Chapter Four
After two weeks of regular police work, new cases and nearly resorting to murdering Sherlock more than once, Greg had settled into a comfortable rhythm. The last of the cardboard boxes full of his things were gone and everything had found its proper place in his new apartment. Even the dirty dishes were starting to pile up now that the novelty of having a new, clean apartment had faded. Back to the way it was before the "French shenanigan" as he called it in his head.
He was on his way home from a good day's work having just finished up a regular run-of-the-mill murder (a jealous ex-wife had almost got away). He got off at the Undergound station near his apartment and started a leisurely stroll down the street. It was empty and evening had already set in. He walked for a while and noticed an uneasy feeling developing in the pit of his stomach. The back of his neck prickled and he turned around. The street was completely deserted save for a few parked cars. But one stood out amongst the others. A sleek, nondescript black car that obviously belonged to someone with serious money. It was parked, engine idling and the windows tinted too dark to see who was inside. Shivering slightly, Greg kept walking though keeping an eye on the car through the corner of his vision. It drove slowly to follow him, the soft rumble of the engine being the only noise on the street.
Greg stopped and turned around again. The car stopped. He set off again, faster this time. His heart was hammering and the ice-cold grip of fear had settled around his chest. His breathing quickened. The car was slowly inching its way up the street, creeping like a tiger about to pounce. Greg had enough. He needed to get back onto the main road away from the empty street where no one could see him. Lestrade broke into a run, only to stop after a few metres. A man in a three-piece suit had stepped out of a little alleyway in front of him. His face was in shadows and he was leaning casually on his umbrella.
"What the hell do you want?" Greg demanded, trying to hide the fear in his voice.
"Tut tut Detective Inspector. I was hoping that we could have a little chat." The man said, twirling his umbrella slightly.
"So you chase me down a street with your car?"
"I believe the proper term is "ambush". Quite a good one don't you think?" The ambient light from the city (as the street lights had mysteriously turned off) reflected off the man's teeth as he flashed a small smile.
"How do you know who I am?"
A chuckle emanated from the shadows. "How do I know anything Detective Inspector? The same way I know you work for the Homicide Division of Scotland Yard. I know you left for France to be with your wife – a poor decision it seemed as you moved back to England less than three years later. And now here you are at your old post with Scotland Yard. Almost like nothing ever happened."
"Who the fuck are you? If you know who I am, then you should know better than to mess with a copper."
"Ah Detective. I am merely a concerned party. Tell me, how is Sherlock Holmes doing these days?"
"What? What do you want with him?" Lestrade replied, feeling more and more uneasy as the conversation proceeded. This man had a knack for directing the conversation whichever way he wanted. Greg just helplessly tagged along.
"Like I said, I am a concerned party."
"And he concerns you?"
"Oh absolutely. Constantly."
"What are you? Some kind of stalker? What kind of sick fucker are you?" Greg asked, his fear turning into anger.
"I'm here to offer you a proposal. I would very much like it if you could update me on Sherlock's wellbeing in return for ample compensation."
"You're bribing me to spy on Sherlock?"
"Well, only if I have to. I would very much prefer this to be something of a mutual agreement and understanding," he said delicately.
"No way. I have no idea who you are or what you want. There's no way I'm betraying a friend like that."
The man chuckled again. "Friend? Are you sure Detective Inspector? I was under the impression that you rather disliked him. If I may indulge myself, I believe you called him a "pompous trumped up idiot" in one of your interdepartmental emails. Hardly the phrasing I would use if Sherlock were a friend."
"He's a damn better man than you are." Lestrade replied.
"Is there anyway at all I could tempt you to accept my offer?"
"No." Greg said, ending all further conversation.
"Very well. If I cannot convince you, I must wish you good evening. I do hope we can meet again soon in more amicable circumstances." He gave a slight nod and got into the waiting car. In the flash of light between the shadows cast by the buildings, Lestrade caught a glimpse of the face of the man who had ambushed him. It was one he wasn't likely to forget now that he had seen it twice. Umbrella man. Before he could call out to the man, the car had sped off into the night leaving Greg to take a solitary walk home lost in his thoughts.
Mycroft closed his eyes as he sat in the dark interior of the car. The meeting had not been a complete failure. He had never expected Lestrade to comply to his request given what he had read in the policeman's file. But Mycroft preferred to gauge people face to face or in this case face to shadow. It was undeniable that Detective Inspector Lestrade was a remarkable man – he managed to see the good in Sherlock. Mycroft had never met anyone who could see past his brother's immaturity and blatant disregard for authority.
The meeting had been most enlightening and only increased Mycroft's interest in Gregory Lestrade. A good, honest man. It was hard to find those in Mycroft's line of work. Quite the refreshing change. Mycroft Holmes decided right there and then that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was worth befriending.