Devonshire Squires Chapter Sixteen
As he drove into the parking garage under the flat, Greg's eye was caught by the yellow note stuck on the dashboard. It was there to remind him of something that he'd forgotten for the last three nights, when he'd finally managed to get home after yet another late night session about the most recent robbery by the Waters Gang. Somehow, despite all the meticulous efforts of his team, the second case against them had collapsed three months before, and on Tuesday the last of the burglars' accomplices still held on remand was released. Yesterday and the day before, he'd been hauled over the coals by the Chief Superintendent of Detectives about the recent bank job- it was clearly the Waters Gang- yet NO evidence had been found when the police got to the crime scene. Tonight had been his turn to give his team a blistering assessment of their collective stupidity.
He hated bollocking anyone; it wasn't his management style- but the third failure in eighteen months was just eating a hole in the clear up record of his team. It was bad enough to realise that when Sherlock was away, he'd not managed to close anything like as many cases. That made him and team look bad. And even when he and Donovan had been praised for their recent work with the Tilbury case, it wasn't their case originally. You're only as good as your latest failure.
So he let some of his frustration out when he called the team together at the close of business on Friday. "I know you're all thinking about enjoying the weekend. But, I want you to spend some time trying to figure out how we're going to catch these thieving bastards. The Waters Gang has the best paid criminal lawyers in the country. God knows, with the hauls they've been bringing in, they can afford it. But, that's no excuse for giving them the keys to the cell doors by shoddy police work. So, I want your ideas on my desk, Monday morning."
He watched Sally Donovan's face harden. If anything, she was more cross than he was about the most recent fiasco. He figured if he gave them grief tonight, by Monday the team would have recovered their equilibrium and come up with something new.
As he reversed into his numbered slot, took the car out of gear, put the handbrake on and got out, he nearly forgot again to take the note with him, only catching it out of the corner of his eye as he started to lock the car. The key fob was working now, unlike last Saturday night, which was a relief. The batteries for it cost a lot for what they were- and it would need a trip to the police garage to get it sorted.
Greg reached into the car and pulled the stickie out, slapping it onto his coat's left sleeve. Better sort it now instead of being reminded yet again when he tried and failed to pull the drawer of the kitchen cupboard open to get a teaspoon out to stir his morning coffee. The metal runners were not working properly, and he needed to apply a bit of WD40 to get it open again, but had discovered that his can was empty. Tomorrow and Sunday he really didn't want to have to go shopping at the hardware store. Greg knew that he had a nearly full one in the lock-up where he kept his motorbike- he just had to remember to take it upstairs with him.
So, he walked across the car park to the wall of lock-ups. As he bent down to insert the key into the lock, Greg wondered when he'd get the chance to take the Norton out again. One of the frustrations about late November weather was that it meant he didn't really get the opportunity to enjoy it much. All too often it was either pissing with rain or the roads were slick with black ice- hardly an attractive prospect. He promised to look at the weather report tonight, and choose when it would be best. He fancied a spin this weekend; it could help clear his mind.
He flipped up the cantilevered door and reached in to the right wall to flip the light switch.
And then stopped, looking at the blank space where his beloved Norton motorbike was supposed to be.
The air exploded with cursing. Some motherfucker had the gall to steal his bike. HIS bike- a detective's bike! He marched into the little room and glared at the empty space. That's when he saw the license number plate, leaning neatly on the shelf half way up the wall. And the bastard had the BALLS to put a new plate on it, too. That annoyed him even more. It would be harder to trace if ANPR couldn't be used. He groaned in frustration. The damn bike was a collector's item and if it had been stolen to order, it could be halfway out of the country by now, or even gone for good, as he tried to remember the last time he'd been into the lock up and seen it there.
It was definitely after Sherlock had returned. Greg had come to think of that as "before and after"- such a water-shed moment that it penetrated his conscious calendar. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Of all the buggering things to have to do tonight, filling in a stolen vehicle form at the nearest police station on St Anne's Road was not one he relished. Friday night nightmare- drunks, domestics, and to make matters worse, a Friday night football match at White Hart Lane would be complicating the local constabulary's lives.
Maybe it would be better just to go in tomorrow. No need to add a couple of hours of nuisance to his already horrid day. He started to turn back to the light switch, fumbling in his pocket for the key again, when the yellow stickie note on his coat sleeve accused him of neglect. Sighing again, he remembered the original reason for coming into the lockup. Greg returned to the tool box on the shelf, rummaging in it to find the spray can of WD40.
It, too, was missing. What thief takes a spray can of oil? He was sure he had one down here. Maybe it was in the metal locker at the back, where he kept his leathers and helmet.
Greg opened it and stared in disbelief. The helmet and the jacket were missing. The trousers were still there, as was the pair of biker boots. What thief takes a jacket and helmet, but leaves the rest behind?
One who plans on riding the bike out of the garage, wearing what someone would recognise as going with that bike. Someone who didn't come with his own gear. Someone who knew him well enough to know that the stuff would fit him, or at least the jacket and helmet, but not the trousers or boots.
Realisation dawned. Who do I know that has shoulders nearly as broad as mine, but who is a lot slimmer? The trousers would fall off Sherlock. And the younger man had big feet- a size eleven- compared to Greg's nine and a half. It had always amused him that despite Sherlock's genius, Greg's helmet fit him like it was made for him. "I always thought you had a swelled head; guess it's just metaphorical rather than physical," he had teased. The last nail in the circumstantial evidence was that unlike a common-or-garden variety motorcycle thief, Sherlock had form when it came to 'borrowing' Greg's bike.
"You bastard." This time, he really meant it. Just Sherlock's MO, too. While the whole damn world was out looking for the man, thinking he was lying low in some unknown bolt-hole, he'd just "borrow" Greg's bike and swan about town, totally incognito.
So, what to do with this information? In theory, he should call Mycroft now, so he could get his people to work; the security teams would be able to scour the footage of the cameras nearest the flat and eventually get the bike's new plates. Then the man-hunt would begin. He sighed at the thought. Mycroft had form as much as Sherlock did. In their current situation, Greg knew that the elder Holmes would be trying to get his brother into a secure institution "for his own good."
That thought made Greg hesitate from calling. He didn't really want to side with Mycroft, given past experience. He'd always tried to see Sherlock's point of view when things went hay-wired. Maybe he should phone John Watson instead? He started to scroll down his phone list for the new number, but then stopped. While the doctor had been the go-to-person for Sherlock in the past, it was clear that their relationship was not yet back to normal.
He groaned in frustration- neither he nor anyone else of Sherlock's old support network seemed able to make the him slow down and talk sense. As daft as John Watson was acting these days about Sherlock, Greg thought that Sherlock was being just as bad. No, actually worse. Watson had his fiancé to keep him on an even keel. Since Sherlock had got back, no one seemed able to reach the man. Watching his behaviour at Tilbury, and then again at Fort Street, it was like he was still on some undercover assignment. It wasn't hard for Greg to imagine how Sherlock must have been acting when he was taking down yet another part of Moriarty's network. It's like he's not come home yet.
He found himself staring at the dark greasy stain on the lockup floor. He'd spilled the oil years ago when stripping down the engine, and never been able to shift the patch from the cement. The sight of it brought his thoughts back to practical things. Greg figured that Sherlock would want to keep using the Norton- and that meant he'd try to get it back to the garage sometime tonight. Greg was most likely to want to ride it on the weekend, and Sherlock wouldn't want to risk him finding it missing. He switched on his phone and flicked through to a weather report. The optimum time for a ride would be tomorrow morning, so he guessed that Sherlock would have seen that, deduced the risk and would definitely try to get it back tonight.
There was a folding metal chair in the back of the lock-up, because he'd gotten to the stage that he needed to sit down when getting the trousers and boots on. He opened the chair up and positioned it right where the bike should be parked. He then found the little two bar heater he used to keep the room warm when he was working on the bike, plugging it in and watching the coils start to glow red. Greg then closed the door, switched off the light and felt his way to the chair. Sitting down, he crossed his arms. I'll wait all night if I have to, Sherlock.