Devonshire Squires Chapter Twenty Two

"So, he was right."

John glanced up from where he was kneeling beside the body at Mary who had pronounced this judgment.

"Who was right?" He was still disturbed by the sight of his fiancé standing at a crime scene.

"Sherlock. Last Friday, he told Lestrade that he was still working on the case because he thought something was going on with the fight club, even though the police file was officially closed."

John stood up but looked back at the dead man. The knife wounds were dead centre; his heart would have been shredded by the repeated thrusts of the blade, and the pool of blood below him showed the cause of death clearly. There were two Crime Scene Examiners working the area around the body, alongside the City of London's Medical Examiner.

Lestrade's call had come just as they were settling down into bed after watching Thursday late night telly. They had tomorrow off because they'd agreed to do the Saturday shift at the clinic. The DI was brief and to the point. "Sherlock's still not answering his phone, but I think this one is connected to the Fort Street death and to Bradshaw, too. The City of London Police DI on the case called us in because of those. I know it's late, but can you come?"

Mary heard his side of the conversation, when he started to prevaricate.

"I don't know, Lestrade. it's late. I spent hours last night looking for Sherlock - and came up empty. Paid for it today by falling asleep during a consultation; my patient was not amused. And Sherlock hasn't answered any of my latest texts either." He didn't tell Lestrade about his fruitless journey to Peckham. Despite it being after ten o'clock, there'd been nobody home when he'd got there. He'd never felt quite so frustrated. Having finally decided to try to find Sherlock, John was beginning to realise that it was not going to be easy. And that made him feel even more anxious- and foolish. Served him right, charging off like some madman thinking he could make a difference. Lestrade had also failed to find Bradshaw when he'd arrived this morning, nor was his luck any better where the guy worked, according to Mary, whom Greg had called at the clinic to update them. There was an alert out for the guy, but the DI didn't hold out much hope.

She just leaned over, plucked the phone out of his hand and said to Greg

"We're both on their way as soon as you text the address." She ended the call and stared him down. He crossed his arms and started to speak, "I'm n…"

She interrupted. "John, we're going. Sherlock or no Sherlock, we've helped Lestrade figure stuff out so far, and people are dying now, so we can't say 'no thanks; we'd rather get some sleep tonight.' Where's your sense of civic duty, Captain Watson?"

Now standing next to a dead body at one o'clock in the morning, he wondered why it still bothered him that he hadn't been able to convince Mary to stay at home. "It's a murder, there'll be lots of blood" he'd argued. In the taxi on the way to Plantation House on Fenchurch Street, she'd just looked at him like he was crazy, and then explained how her aid worker days had put in front of her a conveyor belt of injured, wounded and dying people. "They weren't soldiers, John. If you want horror, try to imagine the kind of wounds you dealt with but put them on women or old and frail grandparents. And then there were the kids." She had looked at him, cool as a cucumber. "Innocent civilian casualties can out-shock anything you had to deal with. A body at a crime scene? You have to be kidding if you think that's going to bother me." He'd shut up after that.

When they arrived, Lestrade introduced them to DCI Forrester of the City Police as "consultants" helping on the Fort Street case. John felt a pang of guilt, and muttered under his breath. "Nope, he's still the only consulting detective in the world." Forrester didn't hear or react, but Mary gave his arm a squeeze. Forrester then turned away from the body toward a tall elderly man standing just behind him at a bank of desks, looking at a computer screen. "Mister Cunningham, do you know the victim?"

John did a double-take. Cunningham. That was the name that was mentioned on the 999 recording, something about the Cunninghams being compromised if the police found Bradshaw and he talked. He and Mary exchanged glances. She raised a finger to her lips- a gesture to keep what they knew to each other at this stage. John nodded- it made sense to gather more data. If Lestrade let the cat out of the bag, that would be different. But until he did, they would play along.

Cunningham was old- in his late seventies, if John had to guess. He had a strong, deep-lined, heavy eyed face. His frown at the question was accompanied by a strained nod. "Yes. He's my driver. His name is William Kirwan. I've known him for…" he hesitated for a moment, before continuing "…almost a decade." He seemed to be in a bit of state of shock.

Forrester said more gently, "Can you tell us what happened here?"

"I was working late in my office." The old man gestured vaguely upwards. "We have two floors in this building, and several more spread around the rest of the City. Alec, my son, was working, too, with me on the next floor up, along with a half dozen others."

Over the old man's shoulder, John could see the men, who had been herded into a glass-walled meeting room, where they were being interviewed by a couple of officers.

Lestrade asked the obvious question that had been on John's mind, too. "Why were you all working so late?"

The old man looked slightly askance at the question and then snapped, "Because some of us have to work hard to make a living, Detective Inspector. Cunningham Lindsey is a respected firm, but claims management is one of the most competitive businesses going. We were working on a big fraud investigation for a new client…burning the midnight oil is something I expect from my people."

The DI was making a note in his little book. "If you were all working up there, was this floor empty?"

"Yes."

"Lights out?"

"When I got down here with Alec, the lights were off. We turned them on and found Kirwan."

"And you said to the first police officer on the scene that you saw a burglar in here."

"Not here, I didn't. I saw someone running from the building; I was standing at the window overlooking the street. My son saw him going down the stairwell, apparently. You can ask him about it."

"What did he look like?"

"I couldn't see very well. Just from above and behind. Sort of an average sized guy, dark hair, casually dressed, one of those anorak things with the fake fur hoods."

Mary chipped in unexpectedly. "Why do you think he was a burglar; why not a murderer?"

Cunningham looked at her with a perplexed expression. "Well, we didn't know then that Kirwan was dying."

John realised where Mary's question was headed, so he added, "Yes, but the sight of a person on a stairwell, or one going out the front door- this is a shared office building, Even at midnight, there could be people with legitimate reasons for being here"

Lestrade finished the thought, "So, why assume he was a thief?"

A young man came out of the meeting room, walking with power and presence toward them. "I can answer that question, Detective Inspector."

The old man nodded. "This is my son, Alec."

The younger Cunningham was as tall as his father, but more robustly built, with broad shoulders. Under short blond hair, he had a broad, high forehead. As he approached, John saw he was wearing a navy blue suit- very fashionable, expensive, probably tailor-made. A glint of gold cufflinks and Italian leather shoes completed the picture of flash City clothing. But somehow it looked incongruous on a man with the physique of a rugby front row forward.

Alec wore a bright almost cheerful expression. "The answer is that I assumed he was an Acton man, sneaking in to do a revenge raid on our premises, in retaliation for our prank against their offices last week."

Lestrade frowned. "Prank? What do you mean?"

Alec gave him a smile. "Gamesmanship. It's just something we do to competitors- they break in and steal a few knick-knacks to show us they were here, and then we do the same. I've got a pair of deal tombstones* that were lifted a fortnight ago off the Barak Beevour firm at Bedford House; they're part of the Acton crew."

Lestrade looked startled. "You mean, you break and enter into each other's premises and steal?"

As Alec laughed, the old man shrugged. "It's just school-boy high jinks. And our Compliance people accept it as a way of testing our systems and security. We need to do that to protect ourselves and our clients from the real criminals. It's a matter of honour to only take something personal- a photo, memento or the like. Nothing of value is ever stolen."

John looked back at the body. "Tell that to the dead man."

Alec Cunningham sniffed. "Well, obviously, I was wrong. But you asked what I thought at the time, and that's what I thought. It was only later that we discovered the body."

DCI Forrester was watching the exchange. He turned to the old man. "Do you know why your driver was on this floor? Surely he'd have gone up to your office or be waiting in his car?"

"Because I had phoned him to pick something up from the reception desk- a late delivery that I had been e mailed about. I planned to read it in the car home. I live in North Barnet, so often do work in the back of the car. That's the whole point of having a driver- adds another productive hour of work at both ends of the day."

John heard the sound of a mobile phone-he recognised the ring tone as Mary's. The Good, Bad and the Ugly. It usually made him smile- but not this time. He watched as she mouthed an apology to the men and then walked away down the office toward the stairs.

Unperturbed by her departure, Forrester lifted his pen from the notebook. "Has anyone looked for the document you asked for? In fact, can anyone identify anything that is missing? If this supposed burglar was interrupted, then maybe he stole the document you needed, and was discovered by the driver."

The old man pointed behind him to the bank of computers he had been standing at when the DI first came over. "That's what I was trying to determine. The list of mail room deliveries is up on that screen. Unfortunately, there is no record of the document ever arriving. So, I don't think it could be stolen."

The DCI scowled, and then turned back to Alec. "So, who are the suspects if this is a prank gone wrong? I need names."

The younger man shrugged. "Well, that's not easy. Normally, the team that makes the raid leaves something that identifies which one has been successful. The Acton crew normally leave a playing card, an Ace. But, we've not found anything. Perhaps Dad's driver interrupted before he could lift anything, or leave a signature. I've given the constables a list of ten law firms that might be involved. Even then, although we know more or less the companies that are on the Acton tag team, we don't know names. That's the whole point- you can't be tracked down. Anonymity is important to maintain. So, I'm afraid I can't help you there."

Lestrade butted in. "Gentlemen, I am trying to see if there are any links between this and another crime that took place two weeks ago. Are these pranks linked to a Fight Club by any chance?"

The young man snorted. "You watch too much TV. There's no such thing as a 'fight club'. That's a figment of Brad Pitt's imagination and some Hollywood producers."

John crossed his arms. "So you don't know anything about what happened just down the road from here last Friday night?"

The two men looked blank, so John completed the picture. "A building under construction was used as a venue for an illegal fight, and a man's neck was broken. We've got the evidence; a call to the Ambulance service was recorded."

Alec rolled his eyes. "I haven't a clue what some jerks might have gotten up to last Friday night."

Forrester threw the young man a sceptical look. "So, you won't mind telling us where you were last Friday night?"

The older Cunningham spoke up. "He was with me. It was his mother's birthday, so he came to dinner."

Forrester didn't give up, looking hard at Alec. "Your alibi will be checked, young man."

Lestrade backed him up. "Mister Cunningham, can you really be sure that your son didn't leave the party and come back into the City to join in on that fight?"

Alec laughed. "Yes, he can be sure, because I spent the night. And don't try to make the boys' little sorties against another firm as anything other than just a bunch of testosterone driven lads out to have some fun."

"Tell that to your father's driver- or rather, his family." Lestrade looked back at the old man, who looked distressed. "Has he got family? I'll need details so we can contact them."

"A sister; he wasn't married. William used to complain that with the hours I kept him working, he'd never get around to a social life or a girl friend." He sighed. "I'll get the details- they're in a personnel file in the third office along." He walked off.

"And, if you don't mind, Detective Inspector, I need to keep checking to make absolutely nothing was taken." Alec turned away, too.

John could see that Forrester was still suspicious. He called over one of the PCs in the meeting room. "Accompany Mister Cunningham here while he does an inventory- he's checking if anything has been stolen." He then called out to Alec, "we will be processing this crime scene for the rest of the night- and possibly into tomorrow morning, when the computer guys will get here. I'm afraid that it won't be 'business as usual' tomorrow; at least this end of the floor needs to be kept clear of workers. But make sure your Head of IT is here- we will need his assistance to get into the system."

The young man stopped walking and snapped. "Our computer files are private; client confidentiality has to be preserved. Unless the regulators agree, you can't block our access. How the hell are we supposed to finish the project if we can't get to essential files? We have fiduciary duties to our clients."

Lestrade interjected, "Aren't you supposed to have contingency plans? What would you do if there was a flood or a fire? Business continuity and all that."

That earned him a scowl. "We'd have to move to a different building. And that's not terribly convenient."

"Yes, I suppose that murder is that, but rather more inconvenient for the victim, wouldn't you say?" Lestrade's sarcasm was clear.

Forrester smirked at the exchange. Then everyone's attention was diverted as the one of the crime scene examiners called out, "Over here, sirs- found something." The elder Cunningham came out of the office in a hurry at the commotion, carrying a file. As the men converged on the body, Mary came back into the room. She was practically fizzing with excitement, so John waited for her.

She came up close and whispered, "That was George Hayter. He's just back from his holiday and got my message on his machine. He's passed on a phone number for Simon Waterman. We can talk to him and find out about Sherlock at the fight last week. Maybe he'll know where the next one is going to be held."

"John…" It was Lestrade, who gestured them both over to the body. "They've found something on the body. It was caught up in the zip of his jacket pocket."

The CSE had bagged what looked to be a corner torn off of a piece of paper, which he handed to Forrester, who scanned it quickly, and then passed it to Lestrade. John and Mary bracketed him as they all tried to decipher what was scrawled.

There were three incomplete lines left on the corner. The top one read "at quarterto twelve", the one under that was "learn what" and then the last bit was just a single word, "maybe".

Forrester asked, "Do either of you recognise the writing?"

Both Cunninghams shook their heads.

"What could it mean?" Lestrade asked.

Forrester kept his attention on the Cunninghams. "Any ideas?"

The old man shrugged. Alec just snorted. "For God's sake, it could be anything, maybe a betting note- Kirwan was fond of the horses."

John gave a wry smile. "Well, it might be a coincidence that he has a note in his pocket with a time on it that is quite likely his time of death. But someone I know used to say that the universe is rarely so lazy as to allow coincidences."

Lestrade matched the smile. "Yeah, and he'd go on to point out that the balance of probabilities means that those words…"

Mary finished the thought for him, "…are the reason why Kirwan was killed."

Author's Note: * "tombstones" are what City professionals produce as a souvenir or memento of a big deal in which they participated. As Corporate Finance deals can be worth hundreds of millions or even billion dollar transactions, tombstones are trophies that commemorate an individual's participation. Usually encased in acrylic, the item has no intrinsic value, only bragging rights.