Chapter Five
Off To See the Wizard – No Appointment Necessary – Collusion – CCTV – Not a Bad Father –You Must Be Dreaming – A Fortuitous Meeting.
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"Well I think it looks bloody awful," Erik regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Medina grinned as she packed away the detritus associated with his recent transformation. From being a Nordic ice-blonde, Erik was now a dark, mousey-brown, with eyebrows to match.
"You still look very handsome," she laughed, poking his shoulder. "Stop being so vain."
Smiling down at her, Erik raised his eyebrows. "You think I look handsome?" he asked, half in joke.
Nodding, a little self-consciously, Medina smiled. "Yes," she acknowledged quietly. "You are good-looking."
It was difficult not to stare at the girl beside him, and Erik wasn't trying too hard. Their eyes seemed fixed on each other … everything went very quiet.
The front-door of the flat rattled open as Cate came in with supplies.
"Salad and aubergine carbonara for dinner," she said, dumping one of the bags in the kitchen. "These are for you two," she added, handing the other bag to Medina, noticing Erik's quite radical make-over with approval. It certainly changed his appearance; nobody seeing him now would make any connection with a disappearing blonde student. Good.
Tipping the bag open, Medina picked out several toiletry items and articles of clothing for herself, handing the other things over to Erik. At least now they could clean up and change into fresh clothes.
"I'm going to see the Vice Chancellor tonight," Cate told them. "I won't be long, but I'm going to try and persuade him to reinstate you," she said to Medina.
"You're going to the University?" Erik asked. "Isn't that dangerous? What if you're spotted?"
"Not the university," Cate shook her head. "I know where Charles Shelsher lives."
"You know the VC socially?" Erik wasn't sure whether to be impressed.
"I have a connection to him that goes all the way back to his undergrad days at Oxford." Allowing herself a meditative smile, Cate picked up an aubergine and a sharp little knife.
###
Strolling along Lowndes Place in Knightsbridge, Sherlock nodded to himself. This was more like it. If the mysterious kingpin of the usurious Bow Bells Finance lived anywhere, it was going to be here. Strafing the area with a perceptive eye, he noted the extravagance of security cameras, building alarms and barred windows. Gazing upwards, he registered a number of Home Office CCTV cameras, as well as several private ones, run, no doubt, by the owners of the surrounding mansions. They were placed in highly visible locations.
Walking towards an imposing marble-stepped portico sheltering a massive and rather grand dark-blue door, John paused before pressing the ostentatious doorbell.
"You don't need to come in with me, you know," he said, turning to his flatmate. "I am quite capable of handling this all by myself."
"Of course you are, John," Sherlock was staring at the nearest ground-floor window. The blinds had twitched momentarily. They were expected.
The door was opened by a butler. "May I help you?" he asked, civilly.
"I'd like to speak with Mr Norling, please," John smiled half-heartedly.
"Do you have an appointment, Sir?" the factotum smiled mildly.
Seeing John about to flounder, Sherlock stepped up, smiling brightly. "Yes," he nodded. "He is expecting us."
"Then please come in, Gentlemen," the man ushered them into a luxuriously-furnished and beautifully-appointed atrium. "I shall advise Mr Norling you have arrived." Waving them to several large upholstered chairs, "please make yourself comfortable."
Stepping away, the man walked deeper into the house – John was hard-pressed to call it a home – it felt more like a five-star hotel. About to take a seat, he felt the shoulder of his jacket pulled as, instead of waiting as directed, Sherlock followed the butler on silent feet. Making a face, John went along, thankful both that his shoes had rubber soles and that the carpet around here was deep enough to have lost tribes in it.
About to knock on a set of double-doors, the butler paused.
"Thank you," Sherlock whisked himself around the stationary man. "We'll take it from here." He opened both doors wide, striding through to the room beyond.
Sighing, John felt this was perhaps not the best way to assure the most positive of responses from the man he'd come to see. Not a lot of people liked strangers barging in; especially people with domestic staff. On the other hand, his brain added as a postscript, they seemed to be getting quite good results when they did, so …
Ignoring the butler's angry protestations, Sherlock focused on the man half-standing beside a well-padded armchair. A little over average height, balding, but possessing the sleekly-groomed appearance of one who understood the need to look the part. The expression his face was not one of shock or fear, but rather interest and wariness. Surprising. This would mean that … turning, Sherlock was in time to catch a second door opening into the room admitting two, rather substantially-built men, of a thuggish demeanour. Their hands dived immediately towards their inner jackets. It was not hard to guess the reason.
"Not here for trouble," Sherlock lifted his hands in the air, palms out. "Just want to talk."
As soon as his men appeared, the mansion's owner relaxed, sitting back down into his comfortable chair, waving at his protectors. They lowered their hands, but stood vigilant and ready.
There was an ornate humidor on a side-table. Extracting a princely Cohiba, their boss took his time cutting the cap, lighting it slowly and rolling it in his fingers, puffing gently all the while. Once it was sufficiently alight and to his taste, he turned to look at the interlopers.
"I rarely have strangers in my house these days," he observed. "Especially uninvited ones."
"We're looking for a man called Norling, the Principal of Bow Bells Finance," Sherlock nodded at John. "My colleague here has a problem that won't wait."
"I am Norling," the man spoke in a broad London accent. "Bow Bells is one of mine," he paused. "But I have people who manage it for me. Why not go to them?"
"We did," John stepped forward, then immediately back, as the two heavies reached once again towards their jackets. He raised his hands as had Sherlock. "But we got no joy from them, so we came to you."
Rolling the smouldering cigar between his fingers, Norling picked a shred of leaf from his lip. "And what makes you imagine I'd be willing to listen?"
"You're already listening," Sherlock grinned. "And you want to know not only how we found you, but why, oh why, we went to all the trouble."
"True," Norling nodded. "Tell me."
"Tea would be nice," Sherlock dropped into the armchair opposite. John frowned, looking back at the two guards who seemed as unsure as he. Shrugging, John moved to a fine brocade sofa and sat on the edge.
Grinning around the cigar, Norling spoke over his shoulder. "Tea for my unexpected guests," he grunted. "Make it good and strong: it might be their last for some time after the police get here."
"You won't call the police," Sherlock crossed his legs elegantly. "You don't need them," he said. "And we're not unexpected."
"No, you're not really a surprise," Norling sat back, linking his fingers. He puffed and grinned widely. "Nor am I going to call the police," he added. "You seem to know everything I'm thinking, so how about returning the favour?"
"As my colleague has already mentioned," Sherlock turned to John. "He's a customer with a complaint."
"You serious?" Norling raised his eyebrows. "You came all this way for customer service?"
John nodded. "It's serious to me," he added. "And I was the one who found your enforcer with his throat cut in the British Museum."
"So …" Norling narrowed his eyes. "That was you, eh?"
"Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?" Sherlock was curious. "I'm assuming from the methodology, that this was a business-related incident?"
"I thought the term 'cut-throat' was just a metaphor," John looked taken aback.
"Not in my line of work," Norling puffed meditatively on his Cohiba.
"Oh," Sherlock sipped the just-arrived tea. "And what line of work might that be?"
###
Charles Shelsher, according to the White pages, lived in Queensway, a quiet, though expensive inner-city area. Hopping off the tube at Bayswater, it took Cate only minutes to find the house. It was a very pleasant largish house with ornate and expensive topiary lined up behind neat railings facing the street. There were welcoming lights in the tall windows. It was the kind of house that spoke of influence and power and the making of decisions. She hoped the University VC would live up to the promise of his home.
Shelsher's wife, Miral, greeted her at the door. "Cate," she smiled. "How lovely to see you. I assume it's Charles you're here to see?"
Kissing the proffered cheek, Cate returned the smile. "Please, yes," she agreed. "Although this is ad hoc and if you've got guests …"
"Not at all, my dear, come in."
The Vice-Chancellor was in his study and looked up as Miral ushered Cate in. His expression slid down the scale of civility towards mild antagonism.
"Cate," he said when his wife had left them. "What in God's holy name do you think you're doing?" Leaning forward on his desk, Shelsher clasped his hands, adopting a politically-correct look of censure. "One of my most senior academic staff absconding with two students?" he sounded scandalised. "If anything goes wrong, the university will have to disown you completely, you realise this?"
Ah. Clearly there would be no small-talk tonight. Very well; she knew the words to this song.
"You excluded my student, not because she did anything worthy of such draconian treatment, but because you were told to." Cate also leaned forward, unblinking, her gaze demanding. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Leaning back, Charles pursed his mouth. "I admit to no external pressure," he said, finally. "It is in the national interest that Miss al Badour leaves these shores, and that is all I will say."
"What national interest, and who told you Medina's name was al Badour?" Cate injected a note of prosecution. "That's not her enrolled student name."
Hooding his eyes, Shelsher refused to be discomforted. He was used to little games like this. "Are you accusing me of something?"
Leaning back in her chair, Cate nodded reflectively. "Yes, Charles," she met his eyes. "I am."
Steepling his fingers against his mouth, Charles looked at her. Cate obviously knew that Mycroft had demanded the girl's removal from the University. If she were guiding the students, then she was able to exercise a certain amount of control over what they did, or did not do. This might be used to the University's advantage if everything went south.
"You can prove nothing," he said.
Cate's heart sank. So it really was Mycroft behind this entire thing. While there had been a chance it was all Charles' doing, she might have hoped to make him change his mind. If Mycroft had put his stamp on things, there was virtually no chance at all.
"The girl is an innocent in this, Charles," Cate spoke quietly. "Have you no scruples? Have you given any thought to her future if we exclude her without apparent cause? In academic terms, she'll be marked for life."
Shelsher had the decency to look down at his desk. "I have no choice in the matter, Cate my dear," he acknowledged. "It has been made quite clear to me that if I didn't remove her, the Chancellor would."
"The Chancellor's a ceremonial figurehead," Cate frowned. "She signs testamurs and attends collegial dinners!"
"Yes, Cate," Charles Shelsher nodded. "She can sign anything." He paused, meaningfully. "Anything."
Ah. So there it was. The inevitable or else. Mycroft making absolutely sure he got what he wanted. She sighed in frustration.
"If I can get the … order for Medina's exclusion reversed, will you permit her to study with me if she still wants to?"
Screwing up his mouth, Shelsher thought for a moment before nodding briefly.
"Very well, Charles," Cate stood, ready to leave. "I'll see what may be done to exert influence in my own way."
The VC looked up at her words. "Not the papers, Cate," he asked in a pained voice. "I ask only that."
"You have colluded with my husband to put Medina's future at stake, Charles," she frowned. "Do you think you have the right to ask anything?"
Caught in coils of his own making, Shelsher fell unhappily silent.
Leaving the room, Cate walked out into the night.
###
"… And she already knew you had a hand in the girl's exclusion," Shelsher was complying with a demand of immediate contact regarding any movement on this situation, although Mycroft hadn't expected to be given a lead on Cate's whereabouts from such an unexpected source.
"When did she leave?"
"About ten minutes ago, why?" the VC was curious.
"Do you know which way she went?" Mycroft wasn't interested in questions; he needed to track Cate's journey before he lost her in the inner streets.
"Towards Bayswater tube, I believe," Shelsher didn't sound terribly sure. Mycroft knew he had scant time to act.
"I'll speak with you later, Charles."
"Bayswater underground station, immediately," he instructed one of his technical staff supervising the CCTV cameras. Instantly, the view on six of the large screens in the Ops room switched to varying perspectives of the locale. Two were on the roof of the station itself; one along to the left, above the local Sainsbury's; one diagonally across the road on a Bureau de Change, and yet another directly over from the station, atop a Carphone Warehouse outlet. There was one other, down the road to the right, over Barclay's, but there was a sign partially obstructing the view. Mycroft tutted in annoyance.
Rapidly scanning the dark street-scene for a familiar figure, Mycroft felt his pulse quicken. Only a couple of days and he craved her like a drug. Cate was nowhere in sight.
"The platforms," he snapped. And there she was, just boarding a train. Despite the grey, grainy images, Mycroft would recognise the way she walked in the middle of a crowd of hundreds.
"What train is that?" he demanded.
"Circle line, Sir, heading towards Edgeware Road."
"Track it and link to onboard views."
In a dexterous flurry, the camera operator flicked to tunnel views of the rushing train, as well as flashing up consecutive views of the inside of the semi-filled carriages.
"Stop!" Mycroft lifted a finger. "Back one."
Cate stood in a corner by one of the doors, her hand curled lightly around a stanchion, a frown on her face. As she rubbed her eyes, he thought she looked tired.
"Edgeware Road, Sir," the operative advised.
"Follow the woman in the dark coat near the rear doors," Mycroft wanted an additional pair of eyes on this.
"Looks like she's crossing over to the opposite platform, Sir. Circle Line again, heading towards King's Cross."
"Do not lose her," he warned. "I need to know where she exits the system."
"Now at King's Cross, Sir. Target changing to Northern Line, heading for Morden." The camera operator was diligent at least.
"Target debarking train at Angel Islington. The woman appears to be heading towards the West street exit"
Islington? Was Cate so close? "Maintain observation, please," he murmured.
Target heading north along Upper Street."
"Stay with her."
Cate paused by a nondescript faded black door between two restaurants. Selecting a key, she let herself in, closing it behind her. The nearest camera zoomed in on the number.
"72 Upper Street, Sir," the technician sounded vaguely satisfied.
"Excellent work, thank you."
Turning, Mycroft headed back into his private office. Now he knew where Cate was, he needed decide upon the safest way to get her and the students out before MI5 found them too.
###
Malik al Badour was not, as some might think, a butcher. Yes: he had been responsible for a significant number of deaths, but he was a soldier and a leader of soldiers. Yes: he had been the cause of destruction, fear and distress, but in war, such events were inevitable. Was he a bad man? Probably. Maybe his soul would be weighed against a feather at the end of things as some of his Egyptian brothers believed, or he would likely fall from the bridge of Paradise into the deep and terrible place beneath. Either way, al Badour had no illusions of his erstwhile goodness. But now, sitting in one of the world's most luxurious hotels, Malik al Badour knew he had an opportunity to be a good father.
Unlike many of his contemporaries, he did not hold with the traditional view of a woman's place in the Arab world. His wife was an intellectual, a poet and an artist before they had married, and Escalla had continued her work since, surprising him constantly with uncompromising views in her writing and her painting. She gave him a place to be something other than a soldier, to leave the violence behind for a while. She fought tooth and nail for the right to do what she wanted, regardless of her sex, and by and large, she was successful. Escalla also fought for the rights of her children to do the same, especially their eldest, Medina.
Medina had always been a precocious learner, gobbling up ideas and information as soon as she could speak. When she learned to read, it was as if each book she opened took her to a new star in the heavens: she had gone through every shred of written material in the house before she was eleven, even those books Malik thought unsuitable for children, and especially daughters. With the reading came the endless questions. Why were there wars? What was the point of having boy's classes and girls classes? How did names work? Why did people get married? Could she change her hair to blonde? Escalla had laughed and explained, most of the time, grabbing him by the hand to make sure he took part in the explaining too.
"But why?" he demanded. "She is asking me questions I don't know the answers to."
"Then you must tell her this," his wife had been absolutely serious, despite her smiles. "Medina must learn to listen to different ideas and opinions, and then to make up her own mind."
"She's asking me questions about boys," he looked sheepish. "What am I supposed to tell her?"
"The truth," Escalla poked him in the shoulder. "Answer the questions as honestly as you can, don't hide things from her."
"But I'm her father," he groaned.
Escalla looked at him from beneath her dark lashes. "Then who better to tell her about romance and love?" she teased.
Excelling at her studies, the Principal of her school wanted to enter her for an international scholastic award. Malik had been unsure, Escalla had been adamant.
"If you do not allow her this, I will divorce you and take the children to live with me in the hills where I shall keep goats and write poems about the cowardice of husbands."
"You would not."
Raising both her striking eyebrows, Escalla gave him a look his mother would have recognised.
Of course, Medina won the award, and with it, a scholarship to study at a special college in Istanbul to prepare for the international baccalauréat. Escalla's brother and his wife had immediately offered to act as guardians for the girl while she studied abroad. Their offer was a little too prompt, and a fraction too convenient to be entirely spontaneous, but he had simply raised a brow and smiled knowingly. Escalla had squeezed his hand very tightly. Their youngest child had been conceived that night.
Living in Turkey, in one of the most European of Eastern cities, Medina naturally absorbed much of the philosophies and perceptions of the people there, in addition to her language-studies in English and French and Latin. The few years spent there turned the young girl into a seeker of knowledge on a global level. Her one desire before returning home had been to undertake a research degree in either Paris or London. It had fallen to Britain to play host to Medina bint Malik al Badour
Now he was here too. In a luxury hotel, serving his chief the best way he was able, well aware that Britain saw him as no friend of theirs. And his eldest child was in trouble and it was likely his fault. Was he a bad man? Probably.
Pulling out his phone, he spoke in rapid Khaliji. He would need help to find Medina in this enormous city: he might be a bad man, but Malik al Badour was not about to find out if he were a bad father.
###
Although she barely slept over the last few days, Cate found that this particular day had been so exhausting, she simply wanted to drop. Maybe she'd get a decent few hours sleep tonight. Both Erik and Medina had crawled off to bed over an hour before, but she stuck her head around his door to ensure he was indeed sleeping. The lump beneath the bedclothes shifted with a quiet mutter, and she smiled, silently closing the door.
Closing the bedroom door behind her, Cate changed rapidly into an old pair of pyjamas before sliding into her half of the double bed. Medina was well asleep, one of her arms crooked over her head.
Resting her face against the cool of the pillow, Cate felt her limbs slowly relax … she drifted.
It was very dark and still when the noise snapped her awake. Remaining motionless, she tried to focus on whatever the sound had been. A car backfiring? A fox investigating someone's bins? Holding her breath, Cate waited for the next sound.
It was a bit of a surprise when the next sound was Mycroft's quiet voice.
"I know you're awake; there's no reason to pretend otherwise."
Rolling over, Cate lifted her head to see her husband sitting casually in the armchair in the corner. He had switched on the tall lamp behind him, a dull enough light, but sufficient for the job at hand. Perfectly relaxed, he was wearing one of his preferred Gieves and Hawkes pin-stripes, a navy one. Immaculately dressed as always, his pocket-square was, nevertheless, the oddest shade of chartreuse. Frowning, she wondered why he'd have chosen that particular combination. She looked at the bedside clock. It was just after three.
"What are you doing here?" she asked groggily, leaning back to see if Medina was still asleep. She was. "In the middle of the night?"
"You wanted me here," crossing his legs, Mycroft sat back, a look of mild inquiry on his face. "So I came." He rested linked his fingers on his knee and stared at her.
"Did I?" Cate dragged herself into a sitting position. "I don't recall asking you to come."
"Not in so many words," he smiled faintly. "But you want me here now, don't you?"
Looking at his calm face, Cate smiled. Yes, she did want him here. Having not spoken to Mycroft properly since that awful argument of several nights ago, the occasional wave of misery had slapped her breathless. It was good to speak normally with him. Part of her wished they were alone.
"How did you get in?" she asked.
"Through there," he pointed to the open window. So that's what the strange noise had been.
"Mycroft, we're three floors up," Cate frowned again. Something was odd, here.
"Ladders," he nodded. "Useful things, ladders."
To Cate's knowledge, Mycroft had never been up a ladder in his life. Very strange.
"And now you're here," she said, sliding to sit on the edge of the bed. "What do you want to talk about?"
"You knew I would find out where you were, didn't you?"
Cate shrugged. "I'm not surprised," she yawned. "I wondered if you might want to keep tabs on me. It's your thing."
"My thing?" his voice was doubtful.
"Yes," Cate looked at him. "Your thing. You like to know what's going on all the time."
"Only because I'm utterly paranoid about potential disaster," he said.
"You admit to unreasonable paranoia?" Cate smiled. This was novel.
"Oh yes," Mycroft swapped legs. "I'm known for it," he smiled deprecatingly. "Sherlock will tell you: I used to drive mother bonkers with it."
Tilting her head, Cate grinned. This was not like him at all.
"Now that you know where we are," she asked, thinking. "What are you going to do about it?"
Pausing, Mycroft made a face. "Probably stalk you from afar," he said. "Though what I really want to do is throw you over my shoulder and drag you back to my cave, but you probably wouldn't stand for that, would you?" he looked interested. "Would you?"
Shaking her head in disbelief, Cate stared at him. "Have you been drinking?"
"I don't need alcohol when I'm thinking about you," he replied. "You intoxicate me."
Her heart rushed at his words. "I intoxicate you?"
"You drive me insane, Cate," his voice was gravel and sex and her insides melted into bubbling lava. It was impossible to speak; hard enough to breathe.
"And … so … what are you going to do next?" Controlling the race of her heart was easier thought than done.
"Officially or unofficially?"
"Either. Both."
"Officially," he looked grave. "I shall maintain a watching brief and will step in as soon as I am confident of success." Mycroft smiled imperiously. "You won't like it one bit."
Cate stared at the man she'd married, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. This was so unlike him; not his style at all.
"And unofficially?" she had to ask.
"Unofficially," he stood, smoothing his waistcoat and straightening his cuffs. "I will do something like this." Stepping close, his fingers slid through the tangle of her hair, tugging her face to his.
"You are mine, and you will stay mine," he growled, his mouth finding hers, demanding her absolute surrender and acquiescence. She shook with desire so potent it was painful.
Gasping, Cate jerked awake; her heartbeat a thunder in her ears, her lungs heaving. It was several seconds before she realised she was alone. No husband. Looking to her right, she saw Medina was still fast asleep, that the window was closed tight, and that the corner chair was empty. Lying back, her heart still pounding, Cate realised that she would have to go a great deal further than Islington to leave Mycroft behind.
###
They thought the best time to go out was during the morning rush-hour, when the tubes would be packed to brimming, the roads congested and with rapidly-moving bodies virtually covering every pavement. Cate hadn't wanted either Medina or Erik to leave the relative safety of the flat, but they needed clean clothes and some personal items. She had suggested that she buy the clothes, only to find herself on the receiving end of two very suspect stares. Neither of them wanted to stay behind while the other was in potential danger, and Cate dare not let them out of her sight. Thus it was that on this particular Thursday morning, the three of them scurried into the Upper Street entrance of the N1 shopping mall at The Angel.
"No credit cards, don't sign anything, or speak to anyone," Cate muttered, discreetly handing each of them several hundred pounds in small denominations. "Try not to look at any security camera," she added. "And whatever you do, don't attract any attention."
"What happens if we get separated?" Medina was concerned. She wasn't much keen on this cloak-and-dagger existence, but realised there was little alternative at the moment.
"We meet back here in twenty minutes," Cate looked around. "So don't worry about getting lost; that's going to have to be enough time for you to get what you need and get back here – we can't risk being spotted.
"Nodding a nervous agreement, Erik grabbed Medina's hand and they took off towards H&M, reckoning it to be the easiest place to get everything in one go. Cate went looking for the nearest Sainsbury's – may as well get some supplies while she was there. Ducking her face away from every potential CCTV vantage-point, she was back just inside the mall exit well within the twenty-minute deadline. Trying not to look as if she were trying not to look anxious, Cate's eyes flicked to her watch in increasingly brief pauses. Where were they? Lifting her face, she risked a quick scan on the main thoroughfare, feeling a wash of relief as she saw the two of them walking rapidly towards her. Too rapidly. Looking over their shoulders, Cate saw two policemen with radios at their mouths, staring at their little group. Of course, she kicked herself. Mycroft would have involved the police as soon as he worked out they were all together – all three of them probably had their photos plastered across London by now.
"We go straight to the tube station," Cate muttered, grabbing their elbows and pulling them with her out of the entrance. There were two more police there, also on their radios.
"The other way," she said. "We'll cut through the underground car park and double-back to the station that way."
Moving with increasing speed but not yet running, the three of them skirted around the main curve of the outer building, locating an entrance to the underground parking area.
"Down here, quick!" Cate led the way, running now, to make sure the police never actually caught up. Flying across the half-empty space, they sprinted to the far side exit, before running up several flights of stairs and re-emerging onto Upper Street. They could see the Underground sign further down the road. Keeping their faces down, they walked quickly towards the entrance.
"Why not just go to the flat and hide?" Medina looked worried.
"And how long do you think we'd be safe once the police begin a door-to-door search for us?" Cate shook her head. "No. We need to lead them away from here as far away as we can."
"Here," Cate held out a dark woolly hat to each of them, pulling one on herself. "Thought this might make us blend in a little more."
Despite the gravity of the situation, Erik took one look at Cate's hat and burst out laughing. It had small, woolly, cat's ears. The combination of the hat, her old college scarf, jeans and dark jacket, and the Professor looked like a student herself.
"I didn't have time to be picky," she muttered, swiping her Oyster card through the station-entry. Looking swiftly back over her shoulder, her breath stalled as she saw three policemen heading in after them. Hell.
"Down the stairs, fast as you can," she said, taking Medina's hand and pulling the girl along with her, Cate scooted down to the platforms as fast as she could without actually running. A waiting train was just about to close its doors as they all jumped on. As this was the Northern Line, the train was heading out to Barnet or somewhere – they could get off at Euston and head back, or run up through the University and … shit … there were police on the train …
"Don't look up," Cate said slowly. "There are two policemen at the far end of the carriage, and I bet you anything it's us they're looking for. We get off without causing any fuss at the next stop, Okay?"
The next stop was Tottenham Court Road. Sliding carefully out of the doors and walking in the very middle of the crowd, they moved slowly up the stairs and escalators out onto the far end of the main road itself. Ironically, Cate knew this area quite well; she had been coming here a couple of nights each week for the last few months. Kwan's dojang was just off Great Russell Street.
Peering around, looking for the neon-yellow high visibility jackets the police were so conveniently wearing these days, it was Erik's turn to yank the two women back against the shadow of the wall.
"There's four of them out there," he hissed. "Jesus – where are they all coming from?"
"Hello, Cate," a very familiar voice sounded off to the right. "Something amiss?"
Looking around, she saw a friendly face. "Hello, Sherlock," she smiled.
"Cate?" John was beside them too. He looked at the three of them, his eyebrows rising as he saw the expression on their faces. "What's going on?"
"The police are after us – no time to explain – I have to keep these two," Cate nodded at Medina and Erik, "away from the law."
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked intently at his sister-in-law. "Is Mycroft involved in any of this?" he asked.
"He's responsible for the police," Cate swallowed; this was it. All Sherlock had to do was phone his brother and it was over …
"Anybody wearing a watch?" he asked brightly, removing his own watch and stuffing it in his coat pocket. "If you want to know the time, always ask a policeman …" Winking at Cate as he stepped directly into the path of the oncoming Metropolitan officers, Sherlock smiled broadly, suddenly delighted that these representatives of the law were there to assist him.
Taking the hint, John ushered them in the opposite direction.
"I have no idea what you're up to," he said as he led them around a couple of large stone pillars and away down a side-exit. "But are you sure you want to get in Mycroft's way?"
"Who's this 'Mycroft' person?" Erik was suddenly very curious.
"My husband," Cate looked weary.
"And how is he responsible for all the police?" Erik stopped walking and stared at her.
"Don't stop," Cate pulled his arm. "There could be more police any second."
"I'd really like to know how your husband is mixed up with the coppers in all this mess," Erik's expression suggested he was not about to be put off.
"Can this wait until we get back to the flat?" she asked.
"What flat?" John was looking increasingly puzzled.
"We're all on the run from the law," Erik peered over his shoulder. "Including the Professor," he added. "We're hiding out in north London."
John stopped. Turning to Cate, he stared. "You're not … you've left ..?"
Turning to answer, Cate saw two more of the high-vis yellow jackets appear behind them. There was nothing else to do …
"Run!" she shouted. There was only one place she could think of going now.