Jim

Is it immoral to interrogate a sick woman? No. Not if she's got information that appertains to your own security. This, essentially, is anti-terrorism, on a microcosmic level. And you can do pretty much whatever you want when it's anti-terrorism. That's not just me justifying myself; that's the law. Now don't get me wrong, them Towers coming down in the States was a terrible thing, truly awful. So many better, easier, more effective ways they could have done that… But we did get lots of very fun legislation out of it, right across the world. I'm actually being a decent law-abiding citizen for once in my life. Immoral? Piss off; it would be immoral not to interrogate her.

In the nicest possible way, of course. After all, Danielle's a friend, as well as an associate, as well as somebody who's been working in secret all day about things I have a right to know about. That's why I brought over fresh soup supplies for her. Not buttering her up, just being nice.

Then she answers the door and it gets very difficult to remember all that friendship and niceness business.

All the evidence is right there behind her, and on her. The lethal red shoes are abandoned at the back of the sofa. The sandwich wrapper has yet to be thrown away, lying by the sink with the mayonnaise still gleaming on it. She sniffs again, but only very delicately, and is careful of how she rubs her nose; she must have spent a lot of time on all the make-up required to cover over the wreck she looked this morning. And she's wearing the sharp grey blazer she breaks out when she's pretending to belong to big business for work.

"Okay, you went out," I tell her. She opens her mouth to make excuses. I raise a silencing finger and wait for her to move so I can comfortably step in. Dani shuts the door and leans against the back of it with her arms folded, trying to look unimpressed, daring me to say something sensible. "And you went out," I tell her, "with the intention to be scary to somebody."

"Oh, now let's see you prove that, hm?"

"I don't need to prove it. This is not a court of law. This is your dive of a flat and I only need to know it. You went out to be scary and your intended target was the man I spoke with only this morning, affectionately known as the Creep. I'm not asking for a yes or a no, I'm telling you facts that are real and happened."

"His name is Carl," she says. Oh, you must be fucking kidding me… "He's from Denmark, originally, but his father was British." Fascinating, I'm sure, but I'm still stuck at the fact that our big, murdering friend with the tiny feet's name is Carl… Might have rethought if I'd known that. But nevertheless, we're tied to it now, commited, so deep i'the mire, all that stuff, all that shite…

"So you're not denying it anymore. You went out and that's who you saw. Got his life story while he did your salad, apparently."

"Standard reconnaissance, darling. Have to know what we're dealing with."

"Yeah, but Moran wouldn't be helping you with that. He'd be a hindrance. You wouldn't even ask him. So what's really going on?"

Finally, she finds the shame and decency to hang her head and just bloody blow her nose. Takes her jacket off at the same time she takes her fags out of the pocket. Now, even in her own space, she wouldn't usually spark up with me around, but she does it now. If I told her to put it out she'd do it. I don't know. I watch her dump herself into the armchair and fling the jacket over the back. Two drags later I join her. Just on the edge of her sofa, naturally; never know what you might find, what's gone on there. She sighs, "We're just trying to protect you."

The veneration and protection of our beloved dark master… Suppose that must be me, then. Can't decide whether or not that's flattering.

"Speak."

"Well, I knew you'd have dear Carl well-warned against using your name. That much was basic, but… When Seb described him, and please don't take this the wrong way, I wondered just how far a fella like that, of that description, with his obvious mental defects, just how much he might be considered to possibly be-"

"Scared of me."

It's a point. A threat is only really a threat when it comes from the right person. What my evasive thief was so eloquently not-saying there, is that I'm not what would generally be considered intimidating. Physically, this is. And the Creep (I'm sorry, I'm not calling him Carl) has only a limited knowledge of the things that do make me intimidating. Dani goes on, "You met on his terms. I understand why, but we couldn't be sure he did. Do you really want him feeling like he's in control?"

"He's got a scrambled number and a meeting place he picked. He has no way of giving me up, even if he does make a stupid decision like that."

"He has your name. Do you want to risk it? Because I can call Seb off; there's loads of time."

Oh, now there's a more important question waiting to happen. "'Call him off'? Since when do you give him orders?"

"I told him it was for you and he didn't ask." No more details are forthcoming. Says it works better if the players aren't really aware of what they're doing, makes it look natural, whatever that's supposed to mean. Asks that bitchiest of all questions, whether I trust her or not. The answer is no, frankly. But I'm not so far gone I can just come out and say that without a little hesitation. Long enough for her to add, "I'm just paranoid. I'm on such a run when it comes to luck. Wanted all the bases covered, y'know?"

Which reminds me, and I dig into my jacket pocket. Sunken down in the corner, small and smooth and cool, I find what I'm looking for and throw it to her by the knotted red string. The Chinese good luck charm, the one she handed back to me. But then it was always meant to be for my sister wasn't it? Yeah, well, none of my sisters are here. Dani'll have to do. This time she puts it on, and doesn't return it again.

Sherlock

Within an hour of the phone call, that empty floor is hiving. Lestrade and I are being kept away from it, in his office. Can't see much, just what I catch around the frosting on the windows. Saw Sally Donovan running around fetching coffees and it made me angry.

Lestrade, too, is making me angry.

"No way out of this now," he's saying. "My bloody case now, alright. Something like this, when it's important, half the time they'll take it away and give it to somebody who's done it before, somebody who's caught killers like this. Specialists, y'know. Mine now, though, isn't it? Thank you very much." That was addressed to his phone, by the way, as he throws it down on the desk. At least I hope it was, because I'm the only other person in the room and if he was talking to me…

I put it out of my head and finish the transcript, hand the yellow legal pad over to him. "Is that legible?"

"Enough," he says. "And that's all of it? No other details?"

"He was finished before I had the chance to draw him out on anything." Of course, since the call I've thought of a dozen ways I could have found out something or other but that doesn't matter, does it? That's just something to chafe at me and I don't have time for that. Keep playing it back in my head, listening for inflections and hints, for anything. I got two little facts out of that, but nothing else so far. They're down as margin notes. When he stops reading over the main text, Lestrade turns the page to study them.

"What's this?"

"What I heard and when I heard it. A steel door and the lid of an industrial bin where that arrow indicates, and a rumble at the other. I can't be precise. Sounded like a train but it was too small, went past too quickly. Articulated lorry, maybe. I wrote it all down, but I don't think it's enough to help."

Lestrade gives out this dry little snort that might have been laughter in some past life. "Couple more witnesses like you…" he says. Never gets a chance to finish the sentiment; the door opens and he's on his feet so fast it's more than a giveaway. I know before he says it; "Chief Inspector."

I stay in my seat. Keep looking in the direction I'm looking. Feels like the best plan; not to make a nuisance of myself until Lestrade has a chance to- "Can you explain any of this?" says DCI Not-Usually-Bothered-With-This-Level-Of-Business.

"Well, sir, early on this morning there was a call made to my personal phone which we believe to have been-"

Even I am already shaking my head when Chief Inspector cuts in. "That's not what I meant." I feel his eyes land on me. Try and look back over my shoulder, but I still can't shake this feeling it's probably better if I don't talk. What I actually do is watch as Lestrade fumbles his wallet out of his coat, removes a business card and passes it to his superior. It passes me on its way. Very fine handmade card, a speckled, bone sort of a colour. I don't even need to read the black, engraved name. Seen cards like that before. Very rare gifts, those cards.

Lestrade says, "This is Sherlock Holmes. He's assisting. That," he says of the card, "is the gentleman you need to talk to."

You would expect him to question that, wouldn't you? This man at this higher level, climbing the ranks, you'd think he'd resent being referred to somebody else. In all likelihood, somebody he's never heard of. But then, maybe he has heard of my brother, because he accepts it. This time he speaks to me directly, "We'll still need to interview you." Fair. I could accept that, in the interests of fairness.

But Lestrade picks the pad up from the table and holds it out to him. "Already taken care of."

DCI, who wears his ID on his inside pocket and as he leans past, handing the pad back, I learn his name is Hazell, says, "Naturally. We'll have a chat later on about your involvement on this case. But for now, if you wouldn't mind stepping out, Mr Holmes-"

"Certainly." He holds the door. Waits for me to pick up my coat and everything.

But there at the door he casts his eyes around the room, looking for something I can't pin down until he shouts, "You, um… Donnelly."

It's Donovan, actually, but Sally doesn't correct him. She sets down the stack of papers she's carrying and comes like a dog called to heel. Just says, "Yes, sir."

He indicates me and says, "Room 4C downstairs, there's a good girl." That's it. That's all she gets,. And me, I get that cordial invitation over again, to come and be interviewed, sorry to have to do this, so on and so forth and all she gets is a room reference and condescension. Now, much like the woman in question, there's a reason my cuffs are buttoned but never in my life have I wanted so much to show somebody a set of bruised, fading train-tracks and ask him if he knows who I bloody am.

But I must be staring, because with one soft, manicured hand he gestures for me to start away from him, to be following Sally. And I go, in the end, but only because once we're in the corridor there's nobody to overhear me telling her, "He's closet-gay, you know. That's why he talks to you like that."

She says, "What?" like she doesn't believe it, but with a smile on her face.

"It's the eyebrows. Every time. Always the eyebrows. The neatly trimmed nasal hair. He's faithful to his wife but he hangs around very much the other kind of bar. You can smell four or five different trace aftershaves on his coat. At a guess? He buys drinks and as soon as things get too close to heavy he pulls out his I.D. and uses the word 'soliciting'. But that's why he talks to you like that; it's part of the cover. So I wouldn't worry about it." She opens her mouth to say something. "Excuse me, just going to make a quick phone-call."

The line's busy, so I wait and leave a message.

"Mycroft. Only me. Listen, just in case it gets back to you wrong, they're just interviewing me, it's not an arrest."