The Devonshire Squires Chapter Five:
As John stepped towards the body, he was trying to focus on the job at hand. Of course he had heard Sherlock's accusatory question to Lestrade. So, he doesn't want me here. That answered one question. No, actually, it answered two. Not only why Sherlock hadn't been the one to text him about the case, but also why he hadn't bothered to reply to any of John's previous texts over the past ten days, since the news about Tilbury had broken. John had been trying to come to terms with the silence and what it meant. It had even sent him off for a futile session with Ella Brown*. Fat lot of good that did.
Twice over the past week, John had started to tell Mary about how left out he was feeling, but he instinctively knew what she would say. She'd look at him with those big eyes of hers, tell him to stop being a prat and go over the Baker Street and talk to Sherlock. He knew that was what he should have done. But, whatever hesitations he might have been feeling had just been confirmed. He doesn't want to work with me. He was surprised how much that feeling hurt. He glanced up to see the swirl of the dark coat as Sherlock left the delivery bay and went into the car parking area, without a backward glance.
The doctor set his shoulders and started to get to work, as Lestrade came up to where he was now crouched beside the body.
"So, you didn't bother to tell him I was coming….Got a spare pair of gloves? I don't carry them anymore. Got out of the habit." Lestrade handed a pair over. John snapped them on and started to feel the body's arm muscles to assess the state of rigor.
"Got a torch I can use?" Wordlessly, Lestrade handed over his, which John used to examine the wounds. He lifted the hands and saw the bruised and bloody knuckles.
"He fought back."
The DI nodded.
Looking more closely at the bruises on the body's chest, John saw patterns of older, fading contusions. "He's been in a fight before tonight. See? The new bruises are on top of old ones. And this cut on his shoulder is probably at least a week old; there are signs of healing, whereas the one on his left elbow is fresher."
Lestrade looked over John's shoulder. "I suppose a time of death is asking too much."
John grimaced. "Unlike a proper Medical Examiner, I don't have a liver thermometer. That said, he's too cold down here to make that simple. Assuming that he's been here the whole time, then I'd guess he's been dead for about a week to ten days.
"Is a cause of death any easier?"
John sat back on his heels. "Well, he didn't die from any of these wounds." He reached forward and lifted the head off the concrete floor, feeling the bones at the base of the skull and the top of the spine.
"Oh!" John's surprise was clear. "Well, that's unusual."
"What?!" Lestrade went down on one knee beside the doctor.
A baritone voice drifted down from the car park area on the floor above where the body was lying. "He wasn't murdered."
John grimaced. "Well, that's possibly, maybe even probably, true. He broke his neck, probably in the fall, or maybe because of an existing weakness." He felt the neck bones. "Could be a previous accident or cervical spondylosis- in which case, even if he didn't know he suffered from the condition, just one good blow or even a simple fall could have snapped his neck. I'll need a proper autopsy to be sure, but it's probably the case."
He stood up. "Sherlock? Why did you think it isn't murder?" He pitched his voice loud enough to carry a distance.
A figure appeared above them, looking down. "Up here, and I will explain why."
When they managed to find the stairs and then walked over to where the consulting detective was standing, he didn't turn to look at them. Instead his attention was focused on the floor of the delivery area. In the darkness of the car park area, John could see little more than the silhouette of Sherlock, in his Belstaff, with his collar turned up. He just pointed over the wall and said, "look."
John peered over the balcony and down to the floor where the body was lying. Sally Donovan was there looking up at them. It was a strange sight. The floor area was now pock marked with the little evidence signs, and the CS Examiner was still laying them out. Lestrade was looking, too, but exchanged a little glance at John, his eyebrow raised in question. The DI left it to John to ask.
"Okay, Sherlock. What is it that you observe that we're not even seeing?"
"What does this feel like to you? What does the layout remind you of?"
The doctor shrugged, "You tell me."
There was a soft sigh of exasperation. "It's a theatre, John. And we're in the box seats. Look at the blood spatter that has been identified. I could almost predict where he will find the next one."
Lestrade huffed. "You're saying that someone was up here watching the murder?"
Sherlock snorted. "I'm not the only one who says there hasn't been a murder here. Your medical professional's opinion supports that hypothesis. Think of it as an accidental consequence of what was going on."
"I'm still lost."
"Oh really…it's obvious. If you use your torch and look to your left, you'll find footprints. Scandalous that your forensic team hasn't bothered to look up here yet. You're bound to find similar footprints all the way around- probably trace, certainly cigarette ash. The audience paid good money to watch this. Swab the sticky patches, and you'll probably come up with wine and spirits." Then he whispered, "Party time."
"What- an audience watched the guy get killed?!"
"No, what they watched, and presumably bet a lot of money on, was a fight. Given the blows, this one looked like bare-knuckle boxing, or BKB to its followers. That's different from a cage fight. Mixed martial arts fights have nearly no rules at all, but it is legal, so long as it is registered –but then unfettered gambling can't take place, which is what was going on here. This is a Fight Club venue, Lestrade. That man is probably an accountant- the callouses on the pads of his right fingers suggest he uses the calculator part of a computer keyboard on a constant basis. Given where we are, it's a fair deduction that this is the venue for a regular fight- probably once or twice a week. And several bouts of different styles, so there is likely to be more than the victim's blood down there."
John was looking down on the body. As soon as Sherlock described it, he could see the splatter pattern- the sort of blood spray from a fist across a cheek, or into a nose or mouth. The CSE took another pace out from the previous label and planted another. The doctor could visualise the man on his feet, boxing with an opponent, and getting hit with a left hook that would knock him off his feet and onto the floor, his neck snapping under the whiplash effect as he hit the floor.
"An accountant. Why would someone with a professional job be fighting?"
He heard Sherlock's snort. "Thrill seeking. Burning off steam. Adrenaline junkies- takes one to know one, John. Amateurs- mostly City professionals with too much money and too tightly wound up after another boring day's work; they come to a place like this where there are no rules except that you can't be a professional fighter. They fight to add some excitement to an otherwise mundane life, where nothing ever happens to them."
John shifted uncomfortably at the undercurrent in the man's tone. Being quoted from his own blog felt like salt being rubbed into his wounds.
Sherlock continued his deductive train of thought. "The accountant just got unlucky and broke his neck when he fell. The promoters stripped him of clothing to remove trace and took off. Given that this space was due to be demolished, they probably thought the body could be safely left behind and no one would know the difference until the building was brought down- and even then he might well have been swept away in the rubble."
"But why would an amateur fight attract an audience?" Lestrade was still struggling with the concept.
"Money. The fight clubs are quite exclusive; you have to know someone to get in to bet. The teams of fighters are all City people themselves, organised into clubs within a league. The betting is illegal but amazing, because it's fuelled by bonuses."
Lestrade was looking at Sherlock with incredulity. "How do you know this stuff?"
"I know people who know people. I also know you'll never get anywhere with a proper police investigation. There is no way of finding out which of the teams were using this space. Collecting trace down there on the floor will probably be pointless, because very few if any of them will be in the system. And they will have moved on, not just because of the body, but also because of the demolition."
"So, what do you suggest?"
"Step one- prove that I'm right. Get your forensic crew up here to get the trace. They might have cleaned up the victim, but the audience is a different matter. You could get lucky, maybe one of the paying guests will have data in the system. Then get Donovan and your team onto the City accountancy firms, looking for a missing employee that matches a photo-fit version. Clean it up so they don't know why- no need to spook the horses into bolting for cover. Keep the circumstances of this quiet, and allow the demolition go ahead. Let the pathologist confirm the diagnosis about cause and time of death. Mark it as suspicious, but unproven. I'll try to dig up some more data." With that, he turned on his heel and strode away.
Lestrade exchanged glances with John. The consulting detective was in a strange mood, and his words were not the usual deductive thread but rather a set of orders, issued in an authoritative manner.
John shrugged. "Don't blame me. He's not my responsibility anymore."
That made the DI frown. "Yeah, and that worries me. Nobody is keeping an eye on him these days."