Chapter Four
"Mike, where's my body?" Molly barged into his office while he was on the phone.
"Below your head, hopefully," Mike put down the receiver.
"I thought maybe you'd hijacked it for your anatomy students."
"I don't have any students today. Are you sure you didn't file her under Z?"
"She's not in the morgue and she's not in the freezer. If someone's pranking me, it's not funny."
"Maybe Barnett requisitioned her for his enquiry."
"Enquiry?"
"You did know that's why he was here."
It all made sense now. Barnett had only been brought in to weed out what they thought was corruption in the department. He wasn't merely annoyed by Sherlock's presence in the lab, this had come from high up. And all this time she'd been naively treating him as if he was simply there to replace Mahmet. No wonder they hadn't recruited internally. The worst revelation was that the corruption was almost entirely attributable to her.
"Oh, my God, I'm going to lose my job."
"Molly," Mike got up from his chair, "Molly, wait!" But she was gone.
Hurrying down the corridor, irrational thoughts swirled around her head. Under normal circumstances, all the attention from Barnett would be justified. But in her case, promises had been made, promises which should have protected her from the consequences and she'd been naive enough to believe them.
She'd helpfully made body parts go 'missing' on a regular basis. Okay, they had all donated their bodies to science, but if they'd known what that meant when they'd signed the papers, that they'd probably end up in a certain person's fridge, they probably wouldn't have been so noble. She'd signed a death certificate for a certain person who was still alive. She'd knowingly allowed a man to be cremated in his place. Not to mention a certain person's brother had 'acquired' a number of cadavers for Operation Bond Air and asked her to leave certain details out of the paperwork, for the sake of national security and all that. Not that she'd done it out of a misplaced sense of patriotism, or even a misplaced sense of loyalty to the brothers Holmes.
There were harsh penalties for unethical treatment of the dead. She could get struck off for this. Or worse, go to prison.
Her mind began to race with different scenarios. How would she survive without this job? She'd spent her entire life studying medicine. It wasn't like she had waitressing experience. And what about prison? She'd be Big Bertha's bitch within seconds of arriving.
And all for flipping Sherlock bloody Holmes. He thinks he's so clever, but she's the one solving the cases that really matter. The murders that Sherlock thinks aren't interesting enough; like someone's domestic abuse giving their wife an aneurysm. Work that gave families justice; work she did every single day. If anyone could see inside her head right now, they'd probably say she was still a little bit stung by their earlier encounter.
Her phone beeped with a text message.
I WANT TO APOLOGISE FOR EARLIER…
"All I'm saying is, one more arrest and your man here is looking at doing some actual time," Lestrade uncomfortably shoved his size tens into the wellington boots, preparing to go down to the water's edge.
"Really, Gene, there's no need to be so melodramatic. They were all minor offences," Sherlock came along side him as they made their way down the muddy bank to the lagoon, part of a nature reserve on the banks of the Thames. He made a careful mental note of the footprints leading down to the body. They were understandably deep heading toward the water and slightly lighter leading away from it. The angle of the heel striking the mud and the length of the stride indicated someone was in a hurry.
"Minor? You were arrested thirteen times in one year, as I recall," Lestrade hushed his voice a little for the next part, "affray, inciting a riot outside a courtroom, hacking into the national library's computer system, possession of a lock knife in a public place without a reasonable excuse - "
"How come you know his rap sheet off by heart?" John looked at Lestrade with something like admiration for his tolerance levels.
"- breaking and entering, possession of an illegal firearm, possession of class A drugs. Need I go on?"
"That was a long time ago," said the accused.
"It wasn't that long ago. And for some reason, the charges have been dropped every single time."
"It wasn't in the public's interest to pursue a prosecution." Sherlock waved his comments off as the approached the body. John listened to all of this with mild amusement.
"You mean it wasn't in Mycroft Holmes' interest to pursue a prosecution. But he won't be able to protect you forever." Lestrade stopped at the white tarpaulin and lifted it up.
The scene of crime officer on duty, Masterson, squelched up to them. "A dog walker spotted it from the other side. Been dumped here within the last couple of hours." She nodded her acknowledgement to Sherlock. "We're nearly finished up here, had to work fast because of the tide. You've got five minutes before the coroner comes to pick it up. You'd better not leave any DNA on it. Remember what happened with Riley-gate?"
"It?" Sherlock looked at her. "It's a 'her' isn't it?"
"Well, you know," Masterson shrugged, "do this job long enough..." She padded off in her wellies, looking not unlike a blue paper suited Teletubbie, and shooting him back an 'I'm watching you' expression.
John had seen a lot of death and destruction in his time but he couldn't claim to ever be comfortable with violence against women. He grimaced slightly at the state of the naked corpse laying prone on the mud. The sight was... well, it was ugly. It was the visual representation of everything that was wrong with humanity. No-one should be made to look like that, all bent out of shape and green and muddy.
"What have they got so far?" Sherlock knelt down to take a look at the huge letterbox shaped wound on her leg. He prodded it with a pencil.
"Late twenties, eastern European origin, no ID, no clothes in the vicinity," Lestrade read from the technician's notes, "surgical incision in the left leg-"
"Sorry," said John, "is everyone ignoring the most obvious thing here?"
The other two looked up at him.
"Her brain? She's got no brain."
"Obviously," Sherlock wondered why this was a problem.
"Any theories?" asked Lestrade.
"Serial killer?" John crouched down to examine her himself. The top of her head had been sawn off and there was no brain tissue to speak of.
"How sweet. You're trying to make my day." Sherlock snapped a picture of her with his phone. "You know, I think I've seen this woman before. Who do we know who does work like this?"
"There's evidence of refrigeration," John continued his analysis, "the incision was made before death. The brain was removed after death, almost like in a post mortem - " his mouth rested on the 'm'.
"At last, he's caught up. That medical degree hasn't gone to waste after all. Call the morgue." Sherlock's whole countenance changed and he turned on his heels and headed back up the bank. "On second thoughts, don't call ahead. I think it'd be better if we dropped in unannounced. Wouldn't want to spook anybody."
Molly read the message again, as she loitered under the Hogarth on the stairs.
I WANT TO APOLOGISE FOR EARLIER. WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING. COFFEE?
"Wait, let's not jump to conclusions," John tried to keep up with Sherlock.
Lestrade phoned his superiors at the yard as they walked.
"My brain is a complex organic quantum computer, John, capable of calculating the near infinite number of possibilities and narrowing it down to the most likely explanation. It is not subject to, nor does it ever come close to suffering from, inference-observation confusion, but if, for argument's sake, I were jumping to conclusions they would be the correct conclusions," Sherlock spoke quickly, texting at the same time. "Surgical incision, a cavity in the thigh muscle, a woman of eastern European origin with no ID; it can only mean one thing"
"Smuggling?" John wasn't sure if he was asking a question of making a statement.
"That's what I thought too," Lestrade was just getting off the phone as they reached the cars parked under the plane trees by the riverside.
"Well don't," said Sherlock, still texting and pacing.
"Have I missed something here?" asked John.
"There's been a crackdown on smuggling in the last two months, you know that, Gerry. No-one would dare mount a smuggling operation at the moment with every major port in England crawling with armed police and customs officers. No, there's something else going on here."
"She was abducted by aliens?"
"Come on John," Sherlock stopped pacing beside Lestrade's car, apparently missing the joke, "she was abducted by someone. Not aliens but someone. She got into this against her will. Who in their right mind would allow someone to cut into them and sew something that big into their flesh?"
"They would do it if the money was good enough," said John.
"She's Romanian. Not just Romanian, she was recruited from a specific village in Romania." Sherlock showed them the picture on his phone. "High, Dacian cheekbones, Roman nose, wide pelvis and a few other idiosyncrasies, according to my anthropologist."
"You have an anthropologist now?" Lestrade squinted at him.
"So you're thinking she got in with traffickers." John felt a bad taste rising up at his own words. "And then they used her to hide drugs."
Sherlock's face clouded with concentration. "It would explain how they would get past the blockades, but why go to all this trouble over such a measly amount of... merchandise?"
Lestrade's left eyebrow arched at the mention of merchandise.
"No, someone stole this body from the morgue and tried to dump it in the river. It was for a very good reason. The best reason. Someone was trying to cover their tracks. Lucky for us they were in a hurry and they panicked, otherwise they would have done a lot better job of it."
"It had to have been something a lot more valuable than drugs." Lestrade started to unlock his car.
Sherlock turned to him thoughtfully with a raised finger. "You must have been contacted about a possible violent death when the coroner called an investigation."
"What are you insinuating? It wasn't a priority."
"An illegal immigrant. Rootless, nameless, now, I'll warrant you, brainless - "
"You didn't think it was suspicious either."
"I was working on another case. At least I remembered her face." Then he muttered under his breath, "and they think I'm inhuman."
"You're not really supposed to be in here, you know." Mike opened the refrigerator. "I could get in trouble."
"Oh, come on, Mike," said John, "what's a little bit of fraud between friends."
"I don't mind sending you things over the phone, but I've got this new department head breathing down my neck now. He's literally on the war path."
"I will smooth things over with your boss when this is all over," Sherlock bumped the fridge door closed, "but in the mean time, I think it's safe to conclude our Jane Doe on the river bank is your missing body."
"She was on Molly's list. She was a bit out of sorts today. I mean, she's normally so detached, doesn't normally take on these cases as a personal crusade, but this one - "
"This was Molly's case? Of course. Where is Molly now?"
"Come to think of it," a frown lined Mike's chubby face, "I haven't seen her for a couple of hours. She took an early lunch."
"She didn't come back after visiting me?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, phone her then," said Sherlock impatiently.
"Can't you phone her?" Mike patted down his pockets.
"He upset her at lunchtime," John chipped in helpfully, while dialing Molly's number.
"She upset me," insisted Sherlock.
John teased him with sucked in cheeks.
"She had a bit of a row with Barnett too," Mike added thoughtfully.
"Barnett, who's Barnett?" John still had his phone pressed to his ear, waiting for someone to answer.
"The new head of department. He wasn't happy with Molly's work," then he looked at Sherlock, "he wasn't happy with us letting you in here."
"You had to let me in here, I'm a police consultant."
"Well, not exactly." Lestrade scratched his nose.
"She's not answering." John looked worried.
"Where's this Barnett's office?" Sherlock took Mike roughly by his tweed collar.
Mike was blank, scared. "I haven't seen Barnett for hours either."
"Mike, this is important," said Sherlock, "Someone stole a body from this morgue. They were trying to cover something up and I think Molly got in the way. You need to tell me everything you can remember about this case. John, get Barnett's number and track him down. Be subtle. Gerry, we have to find Molly, her life may be in danger - "
"You do know," said Lestrade, "that this is still my investigation, yeah?"