Dad whirls around, grabbing his phone, and wrapping his scarf back around his coat.
Knowing my cue, I pack up and wrap my own scarf around. By the time I've got downstairs, dad is already out and in the waiting taxi, and gesturing for me to hurry up.
"St. Bartholomew's Hospital, please." The cab starts running, and I watch the scenery building up. Being in the centre of town will be handy, even if we're not the sort to do shopping.
"What are we doing?" I ask, knowing we must be going to Bart's for the bigger equipment, or a body in the morgue.
"Confirming an alibi," he says simply, before steepling his hands.
"Please say you're not using those patches again," I groan. He opens his eyes and glares at me to shut up. Then he senses my worry and his eyes soften and he shakes his head.
Not long after mum died, I found him unconscious on the sofa with five patches on his arms. The first few years were bad then and dad had broken off all relationships so very few people knew what he was going through. But I think we've passed that now and it's a time I never want to revisit.
The journey lasts only sixteen minutes, and then we get out, dad paying the cabbie behind me. I can only conclude that we've hopped back to a previous case then the one we're on now, taking into account that we haven't spoken to anyone yet on this case.
Together, we walk the corridors at a fast pace up to the morgue. A young woman with mousey hair is ahead of us, struggling to open the door due to the large tray that's balancing procariously on her arms.
"Molly, I need a body. Fresh as you can find."
"I can't really -"
"Good. I'll be in the morgue, I just need to get something." We spin around and head towards the research area on the other side of the hospital. I have not the faintest clue what he's doing. I can deduce a lot about most people, but with dad, nothing. Not unless he's being obvious about it.
Over near the labs, one of the lecturers dad knows quite well emerges from one of the rooms.
"Sherlock Holmes!" Dad forces a smile onto his face as he's forced to stop. "Haven't seen you around here for a bit. I heard you and your girl were away on a case. What happened?"
"It was the Spanish; nobody recognised the given name of the victim was the English of a place in Spain." Mike nods, pretending he understood.
"Still looking for a flatmate?" Mike asks, watching my dad.
"No and is it any wonder?!" dad exclaims, snorting. "Who'd want me for a flatmate? I have a motherless daughter, I play the violin at any time, night or day, and sometimes I don't speak. Who'd want to live with that?" Mike shrugs his large shoulders. "Could we borrow your riding crop please?" Dad smiles sweetly.
"I don't have that on me now," Mike responds, laughing and I eye him sceptically.
"Unless you've just returned from having a cirsceptamy, your stance and walk suggests you've just come from one of your appointments," I say and he raises an eyebrow."So who is it this time?" He doesn't respond but his silence says enough and he soon turns and heads back into his room for the crop.
A few minutes later, we're back in the morgue and I watch as dad unzips the body bag that's been placed on the table and peers at the corpse inside. Then he sniffs it.
"How fresh?" Molly Hooper walks over from the door.
"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice," she explains, unnecessarily. Dad zips the bag back up and straightens up, spinning around to face her and putting on a false smile.
"Fine. We'll start with the riding crop. Molly, help me get the body out and onto the table, Sophie, take in as much as you can, I'll be quizzing you later."
That's how he likes to teach me. Not algebra or climate change like they teach at school. What use is it, in the world of heros and villans and crimes and cases? This is much more useful.
Once she's helped with the corpse, Molly retreats into the observation room to apply some lipstick and to watch my dad disrespect the dead. It's not as if they mind. Dad lifts the crop high and repeatedly beats the body violently, making Molly flinch each time the crop comes in contact with the body. It's not the worst I've seen him do.
From what I can see, the deceased worked at Barts for ten years as an IT technician, but retired two years ago to spend more time with his grandchildren - one of which had terminal cancer. He lived alone after his wife had died, but he kept a picture of her wherever he went. Sentiment.
As dad finishes and straightens up, breathless, Molly walks back into the room.
"So, bad day, was it?" Molly jokes nervously to dad's ignorance as he pulls out his notebook and I take my cue to do the same and write up my observations.
"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," dad tells her. "A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."
"Listen," she begins lamely, "I was wondering: maybe later, when you're finished ..." Dad stops scribbling to look up at her then gives her a double take and a frown.
"Are you wearing lipstick?" He asks, spoiling Molly's attempt to set up a date, "You weren't wearing lipstick before."
"I, er, I refreshed it a bit," she lies hesitantly, before sending him a coy smile. He stares back at her, oblivious to her flirting attempts. She should know by now that a relationship between them is never going to happen: he's been married to his job since mum died, and I don't think he believes any woman could fill that spot again.
Dad goes back to writing in his notebook. "Sorry, you were saying?"
"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." Dad flips his notebook shut and stores it away.
"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs, Sophia!" he says swiftly before walking away.
"Coming!" I call, stuffing my own notebook away, and saying a temporary 'goodbye' to Molly, I walk after him.