Devonshire Squires Chapter Thirteen
"You're sure?"
He gave him a look, a little uncomfortable with the idea that Lestrade would question his judgment. "Yes, I'm sure."
"Proof?"
That earned him a glare from John. "Don't ask me to point to a frayed cuff on his left hand shirt sleeve as if it meant something. I'm not…" He looked down, trying to control a little flare of anger. "I don't work like that." Standing in front of Greg's desk, he put his arms onto the back of the chair and leaned forward. "Colonel Hayter is a straight up guy. Last I heard, saving lives is not a crime."
Greg gave a little snort. "Didn't mean it to sound like I don't believe you. So, let's hear the full story."
Pointedly, John pulled out the chair and sat down. He didn't need to pace about the office, all swirling energy and rapid-fire speech. He kept his hands quiet, clasped together in his lap. He wasn't going to compete.
"He explained what happened to Robbs, and it was…" John couldn't stop the tiny hesitation before continuing "…exactly as described. He was hit, fell, and his neck was broken even before he hit the ground. Colonel Hayter examined him, realised what happened, and stopped the fight. The promoters stepped in, got everyone to leave the same way they got in. They told Hayter they would report the injury, and he was to leave with the spectators and the other fighters. I have no reason to believe he wasn't telling the truth."
Lestrade was leaning back in his chair, flipping a pencil casually through his fingers. "That's interesting; how the hell did they get in and out of a sealed building? Did you ask him that?"
John narrowed his eyes. "I'm not stupid, Greg. Of course, I asked. One of the lift shafts is up against an outside wall. At ground level, there's a maintenance entrance into the service lift. They covered it up with a sheet of metal torched to look like it was welded over the entrance. It's held in place with magnets that they can turn off remotely. Then it's straight into the lift, which is hooked up to car batteries on the roof of the lift car, and down they go into the car park. You can send one of your men to check it out; Hayter's not lying."
"So, what's your honest Samaritan doing at a Fight Club in the first place?"
John lifted his chin a little. "Making sure people didn't kill each other isn't good enough for you? Okay, I'll tell you what he told us. He left the Army and went into the City, for a firm called TradeRisks, where he's been the manager running the back office. He's about to retire, finishing at Christmas. TradeRisk's back office is in Devonshire Square. That's the same area where Alex Robbs worked, in case you've forgotten." John heard the slightly snide tone in his voice, and realised who in reminded him of.
He stopped and drew a breath. "Sorry, Greg, of course you remember. Anyway, turns out that Hayter was walking into work one morning when up the pavement toward him comes Robb and another bloke, Simon Waterman, who worked at the same place- that accounting firm. The other guy just keeled over- passed out and crumpled to the pavement right in front of Hayter."
Greg stopped twiddling the pencil and sat up in his chair. He made a note on the pad on the desk.
John continued. "So, Hayter's instincts kick in and he goes to help the guy, who wakes up after a couple of seconds. The Colonel checks him over and tells Robb to call an ambulance- his friend's got a fractured skull- not from the fall, but something that happened earlier."
Greg wrote something more on the pad.
John tried but couldn't make out the writing, because it was upside down and in an illegible scrawl. He continued, "Waterman doesn't want to go to hospital- just says that he slipped in the shower three days ago, but Hayter insists. When the ambulance comes, Robb says he's going to follow in a taxi to the hospital, and Hayter decides to go with him." John gave a wry smile. "You can take a surgeon out of the operating theatre, but some things never change- he wanted to know if his diagnosis was right."
The DI looked up from his note taking. "And presumably he was right- and the injury was from a Fight Club incident." He gave it that slight upward inflection that made the statement into a question.
"Yeah, that's what Hayter said. Turns out that Waterman had been hit so hard he'd got a depression fracture that was swelling, and there was a slow bleed in there as well. That's when Robb tells him about the Fight Club. If he hadn't gotten to the hospital, his friend would have gone into a coma and died."
Greg's eyes widened a bit. "Then he's pretty damned lucky to have keeled over in front of Hayter."
John nodded. "When Waterman comes around after emergency surgery, Hayter's there alongside Robb. He reads the two guys the riot act, saying it was irresponsible of them to be involved in a fight with no medic present to keep them safe. Robb realised that Hayter had just saved his friend's life, and asks him to come to the next fight to talk to the promoters. He did, and then they talked him into coming to the matches and making sure it was safe."
Greg's brow furrowed. "So, he just joins in an illegal fight scene? That's abetting a crime, or at least enabling others to do so."
John shook his head, laughing. "You sound just like me- that's what I said to him! But his answer made me re-think. The promoters couldn't ask a doctor to take on the job without jeopardising his licence. A retired doctor though would be perfect. So, they talked him into it. He wouldn't take any pay. He says he wasn't involved in any of the gambling- not his thing- and seeing the house that he's selling down in Reigate, I'd say he's certainly not short of a bob or two."
"Did he say where the next fight's going to be, now that the Fort Street venue's being bull-dozed?"
John shook his head. "He quit. Told them he wasn't prepared to keep attending; Robbs' death was sort of a wake-up call. In any case, he's only going to be in London for another couple of weeks, so he told them not to tell him about where they were moving to. He called it his don't ask, don't tell strategy."
Greg was twiddling with the pencil again. "So, in your view, there's no way to charge Hayter with anything."
John shook his head. "He's not going to be found guilty of anything criminal by a jury."
Greg sighed. "Did he give you the name of a promoter?"
"Nope. Said the fighters all went by silly monikers; you know, The Sandman, The Devonshire Destroyer, that was Robbs' name, by the way. What he did say is that the teams were usually location based. Mentioned the Devonshire Squires for example and the Acton Action Men. The Promoters' names weren't mentioned to Hayter, just introduced as 'the team manager'. They're all trying to protect their identities because they don't want to screw up their professional careers. This is just a bit of action on the side."
Greg put the pencil down. "So, Sherlock was right. No murder, no real crime worth pursuing. We have no real proof of illegal gambling, and the only lead, your fingerprint, turns out to be put on the victim's body in an act of good will. I'd say this case is closed, wouldn't you?"
"What does Sherlock think?" There, he'd said it. The shadow of the Consulting Detective had been hanging over their conversation. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so he asked, "Has he made any progress?"
"Haven't a clue. He hasn't been in touch since you and I last saw him at Fort Street."
That bothered John. "You'll call him with this news?"
"No way to reach him. He's left his phone behind."
John was puzzling that one out. He'd never known Sherlock to be without his phone.
The DI pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was hoping that he'd been in touch with you." Greg threw the pencil on the desk in frustration. "This is just so…wrong. You, not knowing anything. I can understand him keeping Mycroft out of it, but you. The whole damn thing is just a mess."
John thought about it. Then, coolly, he gave an exaggerated shrug and got up from the chair. "Not my problem anymore. He clearly doesn't want to work with me, and he can't be bothered to tell me what is going on now that I'm no further use to him."
He was half way to the door by the time Greg was on his feet and growling, "Now hold on one bloody minute, John."
The doctor turned back at the door. "Just leave it, Detective Inspector. No crime, no further interest- you said it."
The door was half way open by the time Lestrade came up behind John and reached around him, to slam it shut. The metal slats of the blind rattled against the glass. "You're going nowhere; not until you get something straight."
John didn't like being intimidated and Lestrade was using his height advantage, crowding into John's personal space. He snapped, "I said, LEAVE IT! You have no reason to keep me here, and I've done my bit. Should have listened to Sherlock and kept out of this entirely. It was a total waste of time and energy. We're done here." He reached for the door handle again.
"Dammit, John. Stop this! I swear…" Greg leaned on the door, using his weight to keep it shut as John tried to open it. He could see that Lestrade was angry, but then so was John. It was a stand-off.
The DI swore again. "Christ Almighty, I should just handcuff you two together again and leave you to work it out."
John turned around to face him. "Work what out? There's nothing to work out. He buggered off and pranced around the world for two years being the world's only undercover consulting detective. Then he swans back in here as if nothing ever happened. Adding insult to injury, he manipulates me into saying that I've forgiven him, making it into one big joke at my expense. Then he actually deigns to say 'sorry', as if he could pat me on the head and make it all better. Only, no it's actually worse. He doesn't want to work together again, which he makes abundantly clear, rubbing my nose it over the past three weeks- even to the extent of humiliating me at the crime scene on Saturday. I'm no use to him now- just a burden to be pulled out of a fire. I'm beginning to understand all what he wants from me is to make him feel like the hero again. Well, I'm not going to do it. And he knows it, which is why he wants nothing further to do with me." By the time he finished, John was shouting at Greg.
During the tirade, Lestrade had backed away until he could lean up against the side of his desk. His arms were crossed – but not defensively, rather in a gesture that matched the patient expression on his face.
"You done?"
"Yeah, I am. With both of you. I won't cross your threshold again, Detective Inspector. And if Sherlock ever bothers to get in touch with you, tell him that he's right off our Christmas card list."
"Go on, then. Run home to your fiancé. Snuggle up to the comfort of the woman who loves you. After all, you're just so much better at dealing with emotions than Sherlock is, aren't you? All grown up and mature, ready to make the big commitment to settling down and raising a family, without a backward glance to the man who gave you the chance to put yourself back together again after Afghanistan."
"How DARE you?!" John exploded.
"I dare because I happen to care about Sherlock- and about you, too. You're both idiots. Only as self-centred as he is, at least he has more of an excuse. It's not easy for him to make friends."
"He doesn't have friends, hasn't he told you that? He's certainly told me." John gave the word the same disdain that Sherlock had used on Dartmoor.
Greg just snorted. "Oh, and you just are so much better at it! Well, let me remind you that I'm not the one who for almost two years refused to return my calls to you. I'm not the one who moved away and tried to cold shoulder every overture of friendship or comfort that was on offer to you. Nope, I'm not the one who turned down every invitation to have a pint and catch up on how life was treating you. Even if you hate my guts, I'm not the one who dropped every single one of the other people who cared for you- Mrs Hudson, Molly, even Mike Stamford, one of your oldest friends."
He drew a breath and then continued in a quieter tone, "Sherlock left you behind, he left all of us behind to keep us alive, to protect us. At some considerable personal cost, which you haven't even had the decency to ask him about. You, on the other hand, you dropped us without a good reason. If it weren't for Mary, you'd be more alone than he is."
"This is outrageous. I'm not going to stand here and be lectured at by you."
"I never thought you were a coward. But if running away lets you pretend that this is all someone else's fault, well, I can't stop you."
John shut the door again and turned to face Lestrade. "You'd better explain that statement. I don't take too kindly to being called a coward."
Greg stood up and dropped his arms by his side. "Be careful, John. You think getting married will solve everything- fill up that hole in you. It won't. I've been there, done that, got the scars to show for it with my ex. No one can live up to that kind of pressure, not Mary, not even Sherlock."
"You're still beating him up about leaving you behind. Because you don't want to admit that you needed him more than he needed you. So, you smash him up on the first occasion he meets you, and throw Mary in his face. And he's paying the price. I've known Sherlock when he was so far down and out that it was a miracle he didn't succeed in an overdose. And he's worse now, worse than he's ever been. But you don't seem to give a damn. He's been missing for over sixty hours. No one can find him. All I can think, all I can hope right now, is that he's holed up somewhere bingeing on drugs. It's a horrible thought, but at least it would mean he's alive. You know him, John. Just put your bloody pride away and think about it."
John looked away from Lestrade. "Yeah, that's true. I know him." As he opened the door and started through, he muttered, "You're right. I can't stop thinking. I really, really wish I could."