Sherlock
An officer called Calloway, who I gather has managed to gain the same position as Lestrade without even that much personal charm, has three topics on which to question me. I knew this before he sat down. The first, and most obvious, is the phone call. Everything he needs to know about that is already written down and made available for him. The second is about the crime scenes, and what I was doing here this morning. Waiting for yesterday's photography. He doesn't know why it takes so long either.
It's strange; a member of almost any other profession, from till-staff to politicians will form an instant rapport with anyone who recognizes their frustrations, who points it out. Policemen seem to be immune. I can tell from Calloway's expression he hates the red tape and time taken as much as I do, but still, he acts offended. There's admirable workplace loyalty and then there's just stupid.
And his ire moves him straight on to what I suspect will be the last topic, and the one he's been sent here to explore. "And what exactly," he says, "were you doing on these scenes in the first place, Mr Holmes?" Still polite, you'll notice, still smiling. There's no accusation there. Not one that will come across on the recording anyway. That's in the eyes; they don't come to me until after 'exactly' and they flare over my name. I almost wish I could be intimidated, since he's putting so much effort into it.
"I was asked to go to the Coeur-Leon in Kensington in order to take a closer look at a case it was felt the police hadn't fully investigated." Then, remembering how he felt when I was complaining about departments he doesn't work in, "Yet. Naturally this was mostly due to the massive drain on resources suffered in the last couple of weeks." See that? 'Resources'. That's one of their words. You should remember this for your interactions in everyday life, because he reacts to it, weakens. One more blow to drive it home; "I believe it was felt you could use all the help you could get."
There's a relent there, though unspoken, "Who was it asked you?"
"There's a DCI… Hazell, is it? He's dealing with this. I don't mean to be uncooperative but-" But I honestly don't know how much I can say. Don't even know who he bloody works for. Well, can't give it an official name with one-hundred percent certainty and don't want to risk anything less, how's that? My interrogator looks for a moment as though he's not happy about this, deeply, deeply suspicious. "Believe me when I tell you there's nothing untoward, only it was felt that too much talk about it might just make the rumours worse."
"Rumours? What rumours?"
"That the Met were overstretched. Not up to the task. After the crime scare. It's tabloid nonsense, obviously-"
"Bloody right it is."
"Obviously. But you can see why they want to keep any outside help quiet. I am sanctioned, there's nothing to worry about there."
And then, finally, he writes down Hazell's name, and moves on. Not a bad dodge. It's a pity to have to put so much time and energy into it, though. I can think of other places my energies might be better spent right now, can't you? Still, at least it was just that one question. I've come into these rooms in the past and spent hours trying to answer nothing. The rest of this has been straightforward. Matter of fact, Calloway looks more bothered by the forty minutes we've spent in conversation than I am. Maybe our damned inconsiderate friend with the fourteen known bodies on his head got him out of bed this morning, or in on his day off.
I've never really understood the concept of days off. Surely if you're a detective you stay a detective? How can somebody just turn off everything they are for twenty-four hours, switch it all back on again when the alarm goes off the next morning? But I could be missing something, I suppose.
Anyway, for whatever reason, he starts into the wrap-up. Important questions, at last; "And on the phone this morning, you're sure you said nothing that could give away your identity whatsoever?"
"Nothing. As soon as I realized the caller wasn't actually acquainted with Lestrade I became understandably wary-"
"Nothing that might have put you in any danger?"
"Nothing." I could have given out my name and phone number and I'd tell him it was nothing. I do not want a police escort, don't want a guard at the door, definitely don't want protective custody.
And that, it would seem, is that. All done. He's courteous, as they've all been, gets the door. But when I go to turn left, back towards the stairs and the office above and Lestrade, he's blocking that direction. Just in case courtesy turns out to work both ways I say, "Excuse me."
As I thought; one way street.
"I can't let you go back up there," he says. "Can't have a civilian privy to the details of any on-going investigation of this sort." Out of fifteen words, six of those (and all the ones integral to sense) were arguably jargon. "At least not without some hard evidence of approval. I'll speak to Hazell. You'll be contacted if we need you again."
He's joking. He must be. I found the bloody bodies and now I can't be involved?
But Calloway is content to stand there, until I turn the other way, and the only there to greet me is a door with a green sign above it, the usual white stick-man running out the usual white door. Take the hint, seems to be the message. On my way out the doors I compose a text, intended for Lestrade. 'Being cut out,' it says, in case he can help me or knows anymore about it. But then I remember how Hazell was with him, and the way I was treated by both Hazell and Calloway and… Not wishing to be cruel, but there might not be any point in sending a message like that to Lestrade, and there could be little harm in suspecting I might receive something similar from him in the near future.
Jim
So with the children playing their little reindeer games (all for my 'protection', of course), I was left to fill out my own evening, and to do my own legwork. It was what I wanted to use Moran for, but seeing as I was up and about anyway and I was actually doing some work…
Me? Feeling out of the loop? Irritable, annoyed, bitter? Yeah, little bit.
But it had been left to me to meet our Scotland Yard contacts and it wasn't like I can't do these things for myself. Not dependent or anything stupid like that. I could do with a late lunch, at any rate. Keep getting told, don't I, to get out more… Bet they'll be bloody sorry they missed the chance and all, either of them. Beats a squashed bloody lunchtime sandwich prepared by a serial killer any day. Fuck them, I said to myself. I wanted a big chunk of some beast that used to be alive and was ideally still bleeding and an hour's enlightening conversation and-
And definitely not, on my way back, to get walked into outside the post office by some rude bastard who's just charged across the road playing with his phone and nearly caused an accident and doesn't even stop to apologize. Jesus, well, if I ever needed a reminder why I avoid coming down into the world as much as I bloody do… Wanker.
I should follow him home and get an address to send people round to. But y'know what, I'm well fed, and I've just spent some truly quality time with two very lovely young women and I just can't be bothered. They do this to me every time, y'know. Zandra and Charlie, they're called. Pair of lesbians we loaned a safe house to just before Christmas there, so they could torture a rather hands-on landlord to death. You wouldn't think it to look at them. I don't honestly think they're that sort of people, at heart. But they've coped admirably with the aftermath and done very well. We took nothing off them but the promise of their services and they've proved invaluable so far.
Thankfully, they're not cops. For one, I'm neither thick nor confident enough to take on cops, even bent ones, and think I'd survive that. For another, cops wouldn't have needed me to provide a spot. They know where all the nice, quiet concrete bunkers are already. And finally, they don't need to be cops. They're just as useful to me in their current positions.
You see, they're telephonists. Switchboard operators. When someone puts you on hold to transfer your call, it's the like of Zandra and Charlie that are redirecting you to a free phone. Of course, the system is mostly automated, computerised, but they're the first port-of-call. All the internal phones, and the lines out and in, they have access. So if something happens and all the phones light up, they can gather information piece by piece, sneaking from call to call for mere seconds, but it all builds up.
It's funny, but every time I call them they're expecting me. I wouldn't like to be slanderous, of course, but I feel like these little invasions of privacy might have been going on long before I started paying for them and providing wire-tap technology.
They're very relaxing company. I feel better than I did when I went in there (except for that prick and his mobile, but I was letting that slide, wasn't I…) I helped them find a flat, y'know. Obviously they didn't stay in the one that had the dead landlord and I helped with that.
What I mean is, there are a lot of nice, genuine people in the world and you never know who you might be storming into outside the windows of a post office in St James.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh aye. CID's been in an uproar since early this morning. Apparently the Creep's reservations about getting into contact with my recommended Dirty Harry didn't last long, and he didn't take much time out to write his script. Since then it's been all go up there, with no further contact from the killer (which is good, I told him not to go overboard). It's now the biggest case there is (which is also good) and they've completely given up trying to keep it from leaking to the press. Can't make up my mind whether that's good or not. Obviously the press already had it, but they had two incidents and no details. Now it's going to be front page, page two-through-five, eight, centrefold, and psychoanalysis in the G2. I don't think it affects us much. Until I'm sure, though, I will remain circumspect.
See? I can do the information gathering.
The only thing I can't make sense out of, and neither Zandra nor Charlie could make sense out of either, are some scraps they pulled out of the mash-up. 'Sounded important' they said, meaning the tones of voice and the people involved. So far as I can tell, there was some outside player there on the case. They didn't catch a name, but the whole mess seemed to be to do with untangling where his affiliations are.
I don't like it. I don't like not knowing if it matters. The thing I don't know about is the one that'll get me killed. I told them to keep an ear on it and get in touch if anything bubbles up.
Anyway, there's still time, now that I'm down on the ground, to do drinks with a TV crime correspondent who knows what side his bread is buttered on, and maybe a light supper with someone who can tell me what way tomorrow's papers are going.
Bloody expensive day out, this reconnaissance. Must get a look at the account Dani uses for expenses. That might be more of a drain than is really worth it. Not least because I suspect she counts high fashion amongst her expenses.
See? I can do all the face-to-face stuff. I haven't completely lost touch. Moran and Danielle, who needs them? A footballer-shooting loon and a loon who thinks of two nights as a long term relationship, who needs either of them? I'm fine as I am. Protection, my arse. There's nothing to protect me from. I'm doing quite alright all by my lonesome-ownsome, thanks very much.