"How do you even know he's there?"
"I made a call to his building's receptionist." Irene checked her watch. It was half past two in the afternoon. The cab she and Mary were in was encountering quite a bit of traffic but they were making good time. "An older lady, I'm guessing in her sixties. She told me he does have a client but that he has no other appointments after three. Apparently, people think Sherlock Holmes, aka Mr. Sigerson works as a business consultant. The receptionist was quite chatty. We might be able to garner information from her later."
Mary frowned and looked up from retouching her makeup. "When did you make the call to his address?"
"Around the time you and John were having make up sex," Irene answered nonchalantly.
"Oh." Mary turned away. Irene didn't have to look to see that her friend was blushing. "And what exactly is this going to achieve? Going there, pretending to be clients?"
"I want to get a read on him." Irene looked out the window. They were about two streets away now. "I want to see how he interacts with his clients. See if there's anything in the room that will be of interest. Don't worry, we're not going to do anything. Think of it as a service inquiry."
"Shouldn't we have met with the Smallwoods first?"
"That was my original plan, but Anthea said they're currently overseas and won't be back until this weekend." One more turn, and the cab finally arrived at their destination—a prominent, high rise residential building in one of London's most affluent districts.
"He lives here?" Mary asked in awe after they had gotten off the cab. "How much does he make as a bondage master make anyway?"
"Enough for him to afford the penthouse apparently." Irene sauntered off to the entrance, hips swaying, head held high. The aura of a sophisticated woman. "Come now, Mary dear. We must make haste if we are to meet with Mr. Sigerson."
"My, don't you sound posh," Mary remarked with a smile and followed Irene inside the building.
Just like its exterior, the building's interior screamed of excess—sparkling chandeliers, marble walls adorned with paintings, expensive furnishings, and residents whose attire reflected their wealth and influence. Irene could see that Mary was becoming a little too intimidated. Perhaps she should teach her friend more about how to work a disguise.
Irene stopped in front of the receptionist table and beamed the most winning smile she could muster to the well-dressed older woman behind the counter. "Hello. We're here to see Mr. Sigerson."
"Oh, hello dearie," the older woman greeted. Irene watched as she rummaged through the counter and took out a clipboard. Personable, polite, not very techie, prefers doing things the old fashioned way. "May I have your name please?"
"Renee Wolfe. And this is my friend, Abigail Ambers," Irene gestured to Mary, who confirmed her impromptu alias with nervous nods. "We actually spoke on the phone earlier. Mrs. Hudson, is it?"
"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson's smile widened, her eyes bright. "How did you know?"
"It's on your name tag," Irene pointed out, still holding on to her charm. This lady wasn't exactly the brightest bulb in the room, but she had a warmth about her that was not at all off putting.
Mrs. Hudson laughed, her cheeks reddening. "I'm sorry dear. I tend to forget these things sometimes. Anyway, I'm afraid Mr. Sigerson still has a client—oh! Never mind that. She just came out. Bye Meredith!"
Irene turned and saw a woman, waving back to Mrs. Hudson as she stepped out of the elevator and headed towards the exit. Familiar with the receptionist, so possibly a frequent visitor. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Pushing six feet in height. Voluptuous. Had breast enhancement surgery three years ago. Recent botox injections. Age estimated to be mid forties. Expensive dress suit.
And wearing a red silk tie.
"Fancy tie she was wearing," Irene declared after the woman had gone, turning her attention back to Mrs. Hudson. "I should very much like to have one for myself."
"I believe Mr. Sigerson gives those ties to his clients. A souvenir of sorts," Mrs. Hudson informed. "Custom made. You won't be able to find those in the mall, that's for certain."
Irene and Mary shared a look. This receptionist was proving to be a fountain of information. If this was the kind of company Sherlock Holmes surrounded himself with, then it was no wonder the Smallwoods' private investigators put him easily at the top of their suspect list.
Irene decided to put on a little insecurity in the mix. "Uhm, I'm actually a bit nervous meeting him. I really need his help if I'm to expand my business. Is there anything I need to know? Is he the serious sort?"
"Oh, no, no, don't concern yourself, my dear," Mrs. Hudson quickly assured. Yes, she was falling for the act. "Mr. Sigerson is one of the most charming men I have ever known. Always ready to greet people with a disarming smile. Why, I have never heard a cross word from any of his clients about him. They all seem very satisfied."
I'll bet, Irene thought. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I feel much better now. So, do we just head on up to his penthouse?"
"One second, dearie. Let me go call him, see if he's ready for you." Mrs. Hudson ambled towards the phone and dialled. It took a moment before she spoke again. "Hello, Mr. Sigerson. I have two ladies here to see you."
Irene kept close watch of Mrs. Hudson's body language. At the moment however, she seemed relaxed. Casual. Just another day on the job.
"A Ms. Renee Wolfe and a Ms. Abigail Ambers," Mrs. Hudson continued. "They're both the pretty sort. Well, Ms. Wolfe is a brunette and Ms. Ambers is blonde."
"Did he really need to ask that?" Mary whispered to Irene.
"I don't know," Irene whispered back. "Perhaps he has some preference."
"Okay, Mr. Sigerson, I'll send her up." Mrs. Hudson put the phone down. Her smile was apologetic. Something was amiss. "Ms. Wolfe, you may go up now. Ms. Ambers, I'm afraid you'll have to wait in the lobby. Mr. Sigerson says he will only talk to one client at a time."
"But we're both representing the same company." Irene tried to remain cool. Going in alone was not part of the plan. "Surely Mr. Sigerson will make a consideration."
"I'm afraid he was very insistent, dear." Mrs. Hudson shrugged. Irene suddenly didn't feel too friendly towards the woman. "The elevator's down the corridor. Just go to the top floor. And Ms. Ambers, the lobby's over there. I'll go get you some biscuits and tea."
"What now, Irene?" Mary mumbled as they moved away from the receptionist table and out of earshot. "Maybe we should have just told him who we really are. He's got to help us. It's his neck on the line after all."
"Didn't you remember what the prime minister said? Sherlock Holmes wouldn't even go to his brother for help. What more us?" Irene glanced behind her. Mrs. Hudson was still busy preparing a tray of biscuits and tea. "Chat her up, Mary. She seems to know and talk a lot. See what you can find out about Sigerson from her. I'll head on up to the penthouse."
"Are you off your rocker?" Mary shook her head. "What if he...does something to you?"
"Oh come now, Mary. It's not as though he's the first possible killer I've encountered."
"I wasn't worried about him killing you."
Irene frowned. What else should Mary be worried about? "I don't understand."
"Of course you don't," Mary agreed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "He's into a BDSM lifestyle. What if he...you know."
"You know what?"
Mary sighed, and Irene found herself being pushed to the elevator. "Just go. I'll see if I can get away."
Irene stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor, the doors closing just in time for her to see Mrs. Hudson carrying the tray towards the lounge chairs at the lobby.
She turned her eyes towards the floor indicator. It was the only interesting feature on this reflective confined space she found herself in, especially since there didn't seem to be anyone else using the lift but her.
She reached the penthouse in no time and walked through a corridor leading towards a door. On the wall beside the door frame was a doorbell and an intercom.
She rang the doorbell.
"Who is it?" a deep, resonant voice called from the intercom.
"Renee Wolfe, here to see Mr. Sigerson," Irene spoke, doing her best to sound sultry.
"Come in, Ms. Wolfe," the voice answered back. "The door's open."
Adjusting the fur shawl on her arm and smoothing out her dress, Irene reached for the door handle and entered, but was surprised to find no one inside. Sherlock must've used the intercom from another part of the flat, she thought.
"Hello?" she called out, closing the door behind her, her eyes moving over her surroundings. It wasn't at all what she pictured a bondage master's place to be, with its high ceilings, plain white walls, glass doors and a sun roof. The fixtures and furniture were all of modern and ergonomic design, and there appears to be a recurring colour motif of black and red, which was a startling contrast to how white and bright the entire place was.
"I'll be with you shortly, Ms. Wolfe," the voice she assumed was Sherlock's called from a short corridor by the open kitchen, which Irene assumed led to the bedroom. "Kindly wait for me in the sitting area."
"How convenient," Irene thought with a smile. More time for her to look over the place then.
She headed for the couch—also blood red in colour—and settled herself in. She looked around. Not like there was much to look at really. Sherlock, it seemed, wasn't a fan of ornaments and decor. Everything in the entire flat was functional, though quite stylish. There were however, three things that caught her eye: a small office behind glass walls beside the sitting area, complete with a desk, swivel chair, computer and bookshelves, a black upright piano near the dining area with a small framed photograph on top, and a large, black and white picture on the wall in front of the couch she was sitting on.
It was the latter which captured Irene's attention: the blow up photo of an unidentified woman with dark, wavy hair, sitting on a mattress of silk and pictured from behind, her body bound in intricate knots of rope. Irene had seen something similar before in a recent crime scene photo.
Lydia Smallwood. She was bound exactly like the woman in the photo.
"Beautiful, isn't it? It's a personal favourite of mine from among all the photographs I have taken."
Irene almost jumped from the sofa but managed to catch herself. Sherlock Holmes was standing nearby. She had to keep up with her disguise. "It is a beautiful photograph Mr. Siger—"
The words died in her throat as soon as she turned to him. Her eyes were wide. Her jaw dropped. Her breath hitched. She had lost absolute control over her own faculties.
Standing beside her, was a completely naked Sherlock Holmes, his pale, toned body still glistening and dripping wet from the shower.