Chapter Four
Caught in the Act – The Hardest Thing – Going to the Angel – The Sword of Damocles – Calling Home – Gone, Disappeared and Missing – Fathers – The Mysterious Mr Dunwin – Hard Knowledge.
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Of course, one of them had to scream. It wouldn't have been a proper discovery unless one of them screamed. The thing with Americans, John thought, his head throbbing at the raw echoes of the woman's eardrum-piercing shrieks, is that they truly believe Hollywood is correct. Apparently, you simply must scream at the top of your lungs if you think you've witnessed a gruesome murder. More so if the assumed murderer is still there with fresh blood on his hands. Especially if he's British. And if he's British, blood-covered and smiling, you scream sufficient to wake the dead. Apparently, his smile had been the final straw.
Greg Lestrade had been sympathetic … up to a point.
"How the bloody hell did you get mixed up in this mess?" the tall Londoner had demanded. "And you," he scorned. "Of all people. A doctor. Didn't you stop to think how you being covered in the guy's blood was going to look?"
"As a doctor," John frowned. "It was essential for me to make sure the man was actually dead before I worried about what it might look like for me, a doctor."
"You know I'll have to bring you in and go through all the usual procedures, don't you?" the Inspector was faintly apologetic.
John was disconcerted. "You know I had nothing to do with this man's death, don't you?" he checked Lestrade's expression to be sure.
"Yes, Doctor Watson," Lestrade lifted his eyebrows and stared down at the shorter man. "I am personally confident that you had nothing to do with the actual murder of this man, but you were here and up to your elbows in the guy's blood when the Yanks arrived on the scene." Greg Lestrade paused, shaking his head. "It's not as good as it could be."
Sighing, John made a semi-sheepish face. "There's something else," he said reluctantly. "You're not going to like this."
Explaining about Sean Lachlan, the loan, the aggressive finance company and the strange meeting in the Ancient Egypt exhibit, John realised he was not making his case any better as Lestrade's eyes glazed.
"Are you serious?" he asked when John was done. "You realise now that you are not only some bloke who happened to be passing, but a 'person of interest' and quite possibly the Prime Suspect for knocking this guy off?"
"An impossibility, Inspector," Sherlock's assertive baritone echoed around the marbled room. "John wasn't anywhere near here when the man was murdered."
Sherlock had arrived on the scene while the American was still doing her Hollywood best. Not that he wasn't happy to see his flatmate, but John had to wonder how he had made it here so swiftly. Then it clicked. Of course. What was he thinking? Of course he knew how Sherlock had appeared seconds after the screaming had started. He had probably been there before it had begun. Shaking his head, John realised his excuses about finding a job had been accepted far too readily.
Knowing Sherlock, and knowing he was just about to prove John was utterly innocent, Lestrade grinned. "Go on, then," he said. "Tell me how he couldn't have done it."
"CCTV cameras both outside and inside the museum will confirm the time that John arrived and entered the Egyptian exhibit," Sherlock looked thoughtfully at his friend. "Just as they may also identify the actual murderer." He paused. "If you'll look at John's wrists, Inspector, you'll observe that the dead man's blood was already congealing as evidenced by the liberal coating on John's hands which did not run when he raised them. Further," Sherlock began to sound bored. "Any semi-competent autopsy will indicate the extant liver-temperature is commensurate with a time-of-death significantly before my colleague entered the building," he added. "Finally," he looked around, curious. "Weapon?"
"What weapon?" John asked.
"Precisely," Sherlock offered Lestrade a fractional smile. "Can we go?" he asked.
###
They had barely spoken a word.
Cate had spent the night in the silence of one of the guest-rooms, unable to rest, and as far from sleep as she was ever likely to be. It had been grim. Her right hand throbbed and she'd removed the bandage in order to relieve it. On top of that, she'd never felt so emotionally desolate and didn't know how to make it stop. She could not walk away from the situation confronting the two students and, since she'd involved herself voluntarily in their problems, she could not, in all conscience, do what Mycroft demanded she do. It would be a denial of everything she held true. That this decision diametrically opposed his standpoint, not to mention his government work, meant she would be miserable either way. How could he not see this? Or perhaps he did see it and considered it unimportant? Either way, she felt awful. The situation had whirled around and around her head until she felt unwell. She had no appetite and sat in the kitchen sipping tea.
Mycroft's night had been similarly disturbed and he was out of sorts. He had barely slept, restless and ill at ease in her absence. The bed had been wretchedly empty without her warmth. He had missed her breathing, the comfort of having her sleep beside him. Looking sideways, he noted the shadows beneath her eyes and pink, slightly inflamed eyelids. She had been crying. His stomach knotted. The idea that not only had she been crying, but that she had taken care to make sure he did not hear her cry, twisted inside him. The urge to take her in his arms and hold her until she stopped fighting, until she was his happy Cate again, was almost intolerable. But he could not relent. For her sake and safety, he dare not. The thought of eating held no appeal for him either.
"I'm taking the day off work," her voice was cheerless. "There are things I need to do and I'm not in the mood to be jolly for the sake of others."
"I understand," his voice was equable but had the rasp of gravel. "I'll see you later?"
Turning to look at him directly for the first time that morning, Cate ached at the tight lines of his face and the frown between his eyes. "Later," she lowered her gaze and turned away. "Goodbye, Mycroft."
Pausing, Mycroft felt a strange need to stay until this situation was resolved, until they could part as allies rather than cold-war opposites. Almost ready to announce his intention to stay, he realised how it would look to Cate. He had to leave her to her own deliberations, and in peace. Inhaling deeply, he walked out of the kitchen and out of the house.
Through the last of her sleepless hours, Cate had realised what she had to do. If she accepted the status quo, bad things would become worse, especially for Medina and Erik. If she was able to do what so obviously needed to be done, this might all be over within the next few days, perhaps even by tomorrow. Some things would be harder to choreograph than others, but she hadn't been able to think of an alternative.
Picking up her phone, she called the bank. Cate wanted money. Quite a lot of money, and she needed to be sure she could get what she wanted in cash. Apparently, that would be no problem. Good. One of the easy things done. Then she phoned the University to advise them that an unexpected problem necessitated her absence for at least the next several days, and outlined the actions needed to cover for her time away. In passing, Cate realised if this all went wrong, she'd just bidden goodbye to her professorship.
Letting her fingers do some walking through the Yellow Pages, Cate located a furnished flat for immediate, temporary lease, above a Cuban restaurant in Islington. All the owner wanted was cash, no questions asked. Cate took it for a month, sight unseen. If this wasn't all over well before then, she realised she might have to take it for a lot longer. Another easy thing ticked off the list. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself for one of the harder tasks.
Sitting, Cate wrote a note. Tried to write a note. Wrote a note several times, screwing up at least a dozen beginnings and throwing them all in the bin. No matter how she tried to say it, the words came out horribly each time. It wasn't even the things she said that were hard, but the things she wasn't able to say. Finally, she finished.
Mycroft,
It seems we have found a place where there is no agreement. I realise this makes us both unhappy, but it would be infinitely worse were I to accede, or pretend to accede to your demands. I will not lie, least of all to you. As this situation has been, at least partly of my making, I feel obliged to help resolve it and am fairly certain you would not support my plans. Therefore it's best I step out of the picture until the problem is eliminated. Hopefully, we can talk more calmly when this is over. Know that I love you, my darling.
Cate
Leaving it propped between the salt- and pepper-grinders, he'd see it the moment he walked in. It had to be this way. If she saw him upset, she would surrender in a handful of heartbeats and hold him tight until they were friends again. But it would be a hollow, artificial alliance, and it wouldn't last, and then her heart would be broken.
Thinking, Cate looked at her phone. If she took it with her, Mycroft would be able to trace her the second she switched it on. If she left it, he'd be able to track everything she'd done, every call she'd made. If he wanted to. She sighed. Would he even want to? Switching the phone off, she left it on the granite bench next to the note. She'd leave the choice to him.
Digging out a small case, Cate packed a few necessities. Changing into jeans, trainers, a nondescript sweatshirt and a dark coat and scarf, she took a look around to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. Seconds later, she had closed the front door behind her and was flagging down a cab.
###
Erik and Medina had followed Cate's instructions and spent the night in separate dorm rooms at the YWCA. Perhaps not the place either of them would have picked, it was at least clean, relatively private and cheap. In Portland Place, the Y was an easy and swift walk from the University, something both of them wanted. They had no desire to be out on the street with men chasing them. Not having heard anything from the Professor, Erik wondered what might have happened to her. She said she was going to cause trouble, and he believed her.
But now the daylight made them think very seriously about what to do next.
"Are you still sure you don't want to go to your father?" Erik asked her as they sat just inside a nearby coffee house. "You say you don't want to go, but it might be the most sensible course of action."
"Do you want me to go?" she asked, softly. "If you don't want to go through this with me, I won't hold you to any promise you think you've made."
"It's not that at all," Erik sighed, troubled. "I simply don't want you getting into any trouble with your family," he paused. "Your dad nearly hit the roof yesterday when he thought I'd taken you to a bar. Imagine what he'd do if he heard we'd both spent the night at the Y."
"I think that is why Professor Cate told us to come here," she said, thoughtfully. "Even if this does come out, my father will know we have behaved with propriety. This is important to me."
Medina looked at him. "Are you going to go to your father?"
"If I absolutely have no other choice," Erik made a face. "I really don't want to drag him into this mess, and even if I did, he'd probably just take everything over and I'd end up doing what he told me to do."
"Heigh-ho, you two," Cate's greeting caught them off-balance. "Sleep well?"
"Professor Cate," Medina was clearly pleased to see the older woman. "We were unsure if you would come."
Dragging up a smile, Cate nodded, shortly. "I always keep my promises," she said. "Come on," beckoning to them both. "We have to go to ground."
"But where?" Erik looked lost.
"Trust me," Cate answered, looking around their heads for the nearest CCTV camera. "Just keep your heads down so those things," she pointed swiftly at the small white camera box across the road, "can't identify your face."
"Where are we going?" Medina was curious.
Glancing back over her shoulder, Cate raised her eyebrows. "Going to see an Angel," she winked.
###
"And you lied for what particular reason?" Sherlock was genuinely curious. "Did you really think your ability to dissemble has improved that much?"
"Look, Sherlock," John snapped. "I honestly do not need one of your lectures right now." Throwing himself into his armchair, he rested his chin in his hand and stared gloomily at the carpet.
"You aren't worried about a murder charge?" Sherlock examined his friend's face. "You already know there is no possibility of that standing up to even a minimal examination?"
"It's not that," John muttered, rubbing his eyes. "It's this bloody loan," he said. "It's still hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles."
"Then you must do something about it." Sitting back, Sherlock steepled his fingers as if that was all there was to the matter. "Have you considered a personal meeting with the – whoever it is – in charge?"
"I thought," John was slightly savage. "That I was going to have one of those at the museum this afternoon," he complained. "And look how that turned out."
"High time you met with the principal, in that case." Leaning over to take John's laptop, Sherlock tapped a key … and sighed. "Another attempted change of password?" he asked despairingly. "Really, John," he looked thoughtful for a moment, slowly tapping through a few keys. "It's not even as if you choose interesting options. I mean, 'Bankrupt£££?'"
"You do this just to piss me off, don't you?" John scowled. "And thank you very much," he grabbed the laptop back, snapping it closed. "Go and annoy some other poor destitute sod."
Sitting silently in his Le Corbusier, Sherlock waited, his eyes resting on the closed computer. Neither man moved or spoke. The clock ticked. Outside a dog barked. John cracked first.
"Oh, bloody well take it then," he said, shoving the laptop at his friend.
"As I was saying," Sherlock hit Google and typed rapidly. "You need to go to the top," he paused, frowning slightly. "And in this case, the top would seem to be this man." Turning the laptop around for John to see, the name of Malcolm D. Dunwin, Chief Financial Officer of Bow Bells Finance.
"And here," Sherlock noted an address with a hint of satisfaction, "is where we may be able to find him."
###
Coming out of the Underground at The Angel, Islington, Medina realise what Cate had meant. It had been difficult to keep their faces away from all the cameras – none of them realised just how many there were around the place. Cate smiled wryly as she began to understand how Mycroft seemed to know what was going on across the City at any given moment. He could actually see it. Not magic, after all.
Heading out along Upper Street, Cate kept looking up out of the corner of her eyes trying to spot the CCTV cameras. Dear God, they were everywhere. It would be nearly impossible to avoid them all. She'd have to think of a way to stop them being spotted.
Arriving at the flat, she stuck her hand through the letterbox to grab the key she had been told would be waiting there for her. Stepping quickly inside, the three of them ran up two flights of badly carpeted stairs directly into a central lounge area. It smelled musty and Medina went immediately to open a window. There were thick nets curtains in all the windows, which was fortunate or they would have had to keep the curtains closed.
As with most cheap, furnished accommodation, the place was a mismatch of colours and styles, but it looked relatively clean and sanitary. A faint whiff of old cigarette smoke clung to the walls, but not so bad as to be dreadfully unpleasant.
Off the lounge was a tiny kitchen-diner next to a surprisingly capacious and modern bathroom, and on the other side of the lounge were two small bedrooms. Cate had looked for a flat with at least two. There was a single bed in the smaller and a double in the larger one.
"You're sleeping in there," she told Erik, pointing to the single bed. "Medina and I shall share the big bed." Cate dumped her bag on the floor, turning to the girl. "As of now," she said, "I am your chaperone. Your father and mother can never think you stayed with a man without me around, okay?"
Understanding immediately, Medina put a hand on the older woman's arm. "Thank you," she nodded. "I had worried."
"Right, then," Cate stood in the main room. "This is what I think we should do next." Outlining her plan, she made it clear to both Medina and Erik that they were only here because the two of them had decided on this particular course of action; that either of them could end it at any time simply by deciding to go to their fathers, or failing that, when Medina was reinstituted as a student by the university. Did they both agree? Yes, they agreed. Did they understand why they had to stay out of sight as much as possible? Did they realise that people were going to be looking for them? Yes, they understood.
"And now," Cate took a deep breath. "We are going to phone your fathers."
"What?!" Erik was stunned. "After all this, you're going to dump us just like that?"
Looking at him from beneath her brows, Cate cleared her throat.
"I am going to tell them about the situation you are in," she clarified. "And advise them that because of this alarming treatment by both the university and whoever else is after you, that you have agreed to stay with me, temporarily, until the problem is rectified," she turned to Erik. "I don't think your father will be too difficult to handle, although he's certainly unlikely to be terribly happy," she said. "But your father," she looked at Medina. "Will be an entirely different problem. Be ready with answers to his questions, and remember," she said, "You can call this all off in a second if you change your mind." Glancing at them both. "You will have to speak to your respective parent and tell him that this is your choice."
Erik made a face and nodded. If his dad were to find out he'd gone missing without any explanation, there'd be all hell to pay. Medina was wondering how she could tell her father she didn't want to go home. But she would have to – she was accountable for her decisions now.
Seeing the look of resigned acceptance on their faces, Cate took another deep breath and dug three prepaid phones from her bag. Giving Erik and Medina one each, she kept the third for herself. "Right," she said. "Who's going first?"
###
Lestrade was at his desk, drinking tea. "What do you mean, gone?" he said.
Donovan shrugged. "She's disappeared, Sir." Looking down at the situation report, she shrugged again. "Two constables went to accompany one Medina bint Malik al Badour from her hall of residence to the Brook House holding facility at Heathrow, but were advised that the girl had not returned after leaving the previous morning." Sally Donovan was not surprised. The girl had done what many did: on learning she was about to be deported, she'd done a bunk.
Greg Lestrade was not convinced. The very fact that Holmes the elder was involved in this situation spoke volumes. There was more going on here than met the eye.
"Then we'd better start looking, hadn't we?" he asked, leaning forward and grabbing his desk phone. "Let's get the girl's picture circulating and get the standard 'all eyes' alert to all Metropolitan stations," he added. "We should also contact the local hospitals, hostels and mosques … ah yes," he spoke into the phone. "I need to get a missing person alert out for a Medina bint Malik al Badour…"
Within minutes, the search was officially on: Medina was now the subject of a full-scale police hunt.
###
"What do you mean, they've all disappeared?" Edward Cardin, Metropolitan Section Chief of Britain's Security Services, turned, scowling, at the man beside him. "What, all three of them?"
"Yes, Sir," the MI5 operative wasn't entirely happy either. "Neither al Badour's daughter or the young man who's been accompanying her, Erik Norling, have been seen since they evaded detention yesterday at the University campus in Gower Street." Checking the sheet of paper in his hand "Professor Adin-Holmes didn't turn up for work this morning, does not appear to be at her home, nor is she answering calls," the man paused. "It's a fair assumption the three of them are off together somewhere, especially after the woman's interference with our people yesterday."
"Does Mycroft Holmes know his wife might have disappeared?"
"Not yet, Sir."
"Jesus."
"Are you going to tell him?"
"Not in this lifetime," Cardin leaned over to pick up his phone. Hitting a few buttons, he waited. There was a voice.
"Donald?" he asked. "You might want to sit down for this one …"
###
"I am aware of that," Mycroft was perfectly calm in response to Donald Parker's assertion that Cate had not turned up for work. "I am curious, however," he added, "as to your reason for having this information, and why it is of interest to your organisation in the first place."
"Your wife is not at home, either," Parker continued, ignoring Mycroft's question. "Nor is she answering her phone."
"You have been attempting to contact Cate?" Mycroft's voice, perfectly modulated, turned to stone. "I thought we agreed she would be unharried?"
"Unless there was a clear connection between her and al Badour," Parker reminded him. "And there appears to be one … now."
"Being ..?"
"The girl, her boyfriend and your wife have all apparently vanished," the MI5 man sounded uncharacteristically sympathetic. "There is good reason to assume they may have gone into hiding together."
The icy breath of awful possibility curled around Mycroft's lungs. If Cate were not at home, then either she had gone … or she had been taken.
"I will look into this," he said, "and advise you accordingly."
"Do that, Holmes," Parker hung up.
Mycroft summoned his car.
###
The atmosphere in the flat was strained and Cate wondered if there were any tea in the kitchen: they all needed something after the last thirty minutes.
Erik had spoken with his father first. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly until he'd announced that Medina was involved.
"Yes, Dad, she's a girl," Erik had sighed, the phone buzzed in his ear. "No, she is not pregnant," he hissed, embarrassed. Louder buzzing. "Because I don't want her to be in this trouble by herself," he answered. "With the government … no, I don't know …" Raising his eyebrows in mute appeal, Cate decided it was time for her to act.
"Mr Norling," taking Erik's phone, she began to explain.
Erik's father, understandably, was unimpressed with the situation. Had his son not been there to speak for himself, he would have accused Cate of kidnapping. Since Erik was over eighteen and doing this of his own free-will, there was little more to be said. He said it anyway. Erik was red-faced and miserable when the call ended.
Cate looked the question at Medina. The next call would be the hard one.
Taking a deep breath, the girl reached her father at his hotel. Cate and Erik looked at each other, Cate ready to step in as soon as she was needed; Erik just wanted it all over with.
Speaking in Arabic, assuming that neither Erik not Cate could understand, Medina explained as simply as possible that she had been unfairly excluded from school and had to leave her hall of residence. In the meantime, she was staying with one of her professors who was here to speak with him if he wanted further information. When she turned to Cate, Medina got a look that said she hadn't been completely open with her father. The girl had no idea how the Professor might think this, but Cate's expression had been fairly explicit.
Taking the phone from Medina's fingers, Cate cleared her throat and launched into fluent Khaliji Arabic; a soft melody of vowels and harder, alliterative stops. In speaking with Malik al Badour, Cate made it abundantly clear that Medina was under her protection and that she was acting in the place of a maternal guardian. She also made it plain that Medina was her student, that she had been unfairly treated, and that they were going to work together to resolve the situation, however this had been complicated by intervention from various elements of the government.
All the while Cate was talking to al Badour, both Erik and Medina stared at her as if she were the Tooth Fairy come to life. That the Professor could speak Arabic, let alone so idiosyncratically, was unexpected.
Though he was clearly unhappy with events, it seemed that Medina's father was more-or-less accepting of the situation, although he was determined in that he wanted to take his daughter away. Cate handed the phone back.
"Tell him what you want to do," she said. "Tell him clearly so that there is no misunderstanding, please."
Knowing now that speaking a language other than English was no cover for her words, Medina was a little more direct this time. The phone buzzed in her ear. Erik made a face; he knew what she was hearing.
"No, father, I do not wish to do that," she objected. "I will not." The conversation squawked loudly, she jumped. "No," she repeated. "I will not go home because of this."
There was an ominous silence in the conversation. Cate was unsure whether this was possibly a good thing or not. Watching the girl's face pale, probably not. Medina simply ended the call.
"My father is adamant I must return home," she said. "He wants me to go to his hotel right away."
With a pained look, Erik started to drag his coat on. "Better get going, in that case," he muttered. Medina smiled, sadly.
"I told him I wouldn't leave London before this problem was fixed," she said. "I still need a friend if you are willing to be one."
Cate saw a sweet kind of smile blanket Erik's face. She sighed silently. Just as well there were only two bedrooms.
###
Walking along, counting the street numbers until Two-hundred and seventy-one, John and Sherlock eventually located the designated address of the CFO of the finance company holding John's signature. It was nothing more than a plain shop-front. The place looked deserted: the windows were boarded over and there was a pile of enveloped stuffed half-heartedly into the letterbox. Not a good sign.
"You sure this is the place?" John squinted as best he could through the dusty glass. "Doesn't look like anyone's home."
"This must be a convenience letter-drop," Sherlock looked swiftly around. "No point wasting time here, the man we're after is a solicitor and would be in his offices," he paused. "We shall have to find them." Leaning down, he yanked out several of the envelopes, a couple of them tearing in the process.
"Oh look," he said, innocently. "Somehow these envelopes have been opened and just left lying around," he grinned as he extracted the contents. Mostly invoices, a couple of advertisements. All of them addressed to Hamilton and Dunwin, Solicitors, at this address. He smiled in satisfaction.
"Now we have them," he said, pulling out his phone, searching for the partnership online. Within a few seconds, he turned back to John, a mildly pleased expression on his face. "Our mysterious Mr Dunwin and his colleague have a legal practice in the East End," he said. "Let's go."
Arriving in a much-gentrified street in Stepney, John and Sherlock assessed the building upon which an excessively ornate brass plate bearing the designate of 'Hamilton and Dunwin – Solicitors' stood very proud indeed.
Entering a thoroughly modernised foyer, Sherlock's eyes swept the cool lines of the office, reading invisible signs of usage; the tracks of carpet-wear, marks on paint-work. Knowing instantly which office to approach, he smiled condescendingly at the receptionist, striding past her and through the second door to her left.
"Hey!" she called, half-standing, staring. "You can't simply walk into Mr Dunwin's office…"
"Apparently, we can," John was right on his friend's heels, closing the office door smartly behind him, holding the handle still.
Sitting at an reproduction Hepplewhite writing table, a startled scowl across his face, was a well-fed man in an expensive, loudly-striped suit. Difficult though it was not to scoff, Sherlock flung himself into one of the two - fake - mahogany elbow-chairs deigned suitable, one assumed, for clients. He smiled, linking his fingers.
"Bow Bells Finance," he offered.
As John moved to sit in the other chair, the office door was flung open angrily by the receptionist. "Want me to call the police, Mr Dunwin?"
Alternating between the strangers' faces, Dunwin felt perhaps he'd better listen to what they had to say before involving the law. The dark-haired guy was clearly manic, and the blonde one looked a bit on the tough side.
"No, that's fine, Shelly," he said, his eyes settling on Sherlock as the one to watch. "I'll call you if I need anything."
Unconvinced and still bristling, Shelly closed the door, a baleful glare aimed at the back of Sherlock's head.
"So, Gentlemen," Dunwin attempted politeness. "To what do I owe the pleasure ..?"
"You are the CFO of Bow Bells Finance?" Sherlock stared at the man over his hands.
"I am," Dunwin was openly puzzled.
"One of your employees met with an unpleasant ending yesterday."
Ah. No need to call the law, then. It was already here. "Yes," he nodded, an appropriately sombre look on his face. "Tragic."
"The man was at the British Museum because he had arranged to meet my colleague here, to discuss a small financial matter pertaining your company." Sherlock raised both eyebrows.
Dunwin began to feel uneasy.
"No, my colleague did not kill him, but that's not to say he couldn't have." The man's thoughts were so flagrantly obvious, even John could read them.
"And why do you want to talk to me on this matter?" Dunwin chose his words carefully. "I have no connection with this unfortunate death."
"But he worked for you," John leaned forward against the tacky repro desk. "You might even have sent him there to meet me."
"To discuss ..?"
"A sum of money a friend of mine died owing you," John sat back. "I don't have the money to repay it and wanted to talk about coming to some new arrangement."
Dunwin relaxed a little. So all this was about one of the loans? "How much?" he asked.
"Twenty thousand," John still had trouble saying the amount.
"And what kind of new arrangement were you thinking of?
"How about a total write-off of the debt?" Sherlock was perfectly serious as he smiled at the solicitor. It was a disturbing look. It disturbed Dunwin, at least.
"I can't do that," he muttered. "I don't have the necessary authority to action any change on that sort of money." Dunwin shuffled uncomfortably in his seat beneath Sherlock's unbending gaze. "You'll need to speak to the Boss about that kind of dosh."
John's heart sank. Dunwin wasn't in charge? Then who the hell was?
Throwing a notebook and pen at the increasingly unnerved legal advisor, Sherlock was perfunctory. "Name and address," he snapped.
Looking anxiously between the two of them, Dunwin hesitated.
"Name!" Sherlock's barked command had the solicitor almost jumping out of an appallingly replicated piece of Queen Anne.
Leaning forward, Dunwin scribbled a couple of lines of writing before pushing the book back across the table.
Scanning the scrawled words, Sherlock smiled politely. "Thank you."
Leaving the office, John looked at the still-angry receptionist and nodded back at Dunwin's room. "He might need a cup of tea," he said.
###
Mycroft arrived home while it was still light, although the day was already drawing in. He walked directly into the kitchen, where, whoever was at home, would usually be preparing dinner. It was empty; clean and uncluttered as if unused for the week. A chill settled in his belly. Cate was not here: he would know if she were, he had a sixth-sense for her now. Inexplicable, but true. The house was empty of her.
Observing the single sheet of paper wedged upright on the bench top, his breath caught. He knew, without reading a word, that the contents would contain no good news. Inhaling slowly, he read it anyway, time slowing as he did.
Apparently, Cate's feelings in this matter were far deeper than he'd allowed himself to believe. That she felt unable to continue living in the same house as him while the problem was unresolved, reflected as much on him as on her. Mycroft heard her voice in the words. Know that I love you.
Ah, Cate … no.
Pushing a rising coldness down, he turned back to the bench and saw her phone, clearly left for him. Picking it up, both to touch something of hers and to give himself something practical upon which to focus, he turned it on, scanning vaguely through the menu icons. Bypassing calls and messages for the moment, Mycroft focused on one called Keep. Opening the folder, his heart thudded. It was full of photographs. Of him.
There was an image of him sitting in an armchair, chin in hand, wearing a particular look of thoughtfulness. Another was of him standing by the kitchen windows staring out into the walled courtyard, his mind a continent away. Yet another was of him stretched out asleep on a sofa, newspaper folded across his chest. Scrolling through the collection he realised there must be dozens of images. All were of him. He couldn't remember her taking any of them. Pausing the list, Mycroft stopped at a particular picture he actually did recall. He had been standing in the sun-garden at Deepdene, hands in his trouser-pockets, appreciating the perfume of the flowers. She had called his name and snapped the picture as he turned to her. He had been happy. He had been smiling. His throat tightened at the memory.
Cate.
Putting the phone down, he sagged against the granite bench top, his body suddenly too heavy. As he leaned forward, Mycroft saw a corner of paper sticking out of the kitchen bin. Compelled to look, he halted in gut-wrenching realisation. Extracting the crumpled mass with great care, he flattened each piece on the unforgiving stone, and read and re-read Cate's attempts to communicate her decision. … I cannot break a promise… I don't want to hurt you… Forgive me, my love…
The tightness in his throat spread to his chest. It hurt.
Cate.
A hard knowledge surged through his body. She had left him.
Cate.
The decision arrived without thought. It was simply what he would do. Standing slowly upright, Mycroft Holmes narrowed his eyes, already dismissing strategies.
He would find her and bring her home.