The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 7

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Warning: contains graphic references to male rape and child sexual abuse.

Okay, are you ready? Because, as Gorgeous George would say, 'This is gonna get messeh!'

Mist hovered over the golf course. Mycroft was sitting in his private car. He had driven himself down to Richmond in the Aston, alone with his thoughts. This was not work, it was personal, so he had taken a rare day off. Now he couldn't seem to prize his gloved hands from the wheel.

A dark Ford saloon slid into the parking space next to him, and in his rear view mirror he saw a police estate with blue and orange regulation stripes pull up behind. His passenger door opened and Lestrade slid in, closing it with a soft, expensive crump behind him. He huffed, his breath clouding around him.

'All set?'

Mycroft nodded and glanced in the rear view mirror again.

'Surrey Constabulary,' Lestrade told him. 'Our jurisdiction doesn't reach out this far.'

There were two burly uniforms in stab vests in the front seats. Mycroft could see the spikes of their radios protruding over their shoulders. In the saloon, a man and a woman sat, making what seemed to be business-like conversation over some clipboards, doing the last minute paperwork. Nobody was here to enjoy themselves.

Lestrade was looking at him with his kind expression, one that Mycroft was aware he used rarely. He laid a hand gently over that of the elder Holmes and eased it from the steering wheel. And held it.

'You don't have to do this, you know,' he said. 'We can take care of it. You don't have to see him at all.'

'I need to, Greg,' Mycroft croaked. 'I owe it to Sherlock. I let him down once, I won't do it again.'

'It wasn't your fault,' Lestrade told him, ignoring the rolled eyes. 'Yes, I know, but you seem to think you could have done something to stop it.'

'I should have.'

'It was down to the school to protect him. And his mother. It was them that failed him, not you.'

Mycroft's sigh caught for a second in his throat. 'We all failed him.' He stole a look at Lestrade, who squeezed his hand, seeing that this was not an argument he was ever going to win. 'Are you ready?'

'When you are.'

Mycroft twisted to open his door. 'Then we had better get on.'

Peter Lasky and Michael Hatchard had just reached the nineteenth hole. They were business partners who liked to bunk off occasionally and snatch a game of golf. It had been a pleasant, if chilly morning's game and Lasky was crowing over the impressive margin of his win.

'Bit off form today, Mike,' he grinned, taking the gin and tonic proffered by the waitress – Hatchard was paying, as losers do.

'Can't think what's got into me,' Mike complained. 'Slept badly last night, that must be it. Stiff back. The swing's not right.'

'Come on, a bad workman and all that.'

'I'm having an off day. Besides, Harry's been playing up again at school. They called Emma and I in yesterday. One of those firm talks. I really don't know what's got into him. He's not a bad lad.'

'Why don't you and Emma bring him over to us at the weekend,' Lasky suggested. 'Let me have a chat with him. Maybe I can find out what's wrong.'

'Thanks, Peter. You're always so good with him.'

The ripple of shocked silence alerted the two men, and they turned around to see what was bothering the other members. It was a surprise to see four soberly dressed individuals entering the bar, followed by two substantial coppers in full rig.

'Uh-oh,' Lasky hissed under his breath to his friend. 'Someone's for it.' It took him a moment to cotton on to the fact that it was him they were approaching.

'Forgotten to pay your bar tab again, Lasky?' Some wag by the window called out, a joke to break the embarrassment.

Lasky straightened himself up with all the hauteur of the upper middle classes dealing with the inconvenience of the law. 'Can I help you?'

The tall, skinny one with the large nose stepped forward whilst the others hung back.

'I don't suppose you remember me, do you, Peter?' he said.

'Should I?' Lasky frowned. Something about the man was faintly familiar, his pale, watchful eyes, his sardonic expression, but he couldn't place him. The man made him nervous, though, and he was aware that Hatchard had almost imperceptibly begun to inch away.

'I don't suppose so. My name is Holmes. I was somewhat above you at school. But you might remember my little brother, Sherlock? You and James Nicholls raped him when he was eleven?'

A hiss of horror went round the room.

'How dare you!' Lasky shouted at him, not meaning to, but his gut had already clenched. He knew what was coming now, but was determined to brazen it out.

Holmes smiled a passive smile, the smile of a panther who has already caught its prey and is poised to enjoy tormenting it.

'Oh, Peter, please do not try to deny it. Perhaps I may introduce you to my friends? Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police, and Detective Sergeants Rankin and Ahmad of the Surrey Constabulary. They are very efficient. Their colleagues are currently at your home, seizing your computer and informing your wife of your nefarious activities – by the way, I'm sure that when she has finished vomiting, she will be contacting her solicitor regarding divorce and such like. And they have already intercepted the photographs you uploaded to your little friends on the internet of you raping Mr Hatchard's son, Harry.'

'What?' Hatchard's head snapped up in horror.

'I have to admit, I'm shocked by how very far from clever you've been. Leaving the faces so clearly visible. Not very bright. Or was it merely arrogance? You simply assumed that you would get away with it again, as you have done for so long.'

Hatchard launched himself at Lasky's throat with a scream, but Lestrade was suddenly there, in between, pushing the enraged father back. 'Now, then, Mr Hatchard, he's not worth you getting arrested too, is he?'

Mycroft kept talking, impervious.

'On the whole, I wasn't shocked by your hubris, I have to admit. But your son too? Your own flesh and blood? So easy to identify? Really, I was amazed. And to film it repeatedly? That just wasn't very bright at all, now, was it?

'I'm a very powerful man, Lasky. Extremely powerful. I could have had you removed from circulation; deleted, shall we say? But I prefer to see you suffer the way you've made Sherlock and all those other boys suffer. I know quite a few very tough gentlemen inside. I'm sure they will be delighted to hear all about you. I should think you might last –' he thought about it – 'hmmm, perhaps three weeks at most before they cut your bollocks off? Yes, I think I might even go so far as to place a bet. Lestrade can run a book, how would that be?' He treated himself to an evil smile. 'Just a little tip, though. You might want to get your teeth removed by a proper dentist before you begin your sentence. I understand there is a dearth of analgesics in prison washrooms, and those gentlemen prefer not to have any, ahem, barriers to their pleasures. I'm only sorry I couldn't have found you earlier, but it wasn't to be. Such a shame. But I promise to come and see you regularly once you are in prison. Just to make sure you are having a thoroughly unpleasant time.'

When the uniforms took Lasky by his upper arms, his legs buckled under him, but nobody really cared. Mycroft certainly didn't. He was too busy sending John Watson a text message:

Mission stage 1 complete. M

Tomorrow, revenge mission stage 2...