Sherlock

The recordings, while given to me in good faith, were no real boon. I spent hours with them and got nowhere. The actual dialogue told me nothing the surprisingly-accurate transcripts hadn't already, or which I hadn't guessed. The third call was banal. The only thing about it that might have, in the least, been considered striking is how genuine the killer sounded when he enquired after Lestrade's health. But that wasn't even the real problem. I never really thought I'd get anything out of the dialogue. It was the background noise I'd wanted. That was what I thought was going to crack it. Because wherever he is, if he was up at five in the morning and bored enough to ask how Lestrade was feeling, I'm convinced he was overlooking his latest hunting grounds. I really thought...

But the police recording equipment only seems to have wanted the words. I understand, it's very them, but it's also useless. There are sounds, yes, and I wrote down what I think they are, but there is no clarity, and no guarantees. I could make no decisions, no assumptions, not even an educated guess.

That's why I called Mycroft. Asked him if he didn't want to swap tasks for the afternoon.

"What on Earth do you mean?" he said.

"You take these tapes to somebody who can clean up the sound and properly analyse them, solve the serial killer case, and I'll look into that mastermind theory of yours." That stopped him, silent. "Well, that's what you were getting at, isn't it? Last night, when you asked... Oh, don't tell me they listen to your phone too?"

"Don't be silly, of course they don't."

"That reminds me, I'll need to borrow something to bug a mobile. Is that possible?"

He laughed at the question and then asked me why, and I told him it was just a hunch. Maybe, I said, nothing would come of it. Not to get too excited. Still, he brought it with him. We swapped, on a street corner like real spooks, the recordings and my notes in exchange for an envelope containing a tiny black sticker. Crude, he said, but effective, best he could get at short notice. It'll do.

Mycroft wanted more details. I half-suspected he might have had me followed, so I changed buses a couple of times, then ducked down into the station at Angel and rode to Camden Town. It's no walk at all from there, and I'm fairly certain I wasn't shadowed. It was by this safe, circuitous route that I brought myself to the stairwell of a mews, a quiet corner off the main street. Above me, a cat is mewling and a woman laughs, and until this moment I wasn't even sure if she still lived here.

Like it said, just a hunch.

As I climb towards her I keep telling myself that she is a means to an end. I haven't seen her in almost a year, and even then she only ever used me for her own ends, her own protection, and so I owe her nothing. I climb the stairs with a clear conscience, which will remain clear. I owe her nothing. Her name is Danielle. She's a thief, operating somewhat above the common street level. She's the best contact I have in these matters, but she knows who my brother is; just asking is out of the question. I owe her nothing.

On the third floor landing I knock her door. Her laughter ceases. The cat makes one more noise, maybe confused as to why the playing has stopped, and that's all. Movement as she rolls up from the floor, footsteps coming towards me. Then the darkening at the spyhole as she puts her eye to the other side. The door opens only cautiously, on the chain; like I said, she knows who my brother is.

"Purely personal business," I say. I try and keep my voice quiet, drag up a little old shame from somewhere. It's not difficult. At least today it can be useful, all part of the show.

I think 'personal' is the word that does it; she only shuts the door to fling it open again, looking me over as if she can't quite believe I'm still here. I get that a lot, actually, among people who knew me... before. I don't often get them glad to see me, though, and I think, beyond her suspicions, Danielle is. "Hello, you," she smiles. Cautiously, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can I come in?" She thinks about it, before she backs away from the door, leaving it for me. But she stays on her feet; until she knows why I'm here there no comfort, no chance to relax. "It's not hard to explain, I just didn't want to do it on the landing. I... It's that step where you're supposed to go round apologizing to all the people you messed up and I-" In a second, she's overwhelmed, and with a delighted gasp which is genuine and makes me feel sick she has her arms around me. With just the very tip of my finger, I reach down to the phone in her back pocket and apply the little sticker to the top corner of the back shell.

That's all it takes. But now I have to stay and finish this out.

She takes me by surprise, grabbing my arm and pushing back the sleeve. Counting with her forefinger, "One-two-three and... is that a fading fourth or-?"

"I think that's just a freckle, actually."

She hugs me again, this time with her head on my shoulder so she can say in my ear, "Then you have nothing to apologize for. You only ever helped me anyway." I hold her back from me so I can study her face. Don't worry, I'm looking for something specific. I find it, too. Smaller and whiter and more faded than I would have thought possible, the two ends of a long scar are just visible where they cross her jaw and cheekbone. I gave her that, with the violin bow. But it's a long old story. I just have to act like it hurts me to see that. That's all it is, an act.

An act when I turn away from her, already feeling for the door, and tell her, "I have to go. Lot of people to see."

"Stay," she says, grabbing my hand. And then her grip twists, taking me by the wrist instead, hard, her forefinger burying itself in a nexus of nerves between one too fragile tendon and a bruised, tormented vein and says, "Stay." I turn back. She has her phone in her hand, the top back corner muffled against her palm. Bloody phone's red anyway, would have been spotted at a mile. "Stay and tell me why you came here with a contact mic and tried to bug me."

"It's nothing to do with Mycroft," I tell her, very, very quickly. "Well, it is, but he doesn't know I'm here. But I am getting clean, that wasn't a lie."

"And I'm still very happy for you," she says. "Only I'm a little bit pissed off for any more hugs, love, alright?"

Jim

It's not often I'm left pacing the floor over another human being. I'm not used to being useless, see? Usually there's something I can be doing to help, and that eases things, but right now I just don't even know where any of us stand, so I can't prepare, so there's nothing I can do, and so I am pacing the fucking floor in the office wondering where the fuck this is all going to end up without even the slightest fucking clue as to the answer.

I don't need this right now, by the way. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm in the middle of one of the biggest events in my not-uneventful life to date. I'm playing with cops, for the first time. I met a serial killer, face-to-face, voluntarily, right? I do not need this extra shite, I don't have time for it.

Feels like years. Feels like I should be wearing a rut in the floor by now. In reality, it's been about half an hour. It's been a long day, lot of things to get done. Had to do some work that wasn't the Creep, just keep things ticking over, keep the clientele in line. Even with Moran about to help (once he ran out of box-opening extravaganza reruns to gasp at), it was dinner time before we got any breathing space. Before I realized Miss Mies hadn't put her head in all day either. Thinking she must have done very well with her new pursuit if she was still occupied now, happily married man my arse.

I swear I didn't call her to rip the piss out of her. I called to see what was going on, nothing more. And maybe to get her to bring over dinner. I'd been working too hard, I didn't feel like cooking and now I don't even feel like eating anymore. But I definitely didn't ring her just to laugh and call her names. Maybe 'pig-fucker'. You wouldn't deny a man one little 'pig-fucker' under the circumstances. But no bacon jokes, and definitely no oinking noises. No, Moran had already called that privilege for himself and I, being a grown man, didn't want to anyway.

Fuck, what am I joking for, I don't know yet if it's funny or not...

She answered, so I know she's alive.

And then she called me Michael and asked how Treadstone was keeping. Michael could be anybody, but there's one Michael in particular she murdered last year and I helped her get rid of him. 'Treadstone' used to be her cat. He's not anymore, he's gone now, usurped by he of the sharp claws and as-yet unimpaired reproductive functions. But Treadstone's to do with last year too. We used him as code. We used him as code when she'd been kidnapped and was under torture, so... I mean, you see where I'm coming from, don't you?

There was somebody there with her, somebody she couldn't speak freely in front of, couldn't even call me Jim, the most ridiculously bland of names. Alright, Michael? How's my Treads these days? And me, I was in the background of all this telling Moran to go over to hers and find out what's going on. Like I'd spoken to her, No fear, love. Talk later. And that sign-off is all the tenuous comfort I've got. That, and the weight of my phone in my hand, knowing Moran's going to call any second and tell me everything's one-hundred per-cent. It's just one of her lovers she has over there, she didn't want to talk in front of him, she's sorry she worried us. And then we can eat dinner, him and I, and plot a terrible fecking vengeance, because I will kill her myself if that's the case, but at least I'll know she's alright for now.

See? It's ringing now. What'd I tell you? See?

"Moran?"

"How long would it take you to clear down the flat?"

I don't need to ask what he means. "Hour, hour and a half."

"Start. I'm on my way back. Explain when I get there."

"And Danielle?"

"Alive and well. She'll buy you all the time you need, but she thinks she might be compromised."

"Shit. I knew I should have hauled her off that fucking cop."

"Worse than cops, mate. I'll explain when I get there; no more over the phone alright?"

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshit – it's the only word I can think for all first long minutes, thinking shit, fucking Christ, fuck's sake. But I've got work to do now and there's no time to stand around swearing and hating the fact that this could ever even happen. It was always a possibility and as such it was always planned for. All the real work, for instance, is on a detachable hard drive. That includes contact details, so all the work phones can have their sims changed. The landline is a scambled one and doesn't need to be worried about, but I unplug it anyway. Anything on paper goes into a sealed steel case. This gets hidden in an overnight bag I can take out with me and wherever I end up I can arrange for the document disposal people to pick it up. Pack a couple of things, move the documents for spare identities out of the safe, try and remember how much petty cash I'm hiding, and where, and if it's enough to look suspicious or can just be abandoned.

I get through most of it before Moran gets back. He locks the door behind him, does up both bolts. By then I'm behind him. He's got a note in his hand and I take it. Dani's handwriting. It's hasty and untidy but still recognizably hers. The words, at first, are gibberish. If it had been seen or taken from them, I doubt anybody could have made sense of it. But if you were there and you've been living it, it's clear as day.

Bond on the blower, it says. Trying to anyway. M suspects bagpiper-footbomb-nuke. Will pursue. Get safe, it says, Then please advise.

Government agent of some sort tried to bug her phone. They already believe there was someone behind the recent crime spree. She'll find out how much they know, and wait for orders. Oh yeah, it's all just right next door to English...

"Did she look in danger?" I ask Moran, following him. He goes to the mock fireplace in the living room and removes a handgun I didn't know he kept there, and two full clips.

Him, like reporting to a superior officer, "Far from it. Seemed in control of the situation, certain any affiliation was only a suspicion. Wrote the note at the door under the guise of giving an address and directions. Was in company of tall man, dark, didn't appear to suspect me. Low-level if he's even the agent she means; didn't look like Vauxhall."

There's another firearm, another ammo cache in the spare room. Also a cheap steel lockbox of foreign currency and false documents. And a French Connection make-up bag full of lock-picks and combination scanners and all sorts he seems determined to save. "Is all that always here?" I ask him.

"Yeah. Is there a safe house ready or are you better staying at mine?"

"Safe house, nowhere known."

"I'll just fetch the Uzis."

"Christ alive..."