Chapter Seven

The Primary Goal – A Girl Called Medina – A Bit of a Limp – The Pinch of the Game – Serious People – A Norling Conference – A Bastard at Oxford – Life Doesn't Behave – A Meeting at The Dorchester – Things Coming Together.

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Malik al Badour checked his messages again. He had been anticipating a further communication for some while, but his secret emissary had remained silent longer than expected: nothing from the informant for over a week. Was something wrong?

The plan had been that the traitor in the Emir Talid dynasty would be exposed, isolated and … dealt with. The primary reason for his accompanying the heir-apparent to Britain was not merely to provide advice and support. No; this trip had a far greater rationale than stocking up on light-armaments. Malik's was not a role most people would want or even appreciate, but he had had sworn an oath of fealty to his Chief's family. To serve to the death, although specifically whose demise was a matter open to analysis. In this instance, there had already been one mortality; a life unhesitatingly taken in return for the name of he who would be the second to die.

So much was at stake here, not only the future of the family, but maintaining the tribe's pre-eminence among the various branches of the family tree. Any proven absence of loyalty to the Emir or his heir was rewarded in the old way; a very final way.

Malik al Badour tapped the phone thoughtfully against his chin. There was nothing he could do. The identity of the informant remained unknown to him; he knew only that it was someone, probably a man, involved in the British armaments industry; that this man had secured evidence of a traitor in the House of Khalid with designs upon its future leadership. There was to be an accident – or something resembling an accident – and the nominative heir, Hassan bin Khalid, would be removed from the picture. This could not be permitted to happen.

One of the traitor's London-based underlings had already met his grisly, but not undeserved end. Now Malik was waiting for a message giving him the name of the man who wanted to destabilise the Emir Talid and his son. It was the secondary objective of his mission. One he had achieved the lesser goal, he would act on the primary one.

Malik al Badour checked his messages again.

###

Erik Norling shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he walked swiftly down towards Lowndes Street on the edge of Belgravia. It hadn't been until he'd spent the last week or so scuttling around with Medina and Cate, that he'd realised the sheer numbers of CCTV cameras everywhere in London. You didn't dare blink in case you missed one and it nabbed you. There was a knack, however, to locating them without being located yourself, and he'd quickly worked out how to stay invisible from their sleepless stare. But here … Erik stopped outside his father's mansion, Jesus … there were dozens of the damn things.

Redding, the old man's butler, let him in. In all the years his father had retained this man, Erik had never heard him called by any other name. Was Redding a surname or a first name? Who knew?

Striding into the study, Erik was already shrugging out of his thick coat and hat, his darkened hair a tangled mess.

"Hi, Dad," he said, walking up to his father's desk and snaffling one half of the thick sandwich from the plate holding James Norling's lunch.

Sitting back in his comfortable leather chair, Norling senior looked askance at his only child.

"What the bloody blue hell do you think you're up to?" he demanded, folding his arms and looking fairly thunderous, his London accent heading distinctly north in his temper. "One phone call more than a week ago telling me you're off on some foolish sodding jaunt with a girl and some professor, and then nothing?" He stood, resting his knuckles on the desktop looking typically angry. "Well?"

After the last few days, being chased by the police, almost getting into a fight with one of them; hiding out from the law, skulking around like some criminal, Erik had developed a slightly different perspective on life in general, and on his in particular.

"Dad," he said. "Relax." Slumping down in the nearest chair, Norling junior finished the sandwich and assessed his chances of successfully getting away with the other half.

Unused to the fruit of his loins acting as an independent individual rather than a needy child, James Norling found he was, for once, slightly at a loss for words. As a rule, people didn't speak to him like this any more. The idea that anyone might suggest he should back off was a fairly novel one. He found he was disguising a small smile. Might it be that his son was actually achieving some form of adulthood?

"So," he said, straightening up, his voice moderating. "Are you going to let your old man in on the situation?"

Sighing, Erik felt he probably should, despite the fact his father would almost certainly try to step in and fix everything in sight.

"It's a long story," he turned to gauge his father's expression, "but it all started when I met this girl called Medina …" he paused, looking at the remaining sandwich. "Are you going to eat that?"

###

Lestrade had finally managed to get the forensic photography boffins to clarify the CCTV security camera films from inside the British Museum on the day of the – according to the printed press – spectacular 'Mummy Murder'. It had taken this long for the results to come back as the exhibit's light-levels had been maintained at an unusually low intensity in order to protect the fading colours of the paint-skimmed limestone veneers. Perfect luminosity for tomb-art; unbelievably awful for cinematography. It had taken the lab well over a week to come back with anything vaguely recognisable as evidence. Lestrade still wasn't sure it would be sufficient to hold up in court – if it ever got there – but at least there might be enough to provide some sort of lead in the matter. The museum people were crawling all over the walls – his – to have the thing put to rest, as it were, and he really wanted John Watson out of his hair for a space of at least five minutes, this week.

Poor though the image-quality was on the enhanced and digitised video, there were a few points of genuine usefulness; especially the definite figure of a man exiting the tomb-room moments before John entered.

Twisting his head sideways to peer at the poor-quality picture, Sherlock was half upside-down when he paused, locking the resultant image in his memory. He threw himself back upright.

"Ironic," he said, looking meditative.

"Ironic? What ironic?" Lestrade wanted anything the younger Holmes could give him. Especially if it might get the British Museum file off his desk.

"Ironic," Sherlock added, "in that the murder in the Egyptian tomb was most likely done by an Egyptian."

"You cannot possibly see that shadow of a figure as an Egyptian, Sherlock," Greg Lestrade scorned. "Not even you have that kind of eyesight."

Lifting his eyebrows, Sherlock looked puzzled. "How can you possibly not see that shadow as an Egyptian male, approximately thirty to forty years old, medium height, wears a gold earring in his right ear and has a slight limp." He turned upside down again. "Left leg."

Folding his arms and shaking his head, the Inspector looked anything but convinced. "Egyptian?"

"The earring," Sherlock nodded at the shadowy photograph. "An ankh; the crux ansata of ancient Egypt," he said. "Worn almost exclusively today by teenage girls, hippies and … Egyptians."

"If you're feeding me a line, Sherlock, there will be consequences," Greg Lestrade muttered, lifting his phone and asking for exterior surveillance film of the British Museum on the time and date in question – specifically requesting that the analysts check for any dark-haired males under fifty, possibly wearing an earring and walking …" Lestrade narrowed his eyes, turning to look at Sherlock, "with a bit of a limp," he said "Left leg."

Settling back in the plastic-covered seat, Sherlock folded his arms and waited. Surely not even Scotland Yard could be so inept as to miss such an obvious piece of information. He sighed, irritated. "And you call yourselves a police-force."

"Don't start," the Inspector shook his head. "The only reason you're here instead of downstairs in a cell after interfering with the course of the law and messing about with my officers, is because you are occasionally useful," he said.

"Occasionally?" Sherlock scoffed.

Lestrade's phone rang. Listening, the Londoner's eyes turned to Sherlock as he nodded to whoever was at the other end of the conversation.

"Really?" he said. "With a limp?" He nodded again. "Were we able to track him?" Another small nod. "Right."

Replacing the phone, Lestrade sat in his chair, his fingers pressed together as he sat in thought.

"Seems you might be right," he said. "The museum's internal security recordings show a number of museum visitors who might fit that general description, but," he added, eyebrows rising in acknowledgement, "only one with a limp."

"And ...?" Sherlock looked moderately interested.

"The man was seen hailing a cab which headed west." Lestrade sat back in his chair, a pen playing between his fingers.

"Did the camera pick up the cab's number?"

"Indeed it did." The silver-haired policeman grinned suddenly. "Both cab and driver are being tracked as we speak."

###

Once the decision had been made, Mycroft found himself at his calmest since Cate had left. It was simply a question now of following two simultaneous, yet diametrically opposed, sequences of activity: one in a continuance of the goal to have al Badour removed permanently from the country; the other to enable his wife to cease protesting her student's inequitable treatment at his hands. While the two objectives seemed, at first light, inimicable, Mycroft was reasonably confident of eventual success. Playing both ends off against the middle might seem an act of madness when the stakes were so high, but Mycroft specialised at handling the pinch of the game.

First things first: to take steps to have al Badour declared officially non-grata, and thus add another string to the bow of deportation. This required several items of variously-signed documentation, all of which were currently in train. The second task would be to have the girl Medina follow her father off-shore without it appearing as if she was being forced to leave. The latter was slightly more problematic in that he now needed to locate a rationale that would have her desire to quit Britain voluntarily.

Smiling imperceptibly, Mycroft looked at the antique brass calendar on his desk. Today was Tuesday. He had no desire to continue this solitary existence for longer than was avoidable, and therefore would do whatever was needed – whatever was needed – to achieve his objective.

He would have Cate back by the weekend.

###

Charles Shelsher had met the Queen. Several times, actually. He knew Prince Phillip well enough to say 'hello'; Charles, Anne, her brothers and some of the younger ones too. He was no stranger to the highest circles of society, nor did he concern himself about the consequences of mixing in any stratum that might require his presence. Shelsher was also skilled in the high arts of political machination; where the right word whispered in the most appropriate ear at a propitious moment often yielded far greater dividends than that achieved by a show of main force. He almost never worried about what to say because – and he admitted this quite openly – he was conceited enough not to worry about making a gaffe. Naturally, since appearing gauche was the last thing on his mind, it was the last thing he appeared. Regardless of where he was, or with whom he conversed, the intricacies of genteel social intercourse had not stumped him yet. Until now.

Right now, he was sitting behind his desk looking into the face of a man who radiated sincerity. This was not as difficult a trick as it sounded; Shelsher often radiated any number of disparate emotions when it suited, but this man … this man put steel in it.

Malik al Badour had asked for a meeting to discuss the situation surrounding his eldest daughter, the same one that Mycroft Holmes had demanded he exclude and the exact same one that Cate Adin-Holmes had gone off with in a mad fuss.

The man had come in with what was clearly an armed and rather unpleasant-looking bodyguard whom he designated his associate; had sat down and simply looked at the Vice-Chancellor, his gaze as discomforting as the shaken head and expensive inward whistle of the mechanic examining the engine of your Rolls.

"But why did your university decide my daughter could no longer study here?" al Badour returned to his original question.

Charles realised that, sooner or later, the man would unearth the truth. It may as well come from him as anyone else.

"The British Government does not want you here, Mr al Badour," he said. "The general thinking is that if you have no family in this country, you will be less likely to return."

Surprisingly, he had laughed at this.

"You tell me nothing unexpected," he said, shaking his head and smiling. "But," he added, the smile slipping from his face. "Where is my daughter now?"

Hesitating, Shelsher sighed. "She is staying with one of her professors who is trying to have your daughter reinstated," he said. "Although I'm not sure where that is, exactly," he added. "Somewhere in London."

"My daughter has disappeared with one of your staff and you don't know where that is?" Malik was starting to feel angry.

"Mr al Badour," the VC attempted diplomacy. "In Britain, universities do not assume parental supervision over tertiary students – they are all over eighteen and therefore of an age to be accountable for their own actions."

"A complicated way of saying you don't care about my daughter?"

Shelsher looked down. "On the contrary," he said, quietly. "The professor who has taken your daughter under her wing has risked not only her academic career, but also her personal relationships for your child," he said. "If anything, my staff care too much about their students, not the opposite."

Barely mollified, al Badour sat back, folding his arms. He would not leave this city without first finding Medina and persuading her to accompany him home. He needed to speak with this professor who cared too much.

"Where are they?" he asked. "I want to speak with them."

"Unfortunately," Shelsher looked fractionally uncomfortable. "They have decided to … stay out of sight," he said. "The police are seeking your daughter as her student visa has been rescinded."

Standing, al Badour looked down with more than a hint of savagery in his eyes. "This is how you treat an innocent girl who comes to your country to study?" he demanded. "I want to meet this professor and speak to my daughter and see what needs to be done."

"That course of action may not be in your daughter's best interests," he said. "People are looking for her," he added. "Serious people."

"I am serious people," Malik growled, striding out of the room. Without a word, his associate followed close behind.

###

"And her father is, who?" James Norling watched his son plough through yet another plate of food.

"Dunno," Erik put the plate down and sat back, finally replete. "Some bloke called Badour," he said, loosening his belt a notch. That was the most he'd eaten in over a week; not that Cate had him on starvation rations, but it was difficult for anyone to leave the flat to get food during the day now.

James Norling heard the name 'Badour' and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Coincidence? "Have you met him?" he asked, off-handedly.

"Yeah," Erik looked at his father with a suspicious eye. He only used that tone in his voice when there was something about to fall from on high. "Why?"

"You've met Malik al Badour?" Norling senior narrowed his eyes. This was not something even remotely anticipated.

Now Erik knew something was up. Either his father was angry, and he didn't look angry, or he was worried. And there was another thing.

"How do you know Medina's dad's full name?" he asked, carefully. "I only said 'Badour'."

Walking to stare out of the curtained window, Erik's father folded his arms in thought. The boy was of an age when he might reasonably be expected to start taking an interest in the business, he mused. It might be wise to let him into this part, at least … making a decision, James Norling turned sharply, assessing the now-wary expression of his son.

"There are things you need to know about what I do," he said, walking towards the sofa. "Because some of it involves your girlfriend's father."

###

"Yes, Sir," Mycroft's admin confirmed it. "Malik al Badour and bodyguard seen entering the Vice-Chancellor's office in Gower Street campus at 10.30 this morning," the woman paused, checking. "Left approximately eleven minutes later, entered black Daimler, headed off in a westerly direction. We're checking the plates now, Sir," she added.

So: al Badour had finally gone to see the VC. This meant that …

"I'll take Shelsher's call in my office," he said, walking towards his door. His phone rang mere seconds later.

"Mycroft, the girl's father was here," Charles Shelsher's rich tones filled the office. "He demanded to know where she was now … I had little choice but to tell him what is already common-knowledge."

"He knows my wife is with his daughter?" Unease pricked Mycroft's pulse. If al Badour was getting too close, he'd send the police to the Islington flat and damn the consequences. The idea of that man anywhere near Cate gave him the worst kind of feeling.

"Not specifically your wife," Shelsher added quickly. "Cate's name has not yet been linked to this situation," he said. "He only knows that it's one of my female professorial staff."

Then there was still time. If it was in any way possible, Mycroft wanted this thing to play out according to his schedule, thus achieving a neat dovetailing of objectives, however, if anyone's safety was in the wind … he'd not hesitate.

"Did he indicate any knowledge of their whereabouts?" he asked.

"None at all, and I couldn't help him there either since I am completely in the dark," Charles sounded a little put-out. "Are they still in London?"

"Probably best you not know, old chap," Mycroft said softly. "Just in case."

After the call ended, Shelsher paused, thinking. Just in case? Just in case … what? Setting his jaw, he recalled that Mycroft Holmes had been something of a bastard at Oxford too.

###

Cate sat on the sofa beside Medina; some old pirate film on the TV. They knew Erik had gone to see his father, and Cate suspected Medina wanted to go and see hers. It was plain the girl idolised him, and, cultural aspects aside, he sounded a fairly enlightened man considering the weight of social pressure that might be against him at home. Regardless of what kind of person he was, Cate thought that Medina's father – and her mother – sounded intriguing.

"If you want to go and see your father, we can arrange it, you know," she said quietly to the girl. "And remember," she added. "You're only here because you decided you wanted to be."

"Why is life so horribly complicated?" Medina stared at the grey faces of the actors on the screen. "All I wanted to do was to come here and be a good student."

Cate's heart went out to the young woman. She knew exactly the feeling. She sighed.

"Life doesn't always behave the way we want it or expect it to," she said. "I know mine isn't doing what I want it to right now."

Turning to look at Cate's expression, "I never asked you what you had given up to be here with us," she said. "It is very difficult for you?"

"My husband isn't terribly happy about it," Cate smiled ruefully. "He wants me to be sensible and stop doing things he considers dangerous."

"Is this dangerous?" Medina's was suddenly tense.

"Sweetheart," Cate said soothingly. "If I thought any of us were in real danger, we'd be at my husband's office in a taxi inside fifteen minutes."

"What does he do, your husband?"

Cate smiled. How to describe Mycroft's job …

"He works for the government," she said. "He solves problems for them."

"Am I a problem he is solving?" Medina was listless.

"I think perhaps your father might be a problem for him," Cate said softly. "I know my husband is concerned about people who are connected to violence."

"My father isn't violent," Medina sat up suddenly, her voice on the edge of anger. Cate said nothing; she simply looked at the girl.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Medina seemed to collapse in on herself, her words breaking down into a sob. Pressing her hands against her face, she sagged forward, distraught.

Drawing the younger woman against her shoulder, Cate wrapped her arms around the upset girl and held on while the tears flowed. Sometimes it was good to have a bit of a weep.

"This is all going to work out well in the end," Cate murmured, stroking Medina's hair. "Just wait," she added. "One day we'll look at this experience and wonder what all the fuss was about."

"But everything's gone so wrong …" Medina wailed, her hands clinging to Cate. "And everything was going so well before … and Erik liked me … and I liked him, and you were my teacher … and now it's all gone wrong."

Remembering how black and white everything was at Medina's age, Cate couldn't help but smile a little.

"It's alright, darling," she said, hugging the girl tight. "Have a good cry and then you'll feel better about things, you'll see."

Her tears running dry, the younger woman sat up, mopping her eyes with her sleeve. "How come you know all this stuff?" she said.

Cate smiled again. "Because I've been through all sorts of upsets in my life and they inevitably work out, usually for the better," she said. "The thing is not to give up trying."

"Haven't you ever just had enough and wanted to run away?"

Laughing, Cate put her arm around the girl's shoulders. "Dozens of times," she grinned. "But then I realised that if I wasn't prepared to try and fix a problem, I really couldn't expect anyone else to fix it for me."

"Do you have children?"

The question came out of the blue leaving Cate bewildered. She blinked.

"No," her expression when she looked at Medina was curious. "I don't have children, why do you ask?"

"I think you'd be a wonderful mother … you always know the right things to say. Don't you want any?"

Now totally at sea, Cate floundered, thoughts flashing through her brain at a million a second: a child of her own; children; Mycroft's child; Mycroft as a father; the expression on his face if she told him she was pregnant … the very idea was too overwhelming to contemplate.

"I am married to my work," she said, smiling. An easy enough illusion. "No time for children."

Digesting this, Medina was silent for a while, then shrugged. "So what do you think I should do?" she asked.

"I think you need to speak to your father first of all," she said. "I think you'd feel a great deal better once you'd cleared the air between you." Cate paused. "And then," she added, slowly. "You need to discuss with him what you plan to do with your future – what is it you want to do now?"

"What do you mean, what I want to do?"

"Well, your father enrolled you into a good British university, so he must care quite a lot about what you want, therefore it makes sense to discuss the next step with him too."

"But I don't know what the next step is …"

"What is it you'd really like to happen?" Cate asked herself the same question. Just what was it she wanted?

"I'd like to go back to college and study .. and be happy with …" the words slowed as Medina looked uncertainly at Cate.

"With Erik?"

The girl nodded briefly.

"He is rather cute, isn't he?" Cate grinned at Medina's suddenly shy look.

"I'm afraid my father won't accept him."

Nodding, Cate realised it might be a problem. In Medina's culture, it was usually the job of the parents to secure a husband for their daughters. The notion of a love-match was extremely forward. The idea of a relationship between two young people of entirely different cultures and religions … Ah well. One step at a time.

"I still think you should speak to your father and see what he has to say," Cate said, thoughtfully. "Once you know how he feels about things, then you can decide for yourself what you want to do about your future."

"Will you come with me to speak to him … please?" Medina's dark eyes were huge with hope.

"I can't act as advocate for you, you know this," Cate wanted to be sure the girl understood. "I have absolutely no authority to speak on your behalf in any way other than as an older friend."

"That will be enough," Medina smiled. "I just need some moral support."

Deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole.

Nodding, Cate agreed to the girl's request. She would go and speak with Malik al Badour.

###

"Sir?" The Admin turned to face him. "Looks like targets One and Two are on the move."

Lifting his eyes to the assemblage of large plasma screens along one wall of the Ops room, Mycroft felt a hint of concern. This was not usually the time of day anyone left the Islington flat, although target Three, Erik, had been observed leaving very early that morning and tracked to his parent's house in Lowndes Street. But where were Cate and the girl going in the middle of the day? He didn't like the sudden break in routine; it meant something unexpected was happening.

"In which direction are they heading?" Perhaps their goal might be inferred.

"Both targets heading for the Angel Islington tube station, Sir," the woman had her eyes glued to the CCTV camera screens.

"Do not lose them," though Mycroft's voice was quiet, the imperative echoed.

"Sir," the Admin took a breath and poised her fingers over the internal security camera controls. The second the two women entered the Tube building, she would be all over them with cameras. Waiting until they had swiped their oyster cards …

"Looks like they're heading for the Northern Line platform heading south west towards King's Cross, Sir," she said, watching Cate and Medina like a hawk.

Mycroft didn't like this. Such activity in this direction was unwarranted and deeply concerning. Why the movement? Why today? Was it connected to the boy's visit with his parents? He didn't like this at all.

"Continue observation," he kept his tone cool and impassive.

"Targets now taking the H&C Line towards Edgeware Road." The Admin rubbed her eyes: it was not easy to keep track of individual targets in the crush of the London Underground. She would pay for this with a headache, later.

"Now transferring to the Circle Line, Sir," she said, watching. "Looks like they're heading towards Marble Arch."

Marble Arch? What was at Marble Arch? "Keep your eyes on them," he instructed. "I must know their final destination."

Their progress tracked by in excess of fifteen internal CCTV cameras, Cate and Medina eventually emerged at the Marble Arch station. Mycroft watched as his Admin deftly switched cameras back to street-level. Cate's face was calm. The girl Medina had her arm linked through his wife's; they seemed like two sisters out on a trip. He watched Cate step out to the edge of the kerb, her hand lifted as she hailed a cab. The ubiquitous black London taxi rolled to a halt within a few seconds; they got in.

"Track that cab!" Mycroft had a sinking feeling he already knew where they were headed: Erik had gone to see his parents; now it was the girl's turn. Cate was taking her to see her father, Malik al Badour. Absolutely the last place he wanted Cate to be, and it looked as if she were planning on walking right into the man's grasp.

Extracting his Blackberry, Mycroft pressed the single key that connected him directly to Lestrade at Scotland Yard.

"Yes?"

"Are you any further forward on Medina al Badour?" he asked. "I may be able to assist your people in locating her at this very moment."

"We've just had reports in that someone closely resembling the girl got into a black cab at Marble Arch tube and is reported heading south down Park Lane."

"The child's father is staying at the Dorchester," Mycroft advised.

"Mycroft," Lestrade hesitated. "The reports also say that the girl Medina is accompanied by a slightly older woman … dark hair, fair complexion, athletic build …" the policeman paused, seeking the right words. "Is it Cate?"

"Yes." Mycroft's throat was dry. "How soon could you have a response team at the Dorchester?"

"Christ … it's that bad?" Lestrade was unsettled.

"It could be," Mycroft took a breath. "It seems my wife is intent on going to meet one of the most lethal men in London."

"And why would he be dangerous to her?"

The question was inevitable. Mycroft narrowed his eyes as the past returned.

"There is history between al Badour and I," he said. "A not entirely pleasant history."

There was a significant pause as the policeman absorbed this piece of information.

"… Seven minutes, maybe six if I shouted at them," Lestrade offered.

That would be too late. He needed someone is the hotel already … someone who could act without restraint …

"I'll get back to you, Inspector," he said, ending the call abruptly. Pressing another single key, Mycroft waited … waited … for God's sake …

"Mycroft," the dulcet baritone of his younger brother greeted him.

"How close are you to the Dorchester?"

"… Assuming cab availability, John and I can be there in less than five minutes," Sherlock said, realising immediately that this had to be something connected to Cate. Almost nothing else would have his elder sibling so uncivil. Mycroft was worried.

"Go there now, please," Mycroft said. "Cate may need help. She may be going to meeting a guest at the hotel by the name of Malik al Badour; he's in one of the roof suites. I've spoken with the police, but Lestrade's people would be too slow."

"Leaving now, Mycroft," Sherlock was already half-way down the stairs, John scrambling behind him. "Don't worry," the younger Holmes added. "For a normal person, your wife is extremely self-sufficient."

"You suggest Cate is normal?" The faint smile was impossible to curb.

"Comparatively," Sherlock responded. "I'll call you from the Dorchester," he said, ending the call.

###

"Then what should I do?" Erik sat in front of his father. "I genuinely like Medina and I don't want her to be sent home," he paused. "I really like her, Dad."

"Does she know this?" the elder Norling knew only too well of the problems inherent in relationships that crossed cultures. His wife still hadn't forgiven him for the way he spoke to her mother … and that had been more than twenty years ago.

"I've not really had an opportunity to tell her in so many words," Erik made a face. "But I'm pretty sure she knows how I feel about her … I think maybe I should speak to her father."

Norling was slightly impressed. Perhaps the boy was growing up after all.

"You've already met him once, and now you want to talk to him again, about his daughter?"

Erik shrugged and nodded. "It seems the right thing to do."

Keeping his face straight was not as easy as it sounded, but James Norling managed. It looked very much as if his son was stepping into man-sized shoes at last. A vague sense of triumph made his chest swell. This girl must be quite something if he was willing to risk al Badour's temper over her.

"Then why don't we do that?" he said, standing, reaching for his jacket. "The Dorchester, you said?" Norling pressed a discreet button on his desk.

Nodding, Erik also stood. His two bodyguards entered, their faces an inquiry.

"The Dorchester Hotel," Norling said, already walking towards the door.

One of the men pulled out his phone to organise the car, the second opened the door for father and son to exit.

Assuming normal traffic, they would be there in five minutes.

###

The report on the cab came in within seconds of Mycroft's call. Lestrade scanned swiftly through the pertinent details.

Picked up a fare outside the British Museum, middle-eastern man; dark-haired, mid-thirties, walked with a slight limp.

Dropped fare off … 9 Tilney Street. The Dorchester Hotel.

Lestrade sat back in his chair, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face. It looked as if things were finally coming together. Time, then, to get cracking with some results. He lifted his desk-phone.

"I need two cars at the Dorchester in the next ten minutes," he said. "Pick me up at the main doors."

Next, he lifted his personal mobile and called Sherlock.

"The man who might be the murderer from the British Museum was dropped off at the Dorchester hotel," he said. "Thought you might like to know."

"Thank you, Inspector," Sherlock's voice sounded faintly amused. "As it happens, John and I are enroute to that precise location as we speak."

Greg Lestrade grinned as he strode out of his office and towards the lifts. There was no way he planned on missing this little event.