The Devonshire Squires Chapter Eleven:
On Monday morning, the receptionist at Shad Sanderson Bank's desk at Tower 42 actually remembered him. "Oh, Mister Holmes!" She blurted out, "I was here when you came before…well, before you were famous and all that." Then she giggled and whispered, "Are you in disguise? I sort of expected…you know, the coat." Then she giggled again. "And the hat; I loved the hat."
Sherlock looked at her out of the corner of his eye as if she were some sort of dangerous creature, before picking up the badge that had been prepared for him and was lying on the counter. She was still flustered, but managed to get out "I'll call up to Mister Wilkes' office to let him know you're on your way." He felt her eyes on his back, as he took the badge, stuffed it into a pocket and then walked through the glass gate in the security entrance, and then onto the lift lobby.
Yesterday, he'd "borrowed" Lestrade's motorcycle and swapped the bike's number plate with one of the four he kept in the bolt hole. He'd done this years before, when dodging the cameras. Protected by the anonymous helmet and the leather jacket liberated from Lestrade's lock-up, he felt exhilarated by his ability to move across London without provoking any unwanted attention from his brother and his minions.
So, while an unknowing Lestrade spent his Sunday doing household chores, Sherlock used the Norton to drive down Tottenham Court Road to the electronic discounters. He stopped at the fourth one along, only removing his helmet once he was past the range of the CCTV camera. He bought a new phone, using cash- a legacy from his time of stashing money in a wide variety of locations to ensure his movements could not be traced. This was used to access the internet, get Wilkes' phone number and make the call to set this meeting up. He was spared the pain of actually having to speak to the banker, just left a message on his voice mail. He worded it in such a way that Wilkes would not be able to refuse.
The next morning, he waited in the conduit to his bolt hole. Behind the grill, he listened for the set of footsteps he would recognise. Once Lestrade was in the car and on his way to New Scotland Yard, he was back on the Norton and heading into the City of London.
As Sherlock was being shown into Wilkes' office by the secretary, he decided to short circuit the usual rituals. "No, you can't take my coat. I have no need for coffee, water or any other beverage. What I do need is privacy, so leave now, and shut the door on your way out." In the face of such a barrage of rudeness, the secretary scuttled out. Without being asked, he sat down in the chair opposite a slightly startled Sebastian, who looked like he'd put on a bit of weight over the nearly four years since Sherlock had last seen him.
The man's familiar self-satisfied smirk was firmly in place, though. "Still a little short on the old social skills, I see. And you're looking rather scruffy these days- had a relapse?"
Sherlock looked down at Lestrade's worn leather jacket, then rubbed his chin and gave a sardonic smile. "What's wrong with a bit of designer stubble? I've seen you in far worse."
That provoked a waspish retort from Wilkes. "Where's your friend – that blogger of yours?"
"Dispense with the pleasantries, Sebastian. I am here for one reason- and fortunately for you, it isn't to tell your Chairman or your wife about what you've been up to while in the Middle East."
For the briefest of moments, Sherlock saw a shadow of fear pass over the well-fed face. The banker's smile vanished to be replaced with a hard look.
"Making enemies again? I wouldn't push your luck, if I were you."
"You're not me, which makes this so much easier. I need something from you- a name and an introduction. Isn't that what old buddies do for one another? Networking and all that." He gave a fake smile, which he knew the banker would dislike.
"Who are you after?"
"Not one of your clients, so don't panic. No, it's more what you and your lot get up to in your private lives, when you're off duty. Having a bit of fun, letting off steam and all those ridiculous euphemisms you give to activities not far removed from school boy idiocy."
Wilkes drawled, "…such as?"
"BKB and MMA*. I know there's a City league, and it's right up your street. You've enjoyed seeing other people get hurt for a long time."
Sebastian shifted in his seat. Sherlock did not let him look away, holding his gaze in as forceful a glare as he could muster. Both men could remember a certain incident that happened at university. Neither decided it was time to resurrect a discussion about it.
"So, let's say I did know something about that. Who are you after?"
"I'm not after anyone. Just an introduction to one of the promoters. I fancy a go, myself."
Wilkes' eyes widened. "Really? With you being, well, nearly a celebrity these days, I'd have thought it was a little risky. MMA can be rather brutal, even though these guys are not professionals. And bare knuckle is not a game for amateurs."
Sherlock gave him a wolfish smile. "I've learned a lot over the past few years. I'd like to keep in practice, and no legal martial arts competition gives me the opportunity to really let loose. So, when can I meet your contact?"
Wilkes seemed to think the idea over for a moment, then asked with just a tinge of sarcasm, "Any good at fighting? Last time…"
"Shut up." There was more than a hint of menace in Sherlock's tone. For the past two years, he'd used that tone to enforce his authority as Lars Sigurson, and he'd not been afraid to back it up with physical violence. There were advantages to being undercover as a criminal. Deniability was key- he worked for no one, and no rules applied. "That was then; this is now. I'd be more than happy to use my new skills on you."
Sebastian raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay- just asking. I need to know which promoter to approach. If you're any good, then I happen to know there is a vacancy on one team."
Sherlock leaned forward in the chair, with a predatory look. "Alexander Robbs, a forensic accountant with RGL Consultants of Devonshire Square. Or should I say, formerly of?"
Wilkes' eyes widened.
Sherlock's smile was timed to perfection. He had to make Wilkes willing to co-operate, but not be frightened enough to warn the promoter. "I presume you were there, if that name rings a bell. So, what's the charge against you to be- accessory to murder? Failing to report a death? Illegal gambling? Or maybe you were one of the spectators indulging in illegal substances?"
"There is no way to prove any of that; I have an alibi."
"How convenient for you". Sherlock leaned back in this chair, knowing he'd won. "Well, actually, you needn't have bothered. I know something that the spectators and probably even the promoters don't know. Robbs wasn't killed by his opponent. He had an existing condition that meant his neck could break at the slightest fall. He's not important. But giving up the names of those who were running the show is important…to me."
The banker's shoulders visibly lost some of their tension. "Look, Holmes, I can only make an introduction. It's not up to me. You'd have to prove yourself to the promoter- they don't take just anybody."
"When can you do this? The sooner, the better. You know I am not a patient man."
Wilkes shrugged. "It's a fight night this Friday- four matches. The three teams put up their in-form fighters, plus there's a novice bout. I'll set something up for you before that with the promoter- if he's interested, he will call you and you can meet him, probably at a gym he uses out near Canary Wharf. If he thinks you're good enough, he'll give you a go. If you win the novice fight, and do it in style, then one of the teams might bid for you- he gets a cut for introducing you. But, I should warn you- it won't be easy. Even if you get him to sponsor you, the opposition always put in one of their best fighters against you- to weed out the time-wasters."
Sherlock fixed him with a steely gaze. "I'm not wasting your time or mine, Wilkes."
Sebastian returned the hostile look. "Good. Then whatever happens, we're quits on that business in the Middle East. You won't come in here threatening blackmail again."
"Blackmail? Hardly. I don't know for certain anything actually happened. Only the guilty look on your face suggests otherwise. But, if I am busy with the Fight Club, then I won't go investigating further, will I?"
Sebastian stood up. "Leave your number with my secretary on your way out."
Sherlock nodded and left without a backward glance. While waiting for the lift, he realised he was clenching his fists in anticipation.
Author's Note: *BBK = bare knuckle boxing. MMA= Mixed martial arts
And if you want to know more about what happened in Cambridge, that neither Wilkes nor Sherlock want to talk about, then look out for a Christmas special from me, in the Ex Files, with a new chapter called "Extubate". Expect a certain Victor Trevor to make a cameo appearance.