Author's Note: A big thank you to Millymargie for the new follow, and to Neely1, Pocket Full of Pens, EliteNinja07, jessecreed, GeorgyannWayson, dragonpoos, jchristi22, Artemis-Max-Katniss-Holmes and Randomrevolution123 for the continued support. :-D
Chapter 6: The Adventure of the Auction House
20:50, January 2, 2013, Hans Road, London, SW3
If Holmes or Lestrade had been expecting a swarm of activity at Croesus', they would have been disappointed.
Despite the late hour, it was business as usual. A well-dressed couple were leaving the auction house; pausing under the royal blue awning, they laughed as they buttoned up their coats and pulled on their gloves. With a brief, puzzled glance at the grim-faced Lestrade (and at Holmes, who was sporting his usual expression of disdain for, well, everything), the well-dressed man and woman walked off in the direction of Knightsbridge - happily sharing an umbrella.
Here, beneath the gold-lettered Croesus' sign, nothing seemed amiss.
'No barrier tape.' Sherlock noted, following Lestrade around the building to the rear entrance. Apart from an unmarked police car parked on a double yellow line, they passed nothing out of the ordinary.
At the back of the building, a plainclothes officer was taking a statement from a security guard; the guard's arms were crossed in front of himself defensively. As Holmes and Lestrade approached, the plainclothes officer anxiously glanced towards the sound of their footsteps. Greg Lestrade flashed his ID card, and the officer visibly relaxed.
'Whoever's in charge doesn't want word of the theft getting out.' Sherlock spoke rapidly, his gaze flicking from the tan-mark on the ring finger of the guard's trembling left hand, to the tar stains between his right index and middle fingers. Underneath the fingernail of his right index finger was a silvery-grey residue. 'They'll avoid making a statement for as long as possible - hoping the Hirst is recovered before the auction.' continued Holmes, his attention still fixed on the security guard.
The two detectives stood under a surveillance camera in front of Croesus' staff entrance, and waited to be admitted. When at last they were buzzed in, they found themselves in a narrow corridor: the floor was a faded, black-and-white checkered vinyl, and there was a rickety-looking wooden table in the corner. It was a world away from the plush decor of the front entrance.
Lestrade nodded to a well-groomed man at the other end of the corridor, who smiled and nodded back; he was engaged in an intense, hushed discussion with an extremely tan blonde woman.
'Croesus' are opening a branch in St. Petersburg on Monday - there's a big media campaign in the works. Obviously, they don't want the papers finding out their flagship house just lost a fourteen million pound piece.' Lestrade told Sherlock, in a low voice, before popping a mint into his mouth. He nodded to the well-groomed man: 'That's Julian Chang - the manager of Croesus', the Detective Inspector informed Sherlock, under his breath. Mr Chang and the blonde woman were now walking over to Holmes and Lestrade.
'Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Mr Holmes, I believe,', the manager shook Sherlock's stiff hand warmly, 'may I introduce Ms Carol Meenpenny, of Boyyd's Bank.' Chang had a friendly, welcoming manner. Usually it put clients at ease - but it did little to melt the tension in the air that evening.
Ms Meenpenny ignored Holmes, and coolly looked Lestrade up and down before speaking: 'We have, of course, engaged our own investigator… one who has had excellent results in the past. I do hope your team will allow her the space, and the resources, to work. I'd appreciate it if you would allow her access to the forensics report, for example.'
Detective Inspector Lestrade hesitated, and then answered in a low, rough voice: 'She has the right to investigate whatever she wants, as long as she follows the law. As does any other member of the public. As for the forensics report... your investigator will have to put in a request through official channels. As any other private citizen would.' Lestrade crunched his mint between his teeth.
A flush of anger coloured Ms Meenpenny's smooth, tanned face; though she was frowning, there were no creases on her forehead. When she spoke again, her voice was tight and cross: 'As I've already informed your supervising officer, we expect twice-daily reports… and I'd appreciate it if you'd copy Stephanie in.' the blonde woman nodded a brisk goodbye and turned to leave - before swinging back to face them once more. 'The quicker you recover the Hirst, the better it is for all of us. I hope you don't forget that.' added Ms Meenpenny, her gaze seeming to linger on Julian Chang.
As the representative from Boyyd's departed, a smartly dressed young man ran up to the manager and urgently whispered something into his ear. Mr Chang replied to the young man with an encouraging smile: 'Please offer them drinks, in the Morten gallery. And ask Sylvia to show them the new Mondrian. I'll be there as soon as possible, Nicholas.' The young man nodded, and scurried away purposefully.
'One of our most valued collectors has just arrived. If you gentlemen don't mind, we'll make this brief.' said Mr Chang, with an apologetic smile, as he led Holmes and Lestrade down the narrow corridor.
Along the way, the manager expeditiously pointed out various things to the two detectives: a door to the auction room; the jewellery gallery, and the control room staffed by security guards around the clock.
'You're open seven days a week?' Sherlock brusquely asked Mr Chang, as they climbed the back staircase to gallery B.
'Twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year.' replied the manager with pride. 'That's what sets us apart from our competitors -', Mr Chang continued enthusiastically, '-we understand that today's high-net worth individuals don't want to worry about things like opening hours...' The manager had a friendly, round face, with very well-groomed eyebrows. In their chunky, designer frames, his glasses had been polished until they gleamed, and his nails were discretely manicured. Sherlock noticed that his suit was bespoke, and his Paul Smith Brogue's were new season.
'There's just one formality before I show you the… scene of the crime.' Mr Chang said. He seemed uncomfortable speaking about something as vulgar as a burglary. 'I understand that you are not, technically, a member of the police, Mr Holmes?' he looked towards Sherlock, and politely waited for an answer.
Lestrade jumped in, before Holmes could speak. 'No, he's an… independent consultant. Sherlock's been a-', Lestrade made a strangled coughing noise, '-great asset to the force over the years... he's trusted by myself and-', there was another strangled cough, '-all of my colleagues.'
'Yes, yes, I quite follow.' the manager smiled, and nodded genially. 'However, in these situations, it's quite standard to ask for an… agreement of confidentiality. Mr Chang frowned briefly, as he picked up a tiny, crumpled ball of paper from the floor. Flicking it into a nearby waste-bin, he continued: 'I am sure you understand, Mr Holmes.'
Sherlock opened his mouth. He was about to caustically advise the manager to look to his own staff (one of whom was likely to be a gambling addict, Sherlock had noticed) if he wanted to prevent leaks. However, Lestrade stepped down hard on Sherlock's foot before the consulting detective could begin.
'He'll be happy to.' answered the Detective Inspector. Whispering to Holmes, he added: 'he's right, it is standard when you're dealing with something like this. Don't push your luck, if you want to see the crime scene.'
Seemingly from no-where, a stylishly dressed young woman appeared with a clipboard and a pen. At a gesture from Mr Chang, she handed them both to Sherlock.
Lestrade followed Julian Chang into the gallery, leaving Sherlock standing in the hallway on his own. The consulting detective's eyes flicked to his left, and then to ceiling, as he imagined the cutting remarks he would enjoy making.
Then, as curiosity got the better of him, Sherlock scowled, signed the agreement on the clipboard, and followed the others in.
. . .
Gallery B was closed to visitors, explained Mr Chang.
Bizarre and whimsical sculptures sat inside glass cases around the room; this was where collectors could view the pieces before bidding on them at auction.
With a distressed look on his face, the manager led Lestrade and Holmes to the crime scene. Then, without his usual good cheer, Mr Chang wished the two detectives the best of luck, and excused himself.
In the center of the room was an empty display case, approximately one meter cubed in its dimensions; this was the former home of the stolen Damien Hirst. The empty case rested on a white plinth. To its side was the burnt-out hornet's nest; the smaller display case for the hornet's nest was being dusted for fingerprints by two crime scene officers.
'Waste of time.' said Sherlock, under his breath. The white-suited forensic scientists paid him no attention.
'Whoever planted the incendiary device either had a legitimate reason to be here - in which case their prints will contribute little information of value... or they had no legitimate reason to be here - in which case they will most likely have worn gloves.' Now one of the crime scene officers looked up. Pulling down her mask, Siobhan Webber glared at Sherlock, before addressing Lestrade. 'We'll need about another hour, sir. Then it's all yours.' The forensic officer pulled up her mask again, and turned back to her work.
The Detective Inspector gave Sherlock a warning look, and crouched down next to the white-suited forensics officers. Speaking in a hushed voice, he attempted to persuade them to go for a break - whilst praying that Holmes wouldn't start telling them off for contaminating the crime scene (something he had done before… on more than one occasion).
'Ten minutes, then… sir.' said Siobhan, looking thoroughly put out. She and her partner were standing in front of the open door, about to leave, when an anxious, male voice interrupted them: standing outside the door was Nicholas, the young assistant from downstairs. 'Mr Chang asked me to ask you to please take off your, um...', blushing, Nicholas gestured to the tyvek bodysuits the forensics team wore, 'before going downstairs. Just in case, um, anyone sees..' the young man trailed off nervously, looking down at his shoes.
Siobhan rolled her eyes, and began unzipping the paper-thin, white suit. Her light red hair fell out of the hood as she pulled it off. With an snort of annoyance, her partner followed suit. Before leaving, Siobhan looked from Holmes to Lestrade, and said: 'The people who want this solved certainly have a funny way of showing it.'
Sherlock paid no attention to the departing forensic scientists; he'd taken out out his pocket magnifier and was busy examining the empty display case. 'No.' he said, to no-one in particular, as he snapped the magnifier closed.
'No.' Holmes repeated, in a louder voice. His head whipped around, and he focused his attention on a discrete pile of catalogues in the corner of the room. Covering the distance in three strides, Sherlock grabbed a copy, and began flicking through it - apparently at random.
Narrowing his eyes, Holmes rapidly scanned through the jewellery section. Then his head jerked up, and a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. After looking into the distance for a second, he spoke: 'This wasn't just about money. The Hirst is too well known to be easily fenced… and the value of its raw materials are insignificant, compared to the contents of the jewellery cases downstairs. No-' he said excitedly, '-someone was sending a message. But to whom...' Sherlock finished speaking, and was reaching for his smartphone, when a noise from the opposite end of the gallery caught his attention.
It was the sound of someone slowly clapping. 'What the - ?' Lestrade asked, spinning around to face the direction the sound was coming from.
The clapping stopped, and there was a small popping noise. A figure stepped out from the shadows at the back of the gallery.
A second little POP bounced off the walls of the otherwise silent room. The stranger was blowing bubbles - purple bubble-gum bubbles.
As the figure walked into the light, Lestrade and Holmes could see her clearly. The woman was in her early thirties, with long, wavy, brown hair and sparkling grey eyes. She was dressed in a fitted grey trouser suit, and there was an emerald pendant hanging from a delicate chain at her throat.
Standing there, wearing a strange little half-smile, was Stephanie Baker, insurance investigator.