"All right, everybody, shut up and listen." Lestrade clapped his hands. It was eight o'clock in the evening, and he was standing at the whiteboard in the incident room, trying to corral a crowd of detectives. This was going to be a long night, and possibly a long week. When there was a kidnapping or suspected kidnapping, especially one involving a child, senior detectives were expected to work around the clock. During the kidnapping of Stephen Hassell, Lestrade had been on the clock for sixty-four hours straight.

"Hey." He clapped his hands again. "You in back. Shut up… are you girls done gossiping? Right, listen."

The room finally fell silent, or close to silent. Lestrade half-turned to the board behind him.

"Just to bring you up to speed," he said, "so far our analysis of the Marie Celeste has turned up bugger-all in terms of forensics. You all know what that means. No cheating on this one. Legwork and good old-fashioned coppering."

There was a subdued round of groans from the back of the room. Lestrade was, for all his open-mindedness, known for being old-school in his approach - or at least, he was whenever Sherlock Holmes was unavailable or too bored to bother with the case at hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, sir?" someone asked.

"Waiting for me and the pathologist down in the morgue, so we can have a proper look at this arm. He's on it. Don't worry what he's doing, just you concentrate on your own job." Lestrade pointed to the whiteboard. "Okay," he said. "At the moment we have two main suspects. Our first is Brian Crouch, Directing Manager of the aquarium, and a dodgy little creep if ever I saw one. But that doesn't mean he's a murderer or he fed a human arm to his shark. We're going through CCTV tapes of the aquarium now, but I also want background checks on Crouch. Find out his work history, who his friends are, any family, all of his hobbies, what colour his duvet is. You get the idea. Anything that could link him with the Hollands." He turned back to the whiteboard. "Our other suspect is Derrick Rice. Brett Holland's best friend, or so he says, and the last person to see the Hollands alive, by his own admission. A preliminary interview this afternoon didn't bring up much, so we're bringing him back in in the morning. Again, same thing. Background checks. Be thorough. I also want to know everything you can find on Brett and Sadie Holland. If the yacht was pristine, and it was, then this wasn't the work of a random killer. Statistically, whoever kidnapped or killed the Hollands was somebody they knew. Find out who they knew, and if any of those people wanted to kill them." He pointed to a long card table at the back of the room, where two large urns sat, surrounded by stacks of Styrofoam cups. "Caffeine is over that way, but be grown ups about it, okay? We've got one hell of a night ahead. I don't want to send anyone home with caffeine poisoning. Thanks."

He put down his marker and made his way across the incident room to Donovan's office. It was a dark little alcove no bigger than a broom closet, and because of her filing cabinet, the door didn't close all the way. But she had begged him for her own space and not complained about its inadequacy, as it afforded her some semblance of privacy. He stood in the open doorway and knocked.

"Hey," he said. "You missed the briefing, but I guess you know what I said. Anything?"

Donovan leaned back in her chair and rubbed at her eyes blearily. "Not a thing," she said, gesturing in despair at her laptop screen. "And I've been watching these tapes for three hours now."

"Listen." Lestrade sat on her desk, something he very rarely did. "Had a call from Brian Crouch. Before you get excited, it was only sort of case-related. He wanted to complain about your interview this afternoon." He sighed. "Listen, Donovan. You know why I've got your back? The same reason I've always got Sherlock's back. You're good. You're bloody good. But if you're going for DI-"

"I haven't decided on that yet," she said, prickling.

"Well, assuming you're going for DI," he said, "and there's one position, and you're up against Parnell and, let's say, Eamon Alexander."

She frowned. Eamon Alexander was unofficially considered Hopkins's sergeant, just as Parnell was unofficially Gregson's. She'd had a sneaking suspicion that Parnell, who was nearly ten years older than her, might go for DI if the chance arose, but this was the first time she'd heard of Alexander putting his hand up for the job.

"Who do you reckon they're going to put through?" Lestrade was saying. "I'm going to say 'not the sergeant that witnesses keep ringing up to complain about.'"

"Yeah, and you know what I think about that-"

"I do, and you're going to tell me again, aren't you."

"Well, sorry, but you've got me on my high horse now," she said. "Not sure about Alexander, but if they're playing a fair game with promotions, I've got a better case record than Parnell. My job is to find things out, not play nicey-nice. Anyway, how's things going for you in that?" she asked, shuffling her paperwork and glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Hmm?"

"I heard you were going for Chambers's job."

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "Not too sure about that, so maybe don't spread it around yet. By rights, I should probably leave that to Merivale."

"May the best man win," Donovan said. "Or in this case, the best woman."

At a quarter past five in the morning, Sherlock came downstairs in his pyjamas and bare feet and, seeing a few dim lights were on in 221a, tapped on the door with his fingers. A few seconds later, John opened it. He was bleary eyed and still in his pyjamas, but for the most part, he was awake. Down the hall, Sherlock glimpsed that the bathroom door was shut and behind it, the shower was running.

"You're up early," John said, hushed, as he let Sherlock through. "Come in, just keep it down. Someone's decided that between three and five in the morning is playtime, and we've only just got her down again. Kettle's boiled." He nodded toward it.

Sherlock rarely made himself coffee, but did so this time without protest. "Analysis showed-"

"Sherlock, Jesus, what did I just say?"

"Oh, for God's sake." Sherlock switched to sotto voce, though he was still making coffee more loudly than necessary. "Analysis showed little to no white-cell migration on the severed end of the arm," he tried again.

"Thank God for that." John exhaled, sitting down at the kitchen table. "So he was dead, then, when it happened. But what about the rope burn?"

"Restrained at length before he was murdered, and then the arm was cut off. Simple. The pathologist's report says that the instrument used to sever the arm was small and blunt, like a hatchet or a tomahawk, and the job was anything but professional."

"So, basically, anyone could have done it."

"Even a woman or a child of twelve, according to Lestrade. He called just now. They've reviewed CCTV footage of the shark tank at the museum from four different angles. There was nothing incriminating on them."

"Damn it," John said. "I suppose it'd be too easy if we got footage of the murderer dumping the arm."

"Far too easy. But it does mean we can narrow the investigation from the aquarium, and to Cornwall and the Holland's relatives and friends in London. Today, the police are interviewing Brett and Sadie's families. Friends, such as they are. Derrick Rice again. That was wrong, John." Sherlock reached across the little kitchen to the fridge.

"What was?"

"Every single thing Derrick Rice told us yesterday was wrong. Wrong in detail, wrong in motive."

"Like what?"

"Like this: He said that Brett and Sadie Holland moved from London to Cornwall while Sadie was pregnant with Maisie."

"Yeah, well, they did." John sipped his coffee. "The police already checked that one out."

"Factually correct, yes, but doesn't that sound strange to you?"

"You've lost me, Sherlock. It's way too early in the morning to play this game."

Sherlock let out a light sigh. "With Charlie not yet two years old and Molly pregnant, would you pack up everything you had and abruptly move five hours away to a place where you knew nobody? Would you take Molly away from her support network at a time where she was most vulnerable?"

"Wow, you're learning fast," John said. "And no, not unless I had a good reason. Maybe Brett moved to Cornwall for work."

"We know he didn't. He worked at the HSBC branch in Penzance, but he only got that position a month after they moved. Before that, they were living off savings. Would you do that? Relocate to Cornwall to live off savings?"

"I hear it's a nice place."

"It's not nice enough to move there with no financial back-up plan when you've got a baby on the way."

"Yeah, okay, you're right. That is a bit weird. Why didn't you ask Rice why they moved, then?"

"Because he was very unlikely to tell the truth, and I needed him to hurry up and move on to the details of when he found the Marie Celeste. And when he did, did you hear him? Throwing around words like necessarily one moment, and colloquialisms like like to be the next."

"Yeah, I do that," John protested. "Most people do."

"Yes. When do you do that?"

John considered. "At work," he said. "You know, if I'm trying to be professional-"

"Close – very close – but no. You do it when you're repeating something you've rehearsed, even if you've only rehearsed it in your head. If the worst should happen to one of your patients, you have an arsenal of stock-standard phrases you use to distance yourself from those patients and their families."

"Yeah, well –"

"That wasn't a criticism of your bedside manner. I'm just trying to demonstrate that almost everything that came out of Rice's mouth yesterday had been carefully thought out before he spoke."

"You think he's lying?"

"I don't know. Possibly. But the Hollands have been missing for nearly three days now. It's just as likely he rehearsed what to say because he's had a long time to think it over in his head. That's not what we want. That way lies false memories, John, whether they were deliberately created or not."

"So what do we do?"

"We bring him in for another interview, and this time, we rattle the cage a little."

"Sherlock."

"Oh, shut up. You love this part."

Breakfast was served at New Scotland Yard headquarters at half-past seven. During a major investigation the higher command could usually be persuaded to cough up for cereal and toast for investigating officers on indefinite shift. But this was an affair of bacon, eggs, sausage and coffee brought in from a cafe at the end of the street, not from the break room.

"Somebody's birthday or something?" Donovan asked, gulping down a mouthful of coffee from its cardboard cup. "I can't remember the last time we got a fry-up at work."

"Yeah, well, with Chambers on the way out, I figure he'll pick up the bill just this once," Lestrade said. It was a well-known opinion of his that free food made people work harder.

"And if he doesn't?"

"He will. At least, he will until and unless we find Sadie and Maisie."

Over a hundred officers were now scouring the Cornish coast between Mousehole and Lamorna Cove and beyond, interviewing locals and looking not just for bodies, but for anything else that would indicate the disappearance of the Hollands. But Lestrade had his doubts there.

"Have you ever heard of a Detective Inspector George Simcoe, Donovan?" he suddenly asked.

She considered, then shook her head. "The name's ringing a bell," she said. "But I don't know why."

"Oh, you've seen it up on the memorial board near the canteen," he said. "September 12, 1971."

"Killed on duty?"

"You could say. When I first came here I looked up everyone on that board, and he was the only one who wasn't shot, stabbed, killed in a car crash… you know. All that." He straightened up. "Actually, he had a heart attack."

"What, at work?"

"Right at his desk, apparently. There was a kidnapping case, a girl called Florrie Cane. Went missing from her home one afternoon, with no witnesses. They initially thought the dad did it, but he was cleared, and the girl's still missing. Of course, she's probably dead." He took a breath. "But when I first came here, I tracked down one of Simcoe's old constables. He said that Simcoe said he wouldn't go home until Florrie Cane was found. And he didn't. Slept under his desk, when he slept at all. His wife used to come in and bring him food and clean clothes. Thirteen days of it, and then he keeled over and died."

"Well," she said after a grim pause. "Should you keel over, I promise to perform CPR until the ambulance gets here, but I don't think I'll have to. Nobody's going to let you work yourself to death, least of all HR. Or Mel. She'll be pretty upset if you die before the wedding. Don't know about hers, but the shop I got my wedding dress from didn't accept returns."

By this time most of the detectives were milling around the card-table full of food that had been set up, but there was one notable absence: Jacob Dyer. Looking around, Lestrade saw him hunched over at his desk.

Is he asleep? Already?

Lestrade had a sneaking feeling that what motivated him to go over and check wasn't a desire to discipline him for being sloppy on the job - it was to wake him up before anyone else could do it. But there was no need; Dyer wasn't asleep. He was poring over a manila file of papers.

"Food's on," Lestrade said. "Better get in there before Castelli goes for seconds."

"Oh. Um, okay. Thanks." Dyer stretched both arms above his head and shrugged a couple of times. "I've been doing some digging, like you said," he said. "A lot of strange things going on in the Holland family."

Lestrade leaned against the desk and kneaded at his eyes with his fingertips. "Okay," he said patiently. "What kind of strange things?"

"So Brett's mother is Beryl Holland, sixty-two years old, married to Chris Holland, who's sixty-four. Both of them are retired schoolteachers, you know, nothing out of the ordinary. Brett has a sister named Siobhan, who's married to a bloke named Adrian Frost. Still with me?"

"Yep."

"And Adrian Frost is a crim, sir. Him and one of his brothers. They were writing off a car for insurance and something went wrong, and Ethan Frost was badly burned. I assume they drove the car out somewhere and torched it, but I won't get details until later on in the morning. Anyway, they blamed each other, and Adrian went down. He only did a year, but…"

"But it's a massive jump from a fraud job to kidnapping and murder," Lestrade said. "The sort of person who'd firebomb a car isn't the same sort of person who'd hack an arm off a body and throw it overboard. And anyway, if you're going to do an insurance job on a yacht you wouldn't leave it pristine and the passengers missing, you'd scuttle it. What about Sadie's family?"

"Not a lot going there," he said. "Her maiden name is Monash. Her parents are Jacqueline and James, known by Jackie and Jimmy, and they're currently in Kenya."

"And what are they doing there?"

"They run an orphanage. They're on their way home now."

"Good alibis."

"And nothing to gain, either. It's kids that kill parents - I can't even think of a case where parents killed their adult child," Dyer said.

Lestrade considered. "Well," he said. "I assume that Sadie's next of kin benefit from her death. So if Brett and Maisie were killed as well, wouldn't that be Jackie and Jimmy?"

"No chance." Dyer lunged across his desk and picked up a printed bank statement. "That's the really interesting thing. I bet Rice didn't mention that the Hollands are flat, stony broke. Bank statement." He handed it over. "They had sixteen pounds to their name, sir. And that account's been circling the drain for the past eight or nine months."

"What happened there?"

"Bought the yacht, it seems. Bad financial decision. It's all they've been able to do to make the repayments on it. But here's the really interesting thing, sir: they haven't sent any money to the estate agents who manages their cottage in over two months."

Lestrade looked up at him. "They weren't paying their rent."

"Nope." Dyer shook his head. "And I reckon that means one of two things: either their landlord is really forgiving, or they didn't pay their rent 'cause they didn't have to. Got evicted, or did a midnight flit."

"Right. Find out for me."

"I'll call the estate agent as soon as they open, sir."

"Good. Now go eat your breakfast before someone else takes it."