"Isn't Sir Jeffreys death old news? I thought he died a while ago." I ask as we walk with the flow of the busy London Street, turning our collars up to protect us from the late January breeze.
"He died mid-October last year," dad confirmed, "and found by his secretary Helen Hewlett after tracing the phone to an empty office block."
"So why are you bringing this up now?"
"Because Scotland Yard seem to believe it's linked to the more recent deaths of James Phillimore and Bethany Davenport."
"How can suicides be linked?" I ask, puzzled.
"That's what I'm going to find out." We stop outside 221B in Baker Street.
"Is this it?" I ask as he knocks on the door but he ignores it. So this is our new flat? Areas nice, but the neighbours look a bit unfriendly. Not that it should matter.
An elderly lady with short, dyed blonde hair opens the door for us.
"Sherlock, hello again," I watch as the two embrace for a brief second before dad steps back. She's not my grandmother: her appearance doesn't fit with the photos I was shown. Not his sister - too old - so an old client.
"Mrs Hudson, my daughter Sophia Holmes," dad introduces and I step forward.
"Oh, hello, dear." Mrs Hudson smiles, embracing me as well. I nod, a small smile on my face at the sign of affection as I also break away. "Come in." I walk in through the door and look around and the dim brushes past me and heads upstairs, so I follow behind him.
"Sophie, I need you to hook the mic and my phone up to the Police Conference again please," he requests as I reach the top and I nod, already heading towards the desk.
"On it," I reply. Dad is fairly competent when it comes to technology - better than most fathers and certainly a lot of the other detectives - but he leaves me to handle the arguabley more difficult and lenghty tasks such as hacking into the Scotland Yard's network.
I flip open my shoulder bag and pull out my laptop. Opening it up, the screen blinks awake from it's previously dormant condition and I set it down on the desk. Digging into the bottom of the bag, I find a cable which I use to connect dad's phone to my computer. Next, I tap through the Scotland Yard security to find the contact details for everyone attending today's Press Conference. The mobile numbers of these people transfer within seconds to dad's phone, so I unplug it, and toss it back to him. Then, I click on the folder indicating the microphone, and open up the one we had placed in the conference hall, which is linked up to a screen so we can watch it as well. It is still quite early, and the reporters are still filing in. Nothing will be happening for at least half an hour.
Mrs Hudson comes up the stairs, limping slightly as she walks. She has a bad hip, I conclude.
"What do you think then, Sophia?" she asks, as she tidies up a dish from the side.
"Yeah, it's nice." I smile. "Very nice."
"There's a spare bedroom upstairs for you. I think your dad has already reserved the one on this floor." I nod and thank her as she continues to potter around. "What are you up to?" she asks, gesturing to my equipment.
"Research," I answer simply, and she titters to herself as she heads back downstairs. A while later, a man and a woman take their seats at the front of the hall and the room goes silent. "Sherlock, It's starting." I turn the volume up on the mic and shift over so dad can watch.
Detective Inspector Lestrade looks uncomfortable as Detective Sergeant Donovan addresses the reporters from beside him.
"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport was found late last night on a building site in Greater London," she begins to the flashes of cameras from the reporters. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."
A reporter speaks out. "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"
"Well, they all took the same poison;" Lestrade began, and it's clear to me that he's ad clueless as ever, "um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of ..."
"But you can't have serial suicides," interrupts the same reporter.
"Well, apparently you can." Lestrade replies, annoyed at interruption. A second reporter speaks up.
"These three people: there's nothing that links them?"
"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one." Dad types something on his phone, and soon the conference hall is ringing with simultaneous text alerts.
"If you've all got texts, please ignore them." Donovan advises. The first reporter speaks up, looking confused.
"Just says, 'Wrong!'"
"Yeah, well, just ignore that," she responds, trying to hurry the conference along. She knows what we're trying to do. "Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."
"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" the second reporter asks.
"As I say, these ... these suicides are clearly linked," Lestrade hesitates. He's not exactly doing his best, as usual. And he wonders why the papers always slag him off. "Um, it's an ... it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating ..." Dad smirks, and types the same thing again.
"Says, 'Wrong!' again," the first reporter announces, but it's unnecessary. They know what we want and I see Lestrade shoot a desperate look at Donovan.
"One more question."
A different reporter, a female, speaks up this time. "Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"
"I ... I know that you like writing about these," Lestrade begins, "but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered."
"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"
"Well, don't commit suicide." What a ridiculous thing to say to a room full of reporters, let alone a Daily Mirror reporter. Donovan looks like she's muttering the same thing to Lestrade, who grimaces as he looks back to the reporters. "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." Dad shakes his head, and sends two messages, one after the other. Back on screen, the ringtones jingle in their own funny ways, but Lestrade's takes a moment longer. Dads clearly sent him the second message. Looking disgruntled, Lestrade puts his phone back into his pocket and stands up to address the reporters.
"Thank you." I close the tab, and look up at dad.
"He has no idea what he's doing." I smile. Dad returns it, meeting my eye.
"No, which is why he needs us."