Devonshire Squires Chapter Twenty Seven
Whatever reaction John was expecting to his confession, he didn't get it. The taller man glanced away, over John's shoulders, out at the crowd on the other side of the swing doors. Then suddenly Sherlock exploded into action, grabbing John by the shoulders and bundling him right through the door beside them into a small treatment room. As John started to react, Sherlock just shoved him three steps backward towards a gap between the cupboards and a set of lockers. The taller man then wrapped his arms around him and dragged them both into the tiny space. Startled into momentary submission, John found a hand over his mouth, just as he opened it to ask what the hell was going on.
The door into the room opened again, and two people walked in. As John's eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from the single fluorescent tube under one of the cupboards, he recognised the broad shouldered Alec Cunningham, being followed by someone he didn't know. As the men walked around the treatment table in the centre to the far end of the room, Sherlock was also in motion, releasing his hand from John's mouth and silently manoeuvring the two of them around in the tiny space so that he was facing forward, and John was behind him.
Very slowly, Sherlock moved, using his body to push John deeper into the darkness between the cupboard and the lockers, until the doctor's back was against the wall. John felt every muscle in Sherlock's own back tighten up, as if preparing for battle. He could also feel the man's body heat- a raging fever for certain.
Cunningham spoke first. "You're Morrison?"
In a strangely accented voice, the other man replied, "Yes, João Morrison. My mother was from Mozambique, my father Irish. Are you sure this is safe? Kirwan was killed trying to meet with you."
The deeper-voiced Englishman asked, "You didn't see who murdered him then?"
"No, I was late to the rendezvous, and when I got there, all I could see was blood, everywhere. I ran." There was a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
John tried to place the accent. African? But not Afro-Caribbean. He couldn't see around Sherlock, so he replayed the split second when he had laid eyes on the second figure into the room. Smaller, darker. Wiry black hair, very short. In the dim light that had been available, John couldn't figure out if the man just had a deep tan or was naturally brown skinned. When he tried to move so he could see, Sherlock leaned back, pinning John against the wall, so he stopped trying, and just listened.
"So, what was so important that you and Kirwan wanted to tell me? Why was he killed? The police have no suspects." Alec's tone was a little aggressive.
"It was my fault. He was just there to help me, and he was killed for it. I came to London to tell the world the truth. The lawyer at Barak Beevor said I should. I sent him my statement from Maputo; but three weeks ago he said that his offices were broken into and the e mails deleted before they could be sent to the firm investigating the fraud. The lawyer paid for my ticket, for me to come to London, so I could give a statement in person."
"What are you talking about? What investigation?"
"The Agrikoliades – that oil tanker. It didn't sink; it came into Maputo, offloaded 2 million barrels of oil and then went back to the Gulf. The thing is, the ship when it came into port wasn't named Agrikoliades, but I recognised it. Someone had painted on it another name- The Pitanga Lady, a Liberian registered tanker. So, when I read about the Agrikoliades sinking, I knew it was wrong."
"How do you know this? I mean, who are you to know such a thing?"
"I work in the Maputo docks; I am an engineer. I like the ships; I can remember them all, what they look like, every detail. That's why I knew that this was a fraud."
The smaller man's voice became firmer. "No one at the port would help; they said it was not our business. The lawyer who paid my ticket to London said I had to explain this crime to those investigating the insurance claim made for the Agrikoliades. But when I went to the office of RGL Forensics in Devonshire Square, the man I was to see was missing. His name was Alexander Robbs, and I found out a week later, he was dead, and his colleague also on the case, Mister Simon Waterman, was very badly injured. This scared me. I was running out of money to stay in London, and did not know what to do. The company told me that there was another firm working on the case, too. Cunningham Lindsey; your father's company. So I tried to contact him."
"What is your connection to William Kirwan?"
"None." John could hear the shrug in the man's tone of voice. "Other than he was a kind man. I emailed your father to tell him my information. But he did not reply and would not take my call. The secretary said he had no appointment available for weeks. So I stood on the street outside your offices, and made his car stop by jumping in front of it. Your father told the driver to get me out of the way. Kirwan saw me later, sitting outside the office, when he came out to smoke a cigarette. He asked me why I was so determined. So, I told him my story. He said to leave it with him. Two days later, I got this note telling me to come to the office at eleven forty five at night."
"Brought the note with you?"
"Yes, I brought it, as you asked me to. You will help me? The people who did this, who killed to protect themselves, they must be stopped."
"Let me see the note."
John couldn't see what happened next, but later when he tried to re-construct what took place in the treatment room, he guessed that the note must have been handed over. Then all hell broke loose.
There was a strangled cry from the smaller man, and a great crash as Alec struck him hard in the sternum. But the Mozambican was tough, and stayed on his feet, as Alec came after him again, shoving the treatment bed out of the centre of the room to smack into the cupboards and bounce off sideways. The cupboard light stuttered, the fluorescent tube jarred by the force of the blow. In the blinking light, the fact that John could see all this made him realise that Sherlock was already half way across the room and vaulting over the wheeled bed.
"Let him go!"
The baritone command was ignored, and Alec manoeuvred his arm around Morrison's throat into a tracheal choke hold.
John came out of the space beside the locker aiming to back Sherlock up, but Cunningham shouted, "One more step and he's dead. Stop where you are."
The blinking light seemed to stabilise for a moment, allowing John to see that Sherlock was only a meter or so from the two men, but he could also see that the fighter was starting to crush the Mozambican's throat.
Sherlock complied, and held a hand back towards John to stop him, too. "Don't. Cunningham, you have two witnesses; you will not escape."
The big man just laughed. "You think you could stop me, Devil? You're not fit, and even if you were, I'm going to add you and your little friend to my tally." His sneer was visible even in the darkened room.
"You murdered Kirwan." Sherlock made it a statement, not a question.
"Yep." The fighter had tightened his grip on João's throat, caught in the crook of his left elbow, smiling as the smaller man's struggles started to diminish as hypoxia set in. Alec slipped his right hand into a pocket and came up with a flick knife. "And I'm going to do the same to this stupid cretin, too."
Sherlock opened his hands, and kept them away from his body. "You're the one behind the whole scam, and you're running the fraud investigation to make sure that no one else finds out."
Alec laughed. "Yes. Best place to be when you're the one doing the crime."
"And Robbs, did you kill him, too?"
The blond just laughed. "Didn't need to, did I? Jerk did it for me; how very convenient." The knife was flicked open. "You being here gives me another great idea- I can frame you for all the murders, even your friend. You're high- a drug-induced killing frenzy sounds a good explanation to me."
Even as the dim light kept blinking, John could still see that João was starting to lose consciousness.
"Cair agora!*" Sherlock barked the command, and João just crumpled. The dead weight threw Alec's balance off a little, just as the fluorescent bulb stuttered again. Almost like a stobe, in the alternating darkness and light, John watched as Sherlock lashed out with his foot in a high kick, hitting Alec's right hand and sending the knife spinning free to clatter onto the counter top. The Mozambican fell, released by the fighter as he recovered his balance and moved towards Sherlock, his stance now in full attack mode.
"Fine," he spat, "You first. It will give me a lot of pleasure to beat the shit out of you, after what you did to Crusher."
Once the two men closed the distance between them there was no room for a proper fight; no way to use much more than fists. John had to wrestle his way past the treatment bed to get closer. Alec landed three blows- a left-right-left combination against Sherlock's right side, as the slighter man came in close to drive Cunningham away from the injured man on the floor.
"Keep him alive, John." There was a grunt as he took another fist, this one catching him on the right arm. "And stay out of this."
Torn, John hesitated for a moment, before the gasping breaths of the Mozambican penetrated his consciousness. Training kicked in, as he recognised the sound of a man who was in respiratory distress. He bent down, grabbed João's legs and dragged him back away from the two fighting men, toward the doorway. He was then down on his knees beside his patient, trying to diagnose the degree of damage to his windpipe.
It took him only seconds to realise that the upper trachea had been crushed beyond hope. No amount of mouth-to-mouth would work, simply because the oxygen had no way to get past the shattered cartilage. He grabbed his phone in his back pocket and hit speed dial.
Over the sound of crashing metal work, the treatment bed went over on its side, Sherlock pinned to it by the heavier weight of Alec Cunningham. John rolled João out of the way of the two thrashing bodies and hoped to hell that Lestrade had managed to pick up, because there was no way he could hear a thing. He just shouted "GET DOWN HERE NOW!" Then the trolley smashed his way again and he dropped the phone to protect the patient, only to see it skitter across the floor as the bed was spun sideways by the fighting men.
oOo
The street outside the gym was ablaze with the blue flashing lights of police pulled up onto the paved area in front of the entrance doors. The Shootfighters club staff who had manned the reception area were already in custody. The area was thronged with uniforms, including some from the armed response unit.
Standing beside Lestrade, Mary was pacing. She had convinced the DI to text a message to John a quarter of an hour ago. "Just tell him you're up here, waiting to help. He's not stupid; he'll have figured out that someone would be watching him leave the flat and head here. Just don't tell him I told you."
As if providing the corroborating evidence needed to convince him, now she spotted the arrival of a black anonymous car, which parked a short distance away. The dark-skinned young man who got out of the front passenger seat and looked straight at her was most likely one of Mycroft's men. Mary wondered if the man himself might be in the back of the car. He had said he would be watching.
She drew Greg's attention to the car, and watched his face reflect what she felt. "Damn it, that's all we need now." The DI looked back at her. "You're sure about this?"
"Yep. Whatever else is going on down there about the case, we've got to give John a chance to get Sherlock to come in from the cold." Mary glanced at the doors. "Relax; he's bottled up in there. No way out except the stairs or lift, so it's not like he can get away."
Greg laughed. "Do you really think that? This is Sherlock. He'd probably come out disguised as one of the women on a banker's arm, high heels and short skirt, and you'd be none the wiser. Or get out through a ventilation shaft into the apartment block above. Are you willing to risk that?"
Mary shook her head. "No, that's why we have to wait. You just need to focus on Bradshaw for your murder case. I've texted George Hayter and Simon Waterman to keep an eye out for Sherlock, too."
The pair of them twitched when Lestrade's phone went off. He grabbed it out of his pocket and said "It's John" on its way up to his ear. Mary watched as his eyes widened. He put his hand down and yelled to the assembled officers. "Now, now- move in!"
Already on the move, he turned briefly back towards Mary to shout, "You're staying up here" before disappearing through the doors.
She just waited until the first wave of officers had moved in and started down the stairs, then headed for the doors. Damned if I'm going to miss all the action.
"Ladies first." The door was pushed open for her by a man in a suit- the one she'd seen by the black car.
"Who are you?"
"Nobody." He flashed a smile.
"Me, too." She smirked as they pressed into the throng of officers. When one tried to stop the pair, her unnamed escort showed a badge, and the officer let them through. She took one look at the queue for the stairs and pushed the lift button. Surprisingly, one came up empty. Probably blocked by the first officers on the scene. She used the short journey down to text John, but didn't get any reply.
When the doors of the lift opened, it was onto a scene of pure chaos. The officers were trying to control two hundred plus people who suddenly wanted to be anywhere but the gym. Fighters, bankers, women- shouting, screaming, and cursing. The tide of humanity was trying to get out the only set of doors to the stairs and two lifts, just as the police were trying to corral them into groups so that names could be taken, ID's shown, and threats assessed. Luckily she was small, and she was able to dart through the press of people, with the unnamed agent following in her slipstream. Men seemed more willing to make room for a small woman- especially if she was headed in the opposite direction from them. Once out onto the floor, the crowd thinned a bit and she was able to spot the silver haired Lestrade having a shouting match with the old man Cunningham, surrounded by fighters in colour-coded track suits. She texted again, scanned the swirling crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of John and/or Sherlock, but found it hard. I'm too damned short!
"Where would they go for privacy?" The dark skinned agent said this directly into her ear so she would hear it. She thought about it and realised that the last place John would try to confront Sherlock would be in a room this size, full of people. She spotted the double swing doors on the far side of the gym, and pointed. "That way."
They weren't the first to arrive on the scene. As soon as they were through the swing doors, they could see an armed response officer standing at the threshold of a room some five meters down the corridor. He had his gun aimed at something inside.
As she came closer, the officer did not turn his head, but shouted. "STOP. Stay right where you are. This is not a situation for civilians."
"John!?" Mary shouted it loud enough to be heard if he was in the room.
"I'm busy," came the reply from a reassuringly familiar voice.
Then the agent beside her snapped at the gunman. "Sit rep now, officer!"
Perhaps it was the tone that did it, but the officer responded as if to an order from a superior. "Three men down, sir. Medic in attendance. One of the injured is hostile and dangerous, but he hasn't stopped the medic from working."
Mary stepped forward confidently, "I'm a trained nurse; let me in so I can help."
The agent nodded. "Let her do it." So, Mary took the last half dozen steps, went around the armed officer, and in through the door.
The treatment room was dark, a narrow rectangle about fifteen feet long and only six wide. The only light was from the fluorescent strips in the corridor ceiling. But what she could see was terrifying. Don't panic. John's hands were covered in blood, and he was wielding what looked to be a flick knife at a man's throat. She switched mental gears away from murder to medical, and realised that he was in the middle of a cricothyrotomy.
Crossing the threshold she caught sight of another body on the floor- further into the room, in front of an treatment bed turned over on its side. Her eyes were getting used to the darkness. This man was crumpled face down, wearing a purple track suit with "Cunningham" on the back. His once blond hair was now a bloody mess.
"Alec Cunningham?" She asked quietly. "Alive?"
"Yep. At least he was the last time I checked." John was focused on the difficult bit, as he started to wipe up the blood with a paper towel, so he could see the hole he'd just cut.
"You need more light." She reached back and hit the switch by the door. There was a baritone howl of anguish from the far end of the room, and as the overhead came up to full brightness, she saw that Sherlock was squeezed into the space between the treatment bed and the wall. He was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, burying his head under his arms. She took in the turquoise hoody splattered with blood at the same time as she heard the panicky words,
"關燈，我求求你…不再"**
Why was Sherlock asking for the lights to be turned off, in Chinese? And a bad northern Chinese accent at that?
John hissed at her. "Turn them off!" The agent obliged.
Mary crouched down beside John. "What's going on?"
Over her shoulder a hand appeared- one with a smart white shirt under a business suit, and it carried a torch. "Take this," he said.
John glanced up briefly at the man, then back down at his patient. He muttered, "Big brother finally gets his ass in gear," before saying firmly to Mary. "Yes, that will do. You know where to shine it."
Mary focused the beam on the man's neck. She could see that his lips had turned blue, and a glance at his hands showed the finger tips were in the same state. "How long's he been down?"
"Don't know, do I? Haven't got a clock on the wall. Long enough." He was focusing now on trying to get the bent metal straw into the hole he had just cut. It was tricky, as most of these operations used plastic tubing that would bend and not tear the passage to the lungs. Still, Mary could hear the sound of bubbling air, which could be the sign that something was starting to get through. The key now would be to get the straw far enough down and stop the bleeding to avoid the patient aspirating blood from the wound.
She could hear muttering in Chinese going on behind her. "What's going on with Sherlock?"
The agent standing behind her said, "Flashback, most likely." He was pulling out a phone and texting.
John grunted. He'd managed to get the straw into position and the flow of air was starting to resume. He now glanced over to the darkest corner of the room and sighed. "He's in a bad way. Fever's making him delirious. And God knows what injuries Cunningham inflicted on top of those he's already got." Then he looked straight into her eyes. "He won't let me get near him. And given what I just saw him do to Alec, I'm not going to assume he recognises me. He very nearly killed the man- probably would have if the lights hadn't gone out. The only thing that finally stopped him was the police gunman showing up and turning the lights on. That pushed him back into flight mode."
Shocked, she looked over at what limited bits of Sherlock she could see behind the treatment table. "Is it PTSD?"
"You keep asking questions I can't answer." He sounded distressed.
"I know a man who might help. You can do without me for a minute or two, can't you?"
"Give the torch to him," he gestured to the agent, and then continued, "I can't get into the drawers down at his end without setting Sherlock off again, so try to find some tape and gauze. I need to stabilise the entry point until the ambulance gets here." He looked meaningfully at the agent, who nodded.
"Yeah, it's on the way."
Mary was on her feet. "I'll be right back."
She sprinted out of the room and headed for the main gym, texting one handed as she ran; she had to find George Hayter, and in a hurry.
Author's Note: *"Fall now" in Portuguese ** "turn the lights out, I beg you- no more!"