Mycroft had made good on his word. John was armed with information on all the tips that had panned out so far, as well as a very accurate copy of the sketch the police had aired. He wondered what Donovan would say if she knew; she'd probably be livid but, to his surprise, he wasn't really bothered. He remembered full well what she'd said about overstretched resources and the number of leads they would have to follow up on. He doubted they'd yet been able to investigate this handful as thoroughly as they'd like.
And they were police, when it came down to it. People were always more reluctant to talk to the police than they were just another bloke. He'd learned that in his eight years working with Sherlock – just as he'd learned how to read people well enough to know how to approach the questions. He'd never been Sherlock Holmes but he was getting to be a decent hand at it himself.
He was currently in a pub on a small street just off of Camberwell Road in Southwark, nursing a beer, a small pile of shopping bags resting on the seat beside him. The pub was dim and cosy and someone had taken some pains to decorate it with red and gold garlands. He was still debating how to do so when the server came with his fish and chips. The smell of greasy, deep fried food was a welcome one after the chilly air outside and he smiled.
"Thanks."
"Anything else I can get you?" she asked, giving him a smile in return.
"Actually, maybe there's something you can help me with," John said as if he'd just thought about it. The woman – no older than her mid-twenties if he was any judge – frowned slightly when he pulled out his phone. John called up the picture and handed it to her, watching her expression shift from reluctant to quizzical – she'd thought he was going to ask for her number, he suspected, despite the ring on his finger.
"I was wondering if you know him."
"You with the police?" she asked, eyes still on the screen.
"Sort of," John replied. She glanced up then back down, pursing her lips thoughtfully.
"Only they were in here yesterday asking about him – at least I think it was him. I wasn't working, but one of the other girls told me."
"Do you know him?"
The server cast a quick look over her shoulder. The pub was sparsely populated at this time of day – there were two women in a corner booth having an animated but hushed discussion over hot drinks and a man in his thirties at a small table on a laptop.
"Mind if I sit?" she asked. John waved a hand invitation and the woman slid into the booth across from him, pushing his phone back toward him. John pulled out his ever-present notebook and she eyed it warily.
"I just need to jot down notes so I don't forget," he said, then gave her a disarming smile and tapped his temple with the end of his pen. "Not as sharp as I used to be."
At this, she relaxed, her features settling into a smile again.
"He comes in here sometimes – at least he used to. Haven't seen him in two or three weeks."
John nodded, making a note of that.
"Do you know his name?"
The young woman shrugged, then shook her head.
"He always paid with cash, so I never saw his card, if that's what you're asking. He told me once his name was Liam, but that was it, no last name or anything."
"Liam?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Yeah – I mean, I don't know if it's true, but why would you lie about that?"
John shook his head, swallowing on his flash of shock. The information he'd received from Mycroft didn't have any names in it – John had been surprised by that at first, but when he'd begun to read through it more carefully, it became apparent that everyone who had seen Doe knew him only in passing, only by sight. He made a note of the new name, circling it, wondering. Was it Doe's real name? If it wasn't, why would he lie?
"He came in sometimes for quiz night," the waitress said.
"Did he play?"
"No, he always seemed happy just to watch. He always kept to himself, y'know, not in a sad way or anything, just like this was his time alone. Never had too much to drink – I think the most he ever had in one night was three – I remember that because he gave me a really good tip. We'd always chat, but nothing important. The weather, football."
"Do you know if he watched football?"
"He said he supported Manchester United. That's all I know."
John wrote that down, too.
"Ever say anything about his family, where he worked? Wife, kids, anything like that?"
"Nope. Sometimes he'd come in wearing work clothes – hard hat, work boots, gloves, that kind of thing. Looked like road work, construction, something like that. He never said anything about it, though."
"What did he do when he was here?"
"Not much," she replied, shrugging. "Watched the quizzes, like I said. Sometime he'd read, other times he'd just sit and have his drink."
"Read what? Books? Newspaper?"
"I dunno, he used his phone," the woman replied and John made a quick note of that. "I never asked. He was quiet, never gave us any problems. Just another regular."
"Did he always sit in the same place?"
"Yeah, unless it was taken. Just over there." She pointed to a small booth behind them that was built for two people.
"I know it's a strange question, but which seat?"
She gave him a puzzled look but gestured with her left hand.
"The one on the left. My left."
John nodded and wrote that down.
"Another odd one: do you remember which hand he held his glass in?"
The waitress stared at him a moment before realization flashed across her features. She bit her lip, eyes darting away as she thought, and John watched her twitch her hands slightly, as if trying to use the movement to pin down the memory.
"Left," she said decisively. John wrote that down as well, relieved to know his initial impression had been correct.
"Is there anything else you can tell me?" he asked. "Anything at all?"
"Um..." she chewed on her lower lip, brown eyes dropping to the table surface for a moment, then she glanced up again, looking past John at the wall. Her eyes lit up with recollection and John waited, not wanting to push too hard.
"There was one thing... It can't have been too long after he started coming here, so I don't know, late September? We used to have this painting on the wall, it was for sale. Right over there. Someone bought it a couple of weeks ago." She pointed behind him and John twisted, unable to make out any discolouration on the walls that would indicate where a painting had been.
"What was it of?" he asked.
The server pressed fingers against her forehead, then raked them through her short brown hair, frowning in concentration.
"Some landscape – Wales, maybe? The Highlands? I can't remember – something with mountains, I know that. In the summer, all greens and greys. Really pretty."
"What did he say about it?"
"I asked him what he thought of it and he was quiet for a moment, almost like he didn't hear me, y'know? Then he asked me how I thought they did it."
"What?"
"That's what I asked. He said something like 'how do they make such beautiful things in a world like this?'. I thought it was really sad. I asked him if he knew anything about art and he laughed and said he'd seen some but that was all."
"Anything else?"
"No, that was it." She glanced over her shoulder again to make sure the other patrons were still satisfied, then turned back to John. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," John said. "Thank you, that helps." She looked doubtful and he smiled. "Every little bit does, trust me. I didn't know his name when I came in here."
"Well I hope he's all right."
John nodded and tore a page of his notebook, scrawling his name and mobile number on it.
"Listen, if you think of anything else – or if anyone you works with knows something you might not – give me a call. We could always use the information."
"I will," she promised. John gave her his warmest smile and saw her lips twitch upwards in return.
"Thanks," he said. "I appreciate it."
Sherlock was nowhere to be found when John got home, so he dug out one of the maps of London he always kept on hand for the detective. He spread it out on the desk and found the files Mycroft had sent over that morning with the valid sightings. John circled all of them, putting a little star next to the pub where he'd learned Doe's name.
Most of them were in Southwark. John frowned at the map, circling St. Thomas' Hospital as well – it was close, but he knew from experience that it wasn't directly serviced with a tube station. And if he'd managed to get to the hospital on the tube, someone would have noticed. John was familiar with the indifference of Underground riders, but there was no way that would have passed completely unremarked.
He sighed, tapping the pen against the map.
There was one other place where Doe had been reported with some certainty, a shop in Mayfair. John frowned, sitting forward. What had Lestrade said about where they'd found the body? An art gallery in Mayfair. He tried to recall if the DI had mentioned the name but couldn't.
John fetched his laptop and checked for art galleries in Mayfair – then sighed. There were dozens and a number of them were within a few blocks of the sandwich shop Doe had frequented. He'd have to wait until Mycroft came through on the case files.
In a city this size, how is it that no one knows him? John asked himself, chewing absently on the end of his pen. If the waitress at the pub had been right, then Doe had had a job at least some of the time. Surely someone he worked with would have recognized him? Or at least noticed he hadn't shown up for work in weeks?
He opened his notebook and jotted down 'casual labourer?' – it might explain the lack of concern on an employer's part if Doe stopped coming to work. John sighed again, raking his hands through his hair, then shifted through Mycroft's notes, looking for the information on the tea shop.
According to the sales clerk who had been interviewed, Doe came in about every other week and always bought the same thing: regular tea. He paid in cash – John raised an eyebrow at that but wasn't surprised – and occasionally looked around the shop but never bought anything else that the man could remember. John checked the store's hours online – they were closed now, of course, but he could go round tomorrow and see if the salesman remembered anything else.
Was he trying to be invisible? John wondered. Why? He stared at the circled spot on the map in Mayfair and thought about a twelve year old murder.
No, that's not fair. You can't see a pattern from where a sandwich shop is located. Maybe he just likes their food. Maybe he has another reason to go there and stops to buy tea because it's on the way home.
He had no idea – but if someone else in Mayfair knew him and saw him on a regular basis, they weren't coming forward.
John sighed, dropping his head into his hands. He wasn't too proud to admit this would be much easier with Sherlock's help – or if Sherlock were doing it. Frowning, he raised his head and checked the time on his phone. He hadn't heard from Sherlock all day, which was especially surprising considering he'd been out shopping, a time usually accompanied by frequent texts from his husband with instructions and odd requests.
Where are you? he sent via text, then went back to studying the map as he waited for a reply. Since the majority of the reports came from Southwark, John knew it was most likely Doe lived in the area.
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
He unlocked his phone again and called up the photos of the pub he'd taken from Doe's usual seat. The man had been in a good position to watch the door but he would have been difficult – if not impossible – for someone passing by on the street to see him through the windows.
Was that deliberate? Was he watching for someone? Or did he just like the small corner booth with its view of the pub?
He'd made a crude sketch map of the pub from that vantage point and had taken some photos outside as well, of the surrounding buildings and street. Nothing special from what he could tell – a handful of other shops, some flats above those shops, a typical mix of residential and business.
Case. Mycroft. Will be late. Don't wait up. SH.
John raised his eyebrows, wondering if Sherlock had given in and taken the case Mycroft had offered a couple of days ago or if this was something else. He went back to the photos, trying to see anything else of value.
Well, he realized suddenly, I'm not the one who knows this area. He blinked in surprise, then shook his head – Donovan would kill him.
Why? he asked himself. This isn't confidential information. It's pictures of a pub and the area he spent time in.
John chewed on his lower lip, debating. On the one hand, he didn't want to push or stress Doe – but on the other, the man was alone without information about himself. He didn't even know his own name, which John now – possibly – did.
He was a doctor. He knew how to approach these kind of things properly.
Decided, John pushed himself out of his chair and pulled on his coat, then clattered down the stairs to catch a cab.