Jim
By the next afternoon, I'm reaping the rewards of just letting her get on with it. No sign of the great courtesan herself, but an email that simply says, No kill-shot yet, but he took me to see his office and an attachment; the transcripts of all three telephone conversations. Yesterday morning, last night, one in the early hours. For all I know she was there for that one.
Creepy's been a busy boy it seems. At first I'm not sure how I feel about that, but when I get a look at all the chat, it starts to look like maybe he just likes being in touch with them. He'll probably get bored and get it down to the essentials soon enough.
"Moran!" I call, and he comes in from pretending to work on a contract two weeks from now and secretly actually watching Deal Or No Deal on his phone (the man thinks I'm an idiot – the stench of Edmonds is pervasive and unmistakable). "Come and run eyes over these for me."
"What, mine, or do you want me to go out and find some?" I shove him the first and third scripts. Keep hold of the second one. He goes to the sofa and settles to it while I look again at that one. I'm not so sure about it. The rest are relatively harmless. The main question with them is who answered the first call. But the second unnerves me.
It's a bit soon, isn't it, for him to be talking about higher purposes?
"Moran, if a murderer says 'higher purpose', who gave it to him?"
"God, Satan, next-door's dog. But the Dalmatian's dead, so one of the other two." That's comforting, for all of thirty seconds; if I were a cop I'd be wondering why there was no other religious preoccupation in anything the killer said. There's no mention of God or guidance, guilt or falling, servant or warrior. Nothing. In fact, I think the real problem I'm having with offering any decent analysis is because he's so determinedly… bland. Once you get past that voice there's nothing to hold on to.
The first conversation, with the stranger, Ask Dirty Harry what he thinks of my work, that's childish, almost sweet. That's a plea for recognition as clear and straightforward as you're ever likely to find. The second, even when he's talking about his higher purpose, you can imagine his pride, can't you? I mean, if even you weren't treated, the way I was, to that grin as he produced his uniform cap out from his anorak, you can imagine him just glowing, thinking he's special, thinking he's the One.
And the third one, on the third one he doesn't say anything at all, really. It's only one page and not even that.
My next question to Moran; "Pick one thing off that sheet that sounds important."
He shrugs. "Sounds to me like he's lonely. Three inside twenty-four hours? Fucker needs a girlfriend."
"Find me a woman you'd wish that on and we'll think about it. Anyway, remind me again what our current record is on you ringing me inside twenty-four hours? I forget."
"Seven," he says, without shame. "But I maintain that four of them were business and two were boredom. Only one was loneliness. You try lying on your belly on a freezing cold roof for a whole day."
And you, dear, ordinary, everyday soul, try finding yourself on the other end of the line when somebody suddenly drops the phone because the perfect, clean shot has just happened for him and he has to take it… "Wait, do you think that's what he could be doing? Like maybe he's stuck watching whatever his next challenge is and he just gets bored?" So by the third phone call he'd run out of even mildly interesting things to say and just wanted to ask how Lestrade was. Bet the trevors got their knickers in a twist over that, reading too much into it. I bet if they hadn't already been moved, the Inspector's loved ones were all whisked off quick-sharp after that. But it's not, is it, it's not a threat… He was only asking.
Four work, two boredom, one loneliness.
Moran takes the second set of papers off me, scans them all again and starts nodding. "I'd say it's more than likely. It all speaks to me of the desperate need for somebody to play I-Spy with." Like Moran freezing his balls off on that roof, like Dani whispering inside a museum plant room until the cleaners went home. Usually I just put them on speaker and keep working but at least they have that much. If they ask very nicely, I'll leave the phone next to the radio.
All of a sudden I feel shit. Poor Creep, sitting out there on his own somewhere, with only his own company (oh dear God) and occasional phone calls to a panicking police inspector to keep him… at his current level of sanity. I reach across the phone and lift up the phone.
"What are you doing?" Moran says. The tone of his voice is something I'm much more used to hearing from his mate; derisive, disbelieving, like I couldn't possibly be doing what he thinks I'm doing. "You can't ring him. No way, that is one-way traffic."
"I know you didn't just tell me what I can and can't do, Moran. I know that in my heart and my ears must be deceiving me."
He rolls his eyes and sits forward to explain. Not the most eloquent of gents normally, it seems we've come to something he understands and can talk about. And it's not football or the army. For all I know this is a one-off, so I owe it to him to pay careful attention. If I keep the phone in my hand it's only because the sound of setting it down might put him off, might puncture this rare little moment. Swear. Scout's honour.
"He only ever gets in touch with you. If you call him, and especially if you call him with no definite purpose and only because you suspect he might be bored, then you're not a privilege anymore. He calls you, and waits with his breath held to see if you even want to answer him. You can't go switching that around, then he doesn't feel like you're a danger anymore. You're supposed to be above all this, and way too busy, and hardly even think of him except that he's got that one stupid little job you asked him to do with the cop. You don't really give a fuck about that, though, it's just something you wanted done. You start calling him you turn into a mate rather than… whatever you are. A leader, a boss… A hero. If he rings you, be kind, and he'll love you all the more for it, but no way you can ring him, Jim, you'll wreck it all."
I put the phone down. Resist the urge to ask him where all that came from. He knows what he's doing, y'know. Knows what he's about. Don't get me wrong, don't think I didn't know that before now. The people around me know what they're doing. Sometimes you just have to admit these things to yourself in so many words. Just let yourself accept, appreciate.
Sherlock
Three calls in twenty-four hours. He's planning the next one, there's no question about it. The latest came in before dawn. Of course I didn't hear of it until lunchtime. Even then, Lestrade's call was quick, and cryptic. The corner of my street, he said, if I wanted to know any more about it. Honestly, you'd think we were the villains of the piece, him and I…
Nonetheless, here I am, walking towards the corner of my street, where the lunchtime rush from the nearest school has left a drifting sea of sandwich papers floating back and forth in the fine, warm breeze. A young woman in a green uniform is going about with an extending claw, dull-eyed, placing them one by one in a black bin bag. Beyond her, looking equally uninspired, Sally Donovan at one of the outside tables. Sitting on the outside edge of her seat, one foot not quite tapping so her knee bounces.
Before I can ask if she's waiting for me, "There you are."
It's been less than twenty minutes since Lestrade rang. "Am I late?"
"I-" She checks her watch and sighs, "No. Sorry." Jittery. Dry skin. Sunken eyes. Up all night. Full of caffeine, little else.
"Do you want lunch?"
"No, I have to get back."
"Tell Lestrade I didn't show up. He'll believe you. I'm historically unreliable. Please eat something. You look dead." And I can't sit here starving; it's not good for the body and that's not good for the craving. Maybe it's not just misery that loves company after all. And Sally is silent, which means she can't think of an argument against, or doesn't want to anyway. It doesn't take much more goading to get her there. It's not much longer before we're at that same table and she looks a lot more relaxed, a lot happier.
Looks at me lighting a cigarette and says, "They'll kill you."
Other things would kill me faster. "One vice at a time."
"Oh. You're on the wagon?"
"Something like that."
Appreciative, nodding. "Fair play. There's people I wish would join you." Then, quickly, like she's said too much, she starts fishing in her handbag. Comes out with a small black memory stick. "Lestrade sent you this."
"What is it?"
"The recordings from the two calls you didn't answer and, and this is a quote, anything else he could lay hands on." So this is what took so long; sneaking evidence, the details of which are being kept very much under wraps, out of the building with Donovan. Again, I just can't help but think that these are usually the tactics of those who would classically wear black hats, rather than white. She hands it to me with the question, "So who are you?" She knows. Knows my name, has seen me, understands all that. I don't understand what she's asking. "I mean, what do you do? On the one hand it's like you're important and on the other nobody wants to know."
Now, this is a slightly different question. And it would be a lot easier to answer if I knew what to call Mycroft and how he relates to the Met.
I think Sally sees me hesitating, though. Starts smiling, the kind of smile that glows, stretches the face against its will, like she's trying to hold back laughter. "What? What's funny?"
"Now I know they were wrong."
"Who? About what?"
"The gossip, when you disappeared after the interview, was that you were-" she pauses, apparently determined not to laugh out loud. I wouldn't mind if she did, I swear. Tossing her head like it's utterly ridiculous, "That you were a… like, a spook."
"MI5?"
"Something like that."
"How do you know I'm not?"
"Spook would have had a cover story ready, wouldn't he?"
"Maybe I knew you'd think that." Biting the inside of her lip, jolting herself sober. That's it, decision made; she isn't leaving this table until she laughs. "And now you're thinking this is a stupid conversation, and therefore there can't be a scrap of truth in it at all, but you need to go a step farther than that to spot that the ultimate cover for an intelligence officer who can't explain himself is utter stupidity. Don't you see it? I'm trying to teach you suspicion, Sally, don't turn your nose up at it." That, this last, does the trick. Finally, some sound of joy gets to escape her, even if it is born out of ridicule. I don't care; it'll do. "Feel better?"
"Well, except for the crazed mass murderer on the streets-"
"Yeah, except for him, obviously."
She has another bite of her sandwich before the thought strikes her, nodding over at the little stick in my hand, "Shouldn't you be going to listen to that?"
"To help with the case. Yes. I will. Soon; first I'm going to help with the case by maintaining one of the key officers. You're useless to them without these ten minutes, y'know." I had gone on talking there, but she snorted at the word 'key'. "Something wrong?"
"I think you mean 'tea', not key." Then, after thinking about it for a moment; "The sheets. That was you, wasn't it? Obviously it couldn't be you because you're not supposed to know, but it was you. I knew Lestrade didn't spot that himself. I'm not saying he's thick or anything just that… Well, he'd already looked at those pictures. And when he's looked at something-"
"He doesn't look again. Like most people that way. Everybody ought to have somebody to re-examine whatever they do." Rather generous of me, wouldn't you say? I mean, just the fact that I'm not going on to say that 'most people' should not be allowed to become officers of the law and anyone, especially a Detective Inspector in charge of a case like this and hoping to climb the CID someday, who looks at a thing seriously only once ought to be imprisoned himself for a time, that's bloody generous. She has to go back there and respect him, pretend to at the very least, so I don't say that in front of her. "Sally, can I say something and you'll take it as advice, and not a criticism?"
"I'm thick-skinned."
Not as thick as she thinks. Nevertheless, "Don't ever look at something once. And it's not nosiness to pick up what someone's finished with and look at it again. This is how you don't stay the tea girl forever, because you don't deserve that, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. I have been useless, in my time, and it's a bloody helpful thing to see what other people miss. Don't bother caring who you annoy; if you're right, they can't ignore you."
"Who are you?" she asks again. Her interest, this time, is less to do with professional gossip. It's warmer and more personal.
Not a spy, or a policeman, thank God. Somebody giving far too much time, getting far too much pleasure out of this sandwich. Somebody who ought to be listening to some recordings right now. No one, really.