfield Street before the black cab came to a complete halt amidst pedestrians. There were several people already signalling to the cab, oblivious to the fact that his yellow rooftop light was still off.
The cab driver turned on the intercom. "Closest I can get you. Mate. Saturday market, innit."
Sherlock snapped, "I'm not an idiot. If you could have been bothered to go down to Artillery Lane, you'd have missed all this, but then you would've had longer to wait for another fare." He pulled his wallet out. "That cost you any tip, so I want the change." He got out of the cab and stood by the driver's side window until the cabbie reluctantly handed over the correct change from the twenty pound note.
"Want a receipt?" This was uttered in a surly tone.
"No." Turning away, Sherlock flipped the collar of his Belstaff up to shelter from the strong east wind blowing down the road. There was a feel of snow in the air, and the low, glowering grey clouds above did little to dispel the sense that winter was coming. As he wove his way through the Spitalfields market crowds, he caught snatches of conversation about the "pre-Christmas shopping" and the "Noel Festival" that opened next week.
A year ago, Sherlock had been in the Far East in role as Lars Sigurson, and for the first time in his life, Christmas was not an issue. In fact, he'd even forgotten what day it was until he spotted a calendar in one of the business offices. When realised that it was the 27th of December, he smiled- the first time in his life that he had successfully avoided his least favourite time of the year.
Bah humbug. It was an appropriately Dickensian comment to mutter now in an area of London that still had remnants of Victorian architecture. He turned right down Font Street, heading due south on the narrow road, marked with double yellow lines and no pavements. The hoardings of blue wood proclaimed that Balfour Beatty working for TIAA Henderson Real Estate was a "Considerate Contractor" and that the new Steward Building Development would be opening in the autumn two years from now. The dilapidated building behind the wooden walls looked to have been built in the 1960s- a multi-story concrete monstrosity, probably built on a World War Two bomb site.
He reached the only break on the wooden palisade to find a wire security gate that had been dragged aside, and a couple of police cars were parked inside on the uneven ground. Lestrade's unmarked car was there, too. He lifted the yellow tape and went in, walking some ten feet before attracting the attention of a constable.
"You Holmes?"
He nodded.
"Then follow me."
The ramp down to the parking garage was on the side fronting Artillery Lane. As he passed through what had once been a double height opening, he had to duck through a hole cut in the metal grill door, made with an acetylene torch, He could still smell the faint traces of the burned metal, his nose automatically analysing the elements present in the steel alloy- a high carbon component joining the iron and …just a trace of nickel. He ducked through the hole that was no more than a meter in width and less than twice that in height, cut into the door of an opening that must have originally big been able to take lorries as well as cars. Once through, he scanned the surface of the steel plate with his torch, to be sure that that it had been secure before presumably the police had cut through to gain access. The constable waited, having switched on his own torch.
"Right. Carry on, Constable." Sherlock swept his torch from side to side in front of him as they walked down the ramp. He sighed. Idiots! A mass of footprints on the dust and rubble meant that there would be no clues left that had not been obliterated through sheer police stupidity.
By the time he got to the bottom, he was already fuming. Ahead, he could see an area that opened out to a large space, which went up two floors. Temporary lights had been rigged, and he could hear the sound of a generator running as he entered the area. It was cold- a bone-chilling sort of cold that made breath vaporise into clouds of mist. The lights cast odd shadows- although bright, because they were not high off the floor, so there were areas in deep shadow as well as those too brightly lit. He could see a Crime Scene Examiner at work. Lestrade and Donovan were in the middle- and there was a body, which he could see even at this distance, the nakedness a splash of pale whiteness in the dark.
The underground garage was interesting. The delivery area was about twenty square feet, surrounded by the two floors of car parking, both of which overlooked the area. An efficient use of space, he thought, instinctively measuring the angles and volume. The single ramp could be used by both forms of traffic. Against the back wall, Sherlock could see a service lift. Presumably, each of the two car parking floors had their own passenger lifts and stairs. The air in the garage felt stale. He sniffed, drawing it in slowly through his nose and then deep into his lungs. He could smell the petrol engine, and was frustrated- it blocked more subtle scents. Even so, he could just about detect the distinctive odour of decomposition.
Lestrade had seen him, and beckoned him over.
"Afternoon, Sherlock."
Sherlock did not want the DI to see his face too clearly, so he kept the portable light behind him. In the shadows, his tiredness would show less. He had no time for the man's inevitable questions. He couldn't be bothered to reply to the Lestrade's greeting, his attention focused now on the dead body. He pulled on his blue forensic gloves, crouched beside the body, and dragged his pocket magnifier from his pocket.
The naked man about three inches shorter than Sherlock. Well built- he obviously worked out and had a lot of muscle across his shoulders and arms- and a tight abdomen that could only be the result of serious gym work. The man was somewhere over thirty, but less than mid-forties, with brown thinning hair, cut short. A moment of silence passed as Sherlock examined the unmarked face, the heavy bruising over the torso. He lifted the man's bruised hands, his nose detecting the faint aroma of adhesive across the knuckles.
"Prints?" The single word question was asked without looking up at either Lestrade or Donovan, but it was the black Sergeant who answered. "Nothing in the system." Scanners and mobile uploads made fingerprint checks so much quicker these days.
Sherlock lifted the man's head, and felt the skull underneath. He allowed a frown to cross his face, but he did not comment as he stood up and looked around. Donovan started to speak, but Sherlock decided to cut her off. "Wait. I need to look around first."
He felt their eyes on him as he walked back into the centre of the space. The body was lying to the left of centre, by about two meters. The shape of the floor area was a perfect square, with the upper floor of car parking acting as almost a balcony, on three sides, the walls just high enough for someone to look over it, should they have been interested to do so.
Like a theatre. He smirked, the beginnings of a hypothesis taking shape.
He could see the young CSE working - placing small lettered signs on the floor, with the ruler strips, in preparation for photographing. As he looked about the floor, he realised that twelve such signs had been placed, most but not all in a sort of circle about two meters from the centre.
Sherlock turned back to Lestrade and was just about to speak when he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the ramp; the sound of a firm heel strike, a shortish stride, with a certain military cadence to it. A sound he recognised. Whatever he might have said was choked off as he watched John Watson come into the light cast by the temporary lights.
He turned away from John and snarled at Lestrade, "Who invited him?"
Lestrade stiffened at the tone of voice, but didn't duck the accusation. "I did. We need a medical opinion and the ME isn't available. And, if you know what's good for you, you'll just shut up about it." He walked past Sherlock to close the distance between him and the doctor. "Hello, Doctor Watson. Glad you could make it."
Sally Donovan was watching Sherlock, who didn't turn around to look at John and the DI. He let nothing of what he was feeling show on his face, but was surprised as the woman's eyes showed compassion. He looked away, trying to set his features in an even more neutral state, and then decided that retreat was the better option. He walked away from the body, as John came over to it. Sherlock didn't look back.