Jim

Have you heard about the crime spree? They keep talking about it on TV and in the papers, all that crap. It was on Prime Minister's questions. Big-eared stammer box didn't know where to put himself. Took him five minutes just saying, "Well..." Apparently the country descended into absolute chaos, practically overnight. So I'm told, anyway; I haven't seen that much of it myself. But then I've had my head down, this last week, nose to the grindstone, knuckling down. It's been very busy round here, been very exciting.

They tell me ordinary decent people aren't going over their doorsteps after dark anymore. They're telling me there hasn't been a spike in the murder rate like this since records began. Police forces up and down the country are completely swamped.

This is what they're saying on the news, anyway.

Me, I'm a bit busy spinning plates. Because while most of the jobs I set off last week didn't require my direct intervention, some of them have needed a bit of guidance, and a few corrections along the way. I've had problems to solve. And of course, there's been the need to keep it up; keep the work flowing, so it can stay a spree and not just be relegated to a spate. I don't want it just to be an anomaly, something to be recorded and analysed and then turn into a footnote. I don't want to be a joke on some torpid TV pundit's Review Of The Year. No, no thank you, Mr Brooker. You don't even get to be sarky-yet-serious about this. No.

No, I want people to be trying to forget this for years to come; the week Britain went crazy.

Like for instance, I'm sitting here, putting the heir to a country pile in touch with a poison chemist I've been working with for a while now. But at the same time, I'm reading a Reuters report on a granny who just got shot in her own kitchen over pension money and little else. Now, that wasn't me. Obviously. I mean, give me a little credit; there's no way that would ever have been me. Matter of fact, I find that a bit disgusting, really. And that could have happened anytime. I'm pretty sure that happens most days, somewhere in this frigging idiot nation. There's always some daft prick who rubs his two brain cells together and gets the same bright spark of an idea. Could have happened anytime. But it didn't, it happened this week, and all the puzzled Daily Mail columnists tearing their hair and beating their chests and bellowing 'Why' to the man in the sky, this is all just fodder.

Actually, there's a lot going on that I didn't arrange. Maybe it's just because I'm paying extra attention these days, but it makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, if everything's going to hell anyway, it's odds-on there's going to be a load of people jumping on the train.

Not that I'm calling you all sheep or anything like that. Not that I'm saying if I'd suddenly talked a load of people in jumping off bridges all at the same time that we might have been seeing a spike in that too.

That's an idea, actually...

But then I get a text through from Moran and lose track of it. I pick up the framed team photograph of last week's Manchester United line-up from my desk, uncap a permanent marker and cross out another vacuous face. I'm noticing a pattern, actually; he's sort of spiralling in towards the goalie. Saving him for last. The first five all came through at once. Then they were drip-fed for a couple of days while the cops still had the manpower to protect their cow-brained, leather-kicking wankers. Then they took the bodyguards off so they could deal with the crimes that were actually happening and we're making nice progress again. I should have him back in London tomorrow, day after at the latest.

There's a little post-it note stuck in the corner of the frame that just says, 'Call Dani'. It's been there... well, it's not as yellow as it was when I wrote on it. Haven't gotten around to it. I told you I'd be busy. And Edinburgh Castle's still standing, so I don't think she changed her mind about getting involved. It's for the best, while she's still wounded. And giving her a break is the best that I can do. That's why I haven't called her yet.

Here's an interesting thing to note, all the same. Though I haven't called Miss Mies herself, I've called quite a number of people who I know to be associated with her. If there's a thief in my phonebook, it's because of her. I was trying to sort out a couple of gallery jobs, just to lift us up above the usual rubbish which has been filling out this big festival I'm throwing. Dani'll tell you herself, every thief in the world has a couple of jobs in their head, and they could do them tomorrow were it not for a key code or a security pass or some little niggle that would be too much effort to get. And I can provide that.

But not a one of them was available. I called Templar, called Parker, even called Raffles, who she told me never to call, and not a one of them was up for a free pass. Now doesn't that strike you as strange? Stranger still when you consider how much theft has been going on regardless, when you look at the Reuters...

I'm thinking about it when the phone rings. Still Moran. "Jim, set a bomb up for me."

"Where?" and I'm already going through the records for a sympathetic party who's in his area and can pull it off with some speed.

"Old Trafford."

I stop. "Moran, I'm getting the impression you're making this very personal. This is how people get caught, y'know." And he's one of my stars. He's one of the stories the news still reports as an individual occurrence, rather than just in the general mass. There's him, and the traditional cop-bomber in Belfast (naturally), Aberdeen turned into a turf war (apparently they've got Scandinavian gangs up there running... I don't know, the fishing or the ferry to the oil rigs or something). There's a skinny, bespectacled anthropology student in Cardiff who only wanted us to sort him out with firearms, turned out to be a right Don't-Like-Mondays. But really, in terms of international impact, murdering a whole pack of sportsmen under police protection has been the shining light of this little endeavour. I don't want him to get caught, that's what I'm saying.

"No, but they'll go and look for me there, and they'll abandon my last striker to do it."

Peering down into my picture frame, "The one with the face like lumpy custard?"

"That's the one."

"Okay then." He's an ugly bastard, tiny piggy eyes. So yeah, okay.

"Cheers, mate, I owe you one." I don't even get to say goodbye. He hangs up, goes back to his happy hunting. So I start sorting him out a short notice bomb-maker.

Moran's having a good time. I'd say he's even forgotten about his upcoming tryst in Milan. A big old mission like this, a proper pick-'em-off, he's on top of the world. I think this has been Next for him. And I'm really glad he's happy. Honestly, it warms my heart. Because I listen to him on the phone, sounding like he's having a blast, like a kid calling home from his holidays, and I think, that's going to be me someday. Just as soon as I figure out what it is I actually want. Because, much as I too am enjoying myself, as great as it is to turn on rolling news and see riots in Bristol and Birmingham and think, That was me, I haven't gotten to that place yet

This isn't what I thought I'd feel.

When I did it, when I started all this, I knew what I thought I'd feel. Now I don't really remember. But it's not here. Or maybe it's not here yet, maybe that's all it is. Maybe there's another step or two, before I reach that place. Just keep working.

Sherlock

It's not often I get to say London's criminal scene is relatively quiet. But my God, what is going on? It's incredible. Awful, awful, I mean awful. And London doesn't seem to be getting the worst of it. I saw a mugging yesterday. But then, that could happen anytime, I suppose. The Met have been lending manpower to every other quarter, though, so you have to assume they've left themselves a bit stretched. Anyway, it was a pretty common street theft. He hit her round the head, grabbed her bag and off he went. So if one had been standing on the corner of that street and if one were so inclined, he might have been easily stopped simply by taking hold of the bag strap. The speed of his running and his own centrifugal force would have spun him clear into the wall, all but knocking him out. And when he inevitably got up, he'd be so disoriented and afraid of capture that he would have just kept running, and the bag could have been safely returned to its owner even as she was still getting back to her feet.

If one were so inclined.

It was all rather exciting and unexpected. I only went out to buy a map and some thumb-tacks.

I can safely say that no map was ever held so securely to a wall as this one is. Should it ever be pulled down, the wall may very well come down with it. I'm marking up the events. Not every reported illegal action of the last week, don't be ridiculous. I began with all the ones that happened last Wednesday night, last Thursday. Just when the spike began. Coloured pins denote the major centres. Cardiff is definite, Aberdeen and Manchester too. Belfast, well, it's hard to tell, but I think it's related. The explosives being used are so professional compared to past eruptions of violence. No homemade pipebombs or antiquated mortars. The kind of thing a military man once got in trouble for calling 'Hollywood devices' on the news.

My hands aren't shaking today. I've got pages of notes in a remarkably steady hand to prove it. But I can't find a connection. It's there, though. The world might well be terrible and there might well be those who would react in this way, but something had to happen that they all spontaneously snapped at once. And yes, I'm chain-smoking, drinking a lot of coffee, but my hands aren't shaking and it's been a while since a rogue muscle took it upon itself to seize up and be useless for twenty minutes or more. Not twitching. Not scratching. Don't want anything.

Nothing except to understand this.

Manchester, I think, could be the key to this. All the others are so... small. They only have the effect that they do because there are so many of them all at once. They are the typical petty concerns; drugs, money, sex. Usual suspects. And then there's Manchester and the whole thing just starts to look like a big joke, like devils playing Truth or Dare. I keep coming back to all those footballers being offed and feeling like that should tell me everything somehow.

I get equally stuck on the phrase, 'Truth or Dare'. This is probably just a withdrawal side effect. I mean, that's ridiculous. I'd say we can be pretty certain adolescent games don't come into it.

Thankfully, something more interesting knocks it out of my head, when there's a knock at the door. Nobody knocks at my door. Nobody knows where I live. Nobody really knows me, I suppose. So it's only slowly and suspiciously that I get up and go to the source of the knocking. Wish I had a spy hole in this door. As it is, I put it on the chain and only open it very slightly at first.

Mycroft, and he says derisively, "Don't tell me this hysteria's gotten to you too." So I take the door off the chain and let him in.

"What are you doing here?"

He lifts the tip of his umbrella from the floor and indicates the map. "However did I guess you'd take an interest in this?"

That doesn't answer my question. But I think I'll live; everything else answers for him. Affected nonchalance, swift but in depth study of the pins in the map. He came to see what I know, if I've spotted anything he might have missed. In a way, though I'm not overly comfortable with the feeling, it's flattering. I'd be more flattered if I had something to tell him.

"I thought it was a hysteria?" Might as well challenge him. For old time's sake, if nothing else.

"Naturally. It's the reporting, you know, it's blown it out of all proportion. Just a couple of unlikely coincidences, that's all. There's nothing connecting these incidents." He says that like he's absolutely sure, like I'm some quivering OAP who hasn't so much as collected their pension this week and need reassurance. That's what makes me laugh. And my laughter is all the excuse Mycroft could ever need to turn and says, "What? I suppose you beg to differ."

"Yes."

"Well? I'm all ears."

"I'm sure you are." It's work again. He's come to me because... Because this is an opportunity for him. It must be. Otherwise, provided it didn't touch him directly, he wouldn't care. Mycroft stands to gain if he can offer some solution to this hysteria. "Time to prove yourself again, is it?"

"Sherlock, please..."

"Only I seem to remember the last time you tried to make an impression on the powers-that-be you lost your surviving suspect."

He tosses his head. "Have you a point to make?" Not really. Just knew it would annoy him. It annoyed me when it was all happening, so I might as well take a little revenge where it offers itself, no? I didn't really mean anything by it. I think he knows that. Maybe it helps him decide he should keep me off balance, because he goes on to say the most distinctly uncharacteristic thing I've ever heard leave his lips. "Or are you only saying this because you fancied her?"

Oh, Mycroft should never use the word 'fancy' ever again, not in that context and not in any stage of its declension, no, never. That's the only thing I'm laughing at, by the way, is how ridiculous he sounds. That's all it is.

It's another irony, when you think about it. When I was high I hated him because he was so incredibly, permanently sober. I always imagined he'd have to be on his second joint before he'd even seem normal to me, before we could ever dream of getting him stoned. But now that I'm sober (after a fashion), that's the second time he's made me laugh. But only at how colloquialisms sound when they come from him.

Just to make him stop I point past him, illustrating what I say on the map. "Look, there's no way this is spontaneous. Most of what's going on now could be effect and aftershock certainly, but this is only showing the first two days. Obviously a few of them are continuing sagas. Manchester. It's just a feeling, but something tells me if they get whoever's doing that, they could be onto a winner. And you'll notice the distinct lack of activity around London."

"That came up," he says, and leaves me to make assumptions about what sort of panic meeting it might have come up in. "The consensus seems to be that this is the epicentre."

"No. I'd say the local constabulary might want to stop lending out its members and pull them all home."

"You think London just hasn't started yet?"

"I don't think we've seen a tenth of what's coming. But again, this is all just instinct, what would I know?"

Mycroft shakes his head. That's a little bit flattering as well. "On the contrary. This has been rather interesting. Thank you, Sherlock."

He's leaving. After what, three, four minutes? Of course he is. He's got what he came for, after all. But on his way he stops, as if he only just remembered something. He comes back to my map and points at one of those sporadic little pins. "A hotel in Knightsbridge," I begin to explain.

He stops me, "I know what it is. Take a closer look at it, would you?"