3
John had been brought up to speed by the time he and Sherlock arrived on the scene. It had taken them merely ten minutes to get to the apartment building in question. The lawn with the skidmarks was roped off with tape, two officers securing the evidence.
Sherlock watched them for only a few seconds before turning to John.
"Besides the obvious fact that these two have conveniently trampled the whole area the abduction didn't take place here. Let's go and check the flat."
They walked to the building, climbing the stairs to the first floor.
"Didn't you say, Greg left his keys at the office?" John asked.
"I'm sure Greg is able to pick a lock, but he always had a second key to his flat in his car."
They found the flat that had Greg's name underneath the doorbell, and Sherlock pointed out a couple of small marks. "Somebody obviously had pried open the door."
"But it's closed now," John stated, pushing at the door with his shoulder.
Fumbling only for seconds with his lock picks, Sherlock opened the door carefully.
The light switch didn't work, or at least the lights didn't come on. The cutout probably had been tampered with. Both men pulled out their torches.
Even from the corner of his eye John could see Sherlock's face light up.
"That's what I call an undisturbed crime scene," the detective mumbled, and like an eager dog that had found a trail he started his investigation.
John knew better than to get in the way. For the first few minutes he stood quietly at the closed door, waiting for Sherlock to finish his round of the flat, even trying to think as little as possible so as not to disturb the detective's work.
"Greg was attacked in his bathroom. A drug obviously was administered, and he was carried ..." Sherlock stopped, went into the bedroom, and looked out of the window. Opening the window he looked down. Under the window a few shrubs were planted, clearly disturbed by a heavy object that had fallen into the them.
Anger glittered in Sherlock's eyes as he told John, "They didn't carry Lestrade outside. They dumped him out of the window."
John was appalled.
Sherlock ranged through the flat for another few minutes, taking tiny samples from carpet and windowsill, while John walked slowly through the rooms, hands behind his back, looking around curiously.
The tiny flat wasn't much to look at. There were still a couple of cardboard boxes in a corner, no pictures were hung on the wall, no personal items marked the rooms as belonging to anyone specific.
The doctor looked around in the bathroom, opened the small cabinet and was shining back and forth with his torchlight when a small object at the floor reflected the light.
"Sherlock!" John called out. When the detective's curly head peeped in, John shone his light down at the item.
A pair of tweezers appeared in Sherlock's hand and he pulled a tiny piece of aluminium foil out of the crack between the tiles. He carried it to the window where the light was better, turned it around, sniffed at it and ultimately put it into a small evidence bag.
Both men left the flat and headed outside where the inspector's body had landed in the shrubs.
"Footprints," Sherlock indicated, getting down on his hands and knees, his upper body more or less disappearing between the shrub's twigs and leaves.
John craned his neck, trying to see something from the top when he was startled by a voice directly behind him.
"Nice butt!"
He swirled around. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry, didn't mean you. Stacy Coons." The uniformed police officer with a dog at her heels extended her hand. She didn't look at John but had her eyes glued to Sherlock's behind.
"Oi!" The detective almost flew out of the shrub when he came face to face rather unexpectedly with the Belgian shepherd who had also crawled under the bush.
"Don't worry, Dobby won't bite. That is, unless I tell him. Which I haven't."
Sherlock quickly studied the woman. Maybe an inch shorter than John, her blond hair tied into a ponytail, looking athletic. Forty, loves outdoors and swimming, single, had to fight for being accepted among the other K9-handlers, likes pasta.
"Sherlock - Stacy Coons, Stacy - Sherlock Holmes." John made the introduction. "And I'm John Watson, in case anybody is interested," he added by way of explanation.
Ignoring John, Stacy petted her dog which sat down obediently.
"Dobby can follow a trail backwards – a very unusual skill, but often useful when one wants to find out where victim or perpetrator came from." Sherlock didn't look too impressed. He was still indignant that the dog had made him jump out of the bush in a rather undignified way.
She smiled, not the least bit intimidated by Sherlock's unwavering gaze. "Since I wear a uniform some of my colleagues from the CID think I'm stupid. DI Lestrade doesn't though." She paused, tilting her head to the side, almost mirroring her dog who watched all three humans attentively.
"Do you want to know where they were waiting for DI Lestrade before deciding to enter the building before or after I tell Anderson and his team?" Stacy asked innocently.
The detective stopped being a sorehead. "Right away, of course," Sherlock answered, and Stacy guided them toward a group of trees near the next building.
"Over there," Stacy pointed at the trees. Only Dobby went there. He can work up to 50 yards from my position. He's much less likely to contaminate a crime scene than a human is."
John decided that since Sherlock hadn't insulted either Stacy or Dobby so far it was a very high praise from the detective. He watched Sherlock walking to the trees, looking around in concentration, when Stacy turned to face him.
"Doctor Watson, um, John, I know who you are. I have seen you working with DI Lestrade several times. Just because I'm not on stage so to speak doesn't mean I don't observe."
John and Stacy chatted amiably for a minute or two, and John got the impression that the woman worried deeply about Greg's safety. Her concern went beyond that of a mere colleague.
Before Sherlock finished looking around, Stacy told the doctor she'd rather go back to the others.
"I don't want to provoke anyone into seeking revenge for informing you first."
"Then tell them what you've found. Sherlock should be done any minute, and we're used to taking the beating."
The woman handed John a card with her name and number. "In case you are in need of a great dog and an extra pair of fists, call me."
Stacy nodded her goodbye, and looking over where Sherlock was bustling about one last time she walked away, Dobby at her heels.
Sherlock came back to John the moment Anderson came running around the building, his face red, his hair dishevelled. Before Sherlock could get into an argument with the angry looking man John dragged him in the opposite direction.
"Come on let's get a cab and leave."
When both men headed for the street they saw Stacy again. She was sitting cross-legged on the lawn, obviously in deep conversation with Dobby. It confused Sherlock enough that he filed his observation to investigate later what that was about.
oOo
"Slow down," Greg panted, trying to keep up with the young woman. He was in a pretty bad shape, and although it had been only a few minutes since he had escaped his prison he felt like he had run a marathon.
They had been hurrying along dimly lit corridors that looked more or less identical to Greg's eyes. Often a corridor had a dead end and they had to retrace their steps. Junctions here and there, sometimes doors but that was it. No stairs, no windows. Greg's legs felt like lead and his head was pounding.
The young constable stopped when she noticed his wheezing breath, turned around and looked at him. Thinking only for a moment she checked the next door. Pushing down the handle without making any noise, she peered inside the room. A table, two chairs, a washbasin. Nothing else.
"Maybe you could rest in here for a while."
Greg was too exhausted to argue. He nodded, slipped into the empty room and slumped down on one of the chairs. He was shaking, and certain that he had never felt worse in his entire life.
The woman watched him for a moment. Eventually she cleared her throat.
"Why did they take you? I mean, what did they want to know?" she asked.
Greg looked at her with blood-shot eyes. "You probably know that there's a large vault in the Yard. They wanted to know the combination to open the vault."
The young PC looked at him sceptically. "And that's why they did," she indicated his body, "this to you?" He shrugged.
"Well, I'll go and check the corridor ahead while you rest here. Is that okay."
"Sure, go ahead." Greg nodded.
"By the way, what's your name?"
"Zoe Lincoln, until a week ago I was with the Northumbrian police in Newcastle. Just been transferred to the Metropolitan police."
She opened the door carefully, and quietly slipped out of the room.
Greg licked his dry and cracked lips, when he noticed the basin. A washbasin meant water. Struggling up he turned the tap, and water started flowing. For a minute or two he just drank in large gulps before sitting down again on one of the chairs. Putting his arms on the table as a cushion for his head he fell asleep within seconds.
Only minutes later somebody shook his shoulder.
"Wha...?" Greg opened his bloodshot eyes.
"Sorry, Sir... Greg. We can't stay here. I think I heard voices down the corridor, we have to keep moving. But first, look what I've found." An energy bar was pressed into Greg's hand. Without a second glance he pulled of the wrapper and gobbled down most of it without actually tasting anything.
"Just a second." Greg got up, drank another mouthful of water from the tap and stuffed the rest of the energy bar into his mouth, this time chewing more thoroughly.
"Thank you. Now I only need two days of sleep, and I'll be as good as new." He tried to smile weakly.
"And for this," he showed her the wrapper, "I will certainly suggest you for a promotion as soon as we're back in the real world."
Zoe smiled weakly, peeped out of the door, and ushered Greg outside.
"Actually I've got another surprise for you. You won't believe it but I finally found some sort of a window."
They walked to the end of the corridor without seeing anyone, turning at a couple of corners in the process, and there was the window. Not really a window, more some kind of funnel. Pitch dark outside, Greg assessed, looking up at the sky. A light draft came through the funnel. Greg smelt the air. London in the night, water, probably the Thames, a funny smell that was familiar but which he couldn't quite identify. He also heard the rattling of a train going over a bridge.
"You heard that?" Zoe suddenly whispered in his ear. Certain she didn't mean the noise from the train, Greg was about to say no, when he heard it too. Footsteps and voices. Shit! They ran as quietly as possible around another corner. For once Greg was grateful that he was running with bare feet. Seeing a cupboard in a corner Zoe opened the door and looked inside. Some blankets, nothing else.
"Would you mind terribly hiding in here for another few minutes, while I check the surroundings once more?"
No, Greg didn't mind. He knew he was slowing her down. Neither water nor that little bit of food had really revived him yet. He grabbed the young woman's shoulders.
"Look, Zoe, right now I'm not much help when it comes to escaping. If you find a way out, leave me here and get the cavalry rather than coming back right away."
She nodded hesitantly.
"These people want something that is inside New Scotland Yard's vault. Don't know what it is but getting out a warning is more important than I am. Do you understand?"
Zoe nodded again. "And, do you know the vaults security code?" she asked.
"Sure I do, didn't tell them though." Greg smiled tiredly. "Now go." The woman hurried away, and Greg closed the cupboard's door from the inside.