At half-past eight that morning, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson arrived at New Scotland Yard headquarters, where Lestrade was waiting for them. Even John could surmise from Greg's damp hair and the strong smell of soap and mint that he'd been at headquarters all night, and that he'd just taken a shower and brushed his teeth in the staff bathroom downstairs.
"Just in time," he said. "Derrick Rice is here. I'm just waiting on Dyer to hand over the… and here he is." He hailed him across the room with one hand. Dyer, a stuffed manila folder clamped under his arm, hurried across and put it in Lestrade's hands.
"Sir…"
"Dyer. How did you get on with the estate agents?"
"Spoke with the manager of the property just now," he said. "She told me the Hollands were paid up in their rent with no money owing, but that they moved out seven weeks ago."
"To where?"
"Would you believe that they didn't ask them to leave a forwarding address? Just a phone number and banking details."
"I would believe it, actually," Lestrade groaned. "Well, at least you asked. You've been through those transaction records, though. Nothing in them that would indicate their deposit being returned to them?"
Dyer shook his head. "It wasn't," he said. "The woman I spoke to said they cleaned before they left, but there was damage to the floor and walls."
Lestrade looked across at Sherlock, who seemed deep in thought. "Sherlock?"
"No," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath as he emerged from his reverie. "There were signs the Hollands could have been living on the Marie Celeste for the previous two or three nights, but seven weeks? Impossible. I would have seen it."
"Right." Lestrade turned to Dyer. "Get Donovan and Halloran," he said. "You three are going on a road trip. You need to contact Inspector McMannis in Cornwall. Tell him you need a team to search both the Holland's cottage and Derrick Rice's place for any proof that the Hollands were there." He paused. "Get Halloran to call, okay?"
At this, Dyer looked vaguely affronted. "Why Halloran?"
"Because Donovan will get her back up with him, and McMannis might think you're too young and inexperienced. But this is Donovan's investigation in Cornwall, understand? I know she's difficult, but just run with it. I'm going to be here all day interviewing half the Holland clan."
"Walls," Sherlock said. "Brett and Sadie didn't get their deposit back because of damage to the walls…"
"Yeah, I noticed that, too," Lestrade said. "Damage to the curtains and carpet, okay, but how do you damage the walls and floor? What, take to them with a hammer?"
"Or throw someone into them," John muttered.
"Keep that thought," Lestrade said. "Rice might know more than he's saying about what Brett and Sadie's marriage was like. Otherwise, we won't know until we find Sadie - or at least until Donovan's had a look around their cottage. She's got an eye for things like that."
Dyer was still hovering. "Sir," he said. "I think it might be worth having a look at Chris and Beryl Holland's bank accounts, too."
"Why's that?"
"'Cause they're living with Siobhan and Adrian Frost. They're not old enough to need caring for in their old age, so the only reason I can think of as to why a thirty-year-old woman is going to let her parents move in with her is if they're skint. That's motive."
"Yeah, it is," Lestrade said. "If you're a complete psychopath. I'll apply for a warrant; gimme a couple of hours."
Over the years that they had worked together, John had seen more than few bizarre "interviews" conducted by Sherlock Holmes. But there was always room for being surprised.
Derrick Rice was again waiting for them in the familiar false-cheer of Interview Room One, with its bright painted walls and sofas festooned with throw cushions. He was sitting at the table, his appointed solicitor, a singularly humourless suit named Tom Jeffries, beside him. Before Lestrade had any time to start recording the interview or go through any of the preliminaries, Sherlock snatched his dossier and slammed it hard into the table, very close to Rice's hands.
"We know you murdered the Hollands," he said. "We have proof, so stop wasting my time and just tell us where you put Sadie and Maisie. Did you throw them overboard?"
"Don't say anything," Tom broke in, but Rice ignored him. A tremor had just passed across his face, and he kept his gaze on Sherlock.
"Fuck you," he said.
"Sherlock-" John broke in quietly.
"Did you cut Sadie's arms off when you dumped her body in the ocean?"
"Fuck you!"
"Do that to her too, did you?"
"Sherlock-"
Rice shot his chair out. Tom grabbed for his arm and Sherlock drew back, expecting a punch at the least. But Rice twisted free of Tom's grip and slithered onto the floor, getting down on both knees and pressing his forehead to the linoleum. He was breathing heavily. "Get him out," he moaned. "Get him out of here before I kill him!"
"Great job, as always," Lestrade said, once he'd officially terminated the interview that had never been officially started. He, Sherlock and John had just reached his office, and he shut the door behind them. "Just what the hell is wrong with you?"
"Rattling his cage, right? Yeah, good," John said. "You certainly did that."
Sherlock yanked his scarf off. The heating in the office had been turned up to sub-tropical levels. "You just saw Derrick Rice crawl into a ball on the interview room floor," he said, "and you want to know what's wrong with me?"
"Yeah, all right, he threatened to kill you in front of witnesses, so we can't say much about his self control," Lestrade admitted, dropping wearily into his chair and rubbing his brow with two fingers. "But that doesn't mean much - if you accused me of rape and murder, I might threaten to kill you, too. Doesn't mean I did it."
"Rice knows he's a suspect," Sherlock said. "He's had days to anticipate what we might say and prepare for what we might do. Surely the idea that we might accuse him of kidnapping or killing the Hollands has crossed his mind before now. But that blindsided him. I don't think he could have faked that reaction."
"You do know exactly none of that is admissible in court, right?"
"Yes, that doesn't matter," Sherlock said. "Interview-room circumstantial evidence is weak even at its strongest, but it lets me know when I'm headed in the right direction."
"The right direction about what?" John asked. "Like Greg said, losing his temper with you in an off-the-record interview isn't-"
"Not losing his temper with me. Losing his temper about Sadie, John." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Make sure a forensic team go into Rice's house before anyone else touches it," he said. "I'm sure we're going to find quite a lot of Sadie Holland's DNA in there."
"Christ." Lestrade covered his face with his hands. "Would it be too much to hope that we find it on his bedsheets, not splashed all over his kitchen walls?"
"Hoping never hurt," John remarked.
"Probably doesn't help, either. So I'm going to guess that Derrick doesn't want to talk to us anymore," Lestrade went on. "And I really don't want to try him right now. We'll be lucky as it is if Tom doesn't raise a fuss about off-the-record stuff."
Sherlock pulled a face, much as if to say he didn't care about trivialities like official complaints.
"So." John looked to Sherlock. "What do we do now?"
"I told the Hollands I'd be around for a chat this morning," Lestrade said. "I have a feeling this will be interesting."
Adrian and Siobhan Frost lived in a flat on Walton Road, wedged in between a laundromat and a shop that sold hot chicken and pizza. Access to the flat was via a side-gate and a passage so narrow that they had to each turn side-on and scuttle crab-like along the wall until they reached the dingy backyard and the staircase. As they walked up, Sherlock kept his gaze down, searching the stairs for anything that might give a clue as to how the family lived. How worn were the stairs? Were they swept and dusted? You could tell a lot about a woman by whether or not she kept the peripherals of her household clean. You could tell a lot about a man by whether he did any housework at all, and how much.
Regardless of who was or wasn't doing the housework in the Frost-Holland household, one thing was obvious: someone living there smoked, heavily and often. The reek of tobacco, both burning and stale, wafted out from under the closed flat door.
They were greeted on the landing, not, as they'd expected, by Siobhan Frost, but by Beryl Holland. She was a squat little woman, with fluffy white hair that clustered on her head like a nestling's. Her bulging blue eyes indicated, to both the consulting detective and the doctor standing beside him, hyperthyroidism that was either undiagnosed or poorly managed.
Sherlock was more interested in her hands than in irrelevancies like her height and medical conditions, which were, after all, simple genetics. The most telling part of the human body was the hands - they spoke to hobbies, work, class and household economics. Beryl Holland's left hand bore a thick wedding band, surmounted by a modest single-set diamond engagement ring and then, above it, an eternity ring band. The diamonds in it were large, but one of them was missing.
Modest engagement ring - came from a working class background. Eternity rings are a luxury and usually bought for a significant anniversary or the birth of a child. Their youngest child is thirty and that ring is too old to have been a fortieth-anniversary gift, so it's between ten and fifteen years old. But she hasn't replaced the diamond that fell out of the setting. Something happened to the Hollands in the last few years, and it wasn't just that they retired.
"Mrs Holland," Lestrade was saying, reaching out to shake her hand. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade - Metropolitan Police. These are my colleagues, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I'm so sorry for having to invade your space at a time like this."
"Oh, invade away," she said sourly. "Just don't mind the mess. Siobhan's a slob."
Nobody being able to think of any polite rejoinder to this, there was an uncomfortable silence as they trailed in behind Beryl. The flat was certainly a mess - there were empty yoghurt pots and eggshells on the sink and a bowl half full of congealed dog food on the floor near the fridge. The flat also smelled strongly of dog, though no living animal was in evidence. Beyond the kitchen, two half-open French doors led into the sitting room, where they caught a glimpse of an elderly man sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs, an open paper in his lap and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Chris," Beryl snapped at him. "Put that out. This is the police."
"Smoking in your own house isn't illegal yet," Lestrade said easily. But he was rewarded by Beryl's glare. Chris stubbed his cigarette out and held his hand out to be shaken, but he did not get up.
"Siobhan's down at the shops," Beryl said. "You're earlier than you said you'd be, and we're out of milk again."
"And Adrian?" Lestrade asked pleasantly before Beryl could launch into a criticism of Siobhan's milk-buying habits. "Is he home?"
"At work," she said. "Where a man should be on a Monday morning. If you want to speak with Adrian, you'll have to come by after-hours."
Beryl Holland did not, apparently, mince her words.
"Well, let's sit down and talk, anyway," Lestrade went on. "Lots of important things to talk about, I'm afraid."
They went to the kitchen table, where both the Hollands sat down without inviting anyone else to. Lestrade and John exchanged an awkward glance before Lestrade pulled his chair out. There were only four chairs in total, but Sherlock gestured John to the last one. He preferred to remain standing where he could see both the Hollands clearly, as well as see out of the sitting-room windows beyond.
"Now, just to give you an update on the DNA sample you gave us yesterday." Lestrade clasped his hands in a businesslike way. "So far our lab results haven't come back in. But based on circumstantial evidence, we do believe that the arm is Brett's, and that he died sometime on Friday morning."
Chris Holland made a choked sound that could have been a cry of pain or a laugh. But Beryl's face barely changed.
"I knew," she said. "A mother always knows. I was in the front room doing the ironing on Friday morning, I remember… suddenly feeling so sad…"
"Yes, I'm sorry," Lestrade said again, obviously anxious to steer Beryl away from any maternal claims to having a Second Sight. Over his shoulder, Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but Lestrade ignored him. He'd been instructed to keep his mouth shut until Lestrade's main line of questioning was over. "But we have every reason to believe Sadie and Maisie are alive," he went on. "We're throwing our energy into finding them as soon as possible."
No reaction, John thought, looking across at Beryl and then at Chris, who was pulling at his yellow-stained moustache. No reaction about their missing granddaughter?
"I need to ask you," Lestrade said, "if you know anywhere that Brett and Sadie would have kept any… resources."
"Resources?" Chris frowned.
"Well, we mainly need to know if they had money squirrelled away somewhere that isn't an English bank account, but is there anything else you can think of? Stock? Shares? Any assets they might not have wanted to declare for tax?"
Beryl looked at her husband, who cleared his throat. "Inspector Lestrade," he said with dignity, "just why are you asking us this?"
Occasionally, Greg Lestrade took a risk with his investigations. He took one now.
"Because," he said, "we had a look at Brett and Sadie's bank account. There was only sixteen pounds in it. They haven't had any savings in a while…"
"Sorry," Beryl said, staring. "What did you say? Sixteen pounds?"
Lestrade nodded.
"Well," she blurted out, exchanging a baffled glance with her husband. "Well, what happened to all the money they got from Sadie's grandmother?"
"Her grandmother?" John echoed, earning himself a stern 'shut up' glance from Sherlock.
"She died just after they got married. I don't remember her name, but she was a rich old lady and left Sadie a lot of money in her will."
"Really?" Lestrade said. "How much money are we talking about here?"
"I always thought it was over a million pounds," Chris broke in before Beryl could. "It was a good lot, I know that much. Sadie was the only grandchild. What on earth happened to it all?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't possibly say," Lestrade said, and Sherlock once again wiped a smirk off his face. Couldn't possibly say was Lestrade's professional term for no chance in hell am I telling you.
"How long has it been since you've seen Brett and Sadie?" John asked, idly tapping the pen he held onto the table.
Beryl puffed out a breath. "Christmas," she said. "We all went down to spend Christmas in Cornwall with them."
"And you haven't seen them at all since?"
"No. Not in person."
"Mrs. Holland, has there been any unpleasantness between you and Brett?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, Cornwall's not the other end of the world. Is the reason you haven't seen Brett and Sadie since Christmas because you weren't on speaking terms?"
But Beryl stared out the window. "There's Siobhan coming in now," was all she said.
They waited until the Hollands had left the flat before starting their interview with Siobhan. From where he sat next to the window, John watched the older couple emerge from downstairs and cross the street in the direction of a coffee shop on the other side. In the intervening silence, they listened to Siobhan fussing around in the kitchen. Beryl's comment that Siobhan was a "slob" may have been unkind, but it wasn't incorrect. As she prepared instant coffee for the four of them, she dropped the teaspoon three times. And all three times, she picked it up and continued to use it as if nothing had happened. She was a mousy woman, who looked younger than her thirty years. Her dull hair hung in her shiny red face and she wore a t-shirt that was twosizes too big for her and obviously inherited either from her husband or her father.
"I can't believe they didn't even offer you a cuppa," she muttered. "Sorry. Mum and Dad can be… inhospital."
John gave Sherlock's ankle a gentle kick.
"Thanks," Lestrade muttered as Siobhan handed a hot cup to him, coffee dripping down its sides and onto the carpet between his shoes. She appeared not to notice, and Lestrade ignored the stain on the carpet and took a sip while Siobhan carried the other coffees in and settled herself on the sofa. She rearranged her hands several times, as if unsure whether she could commit to the left being over the right or not.
"Siobhan," Lestrade said. "Has your mother explained to you about what happened at the aquarium yesterday?"
She nodded. "You - you found…"
"I'm sorry. But what we didn't find is any trace of Sadie and Maisie. We've got hundreds of detectives and uniformed officers behind this, both here and in Cornwall, but it's already been three days. We need to work as fast as we can. And telling us the truth, not hiding anything - that's the best thing you can do to help find them." Lestrade sipped his coffee. "When did you last see Brett and Sadie?" he asked. "I mean, actually in person."
Siobhan hesitated.
"Siobhan," John said. "The police have ways of telling whether you've visited your brother recently or not. You might as well save some time and tell the truth."
"Uh, it… it was around two months ago," she said. "I went down to Cornwall to see them. It was Maisie's birthday…"
She waved her fingers noiselessly at her mouth for a few seconds, struggling with her emotions. When she finally swallowed down on her tears, John ventured, "you and Adrian went down there?"
"No; just me." She was looking at her hands again, rubbing her fingers against each other.
"Did Adrian get along with Brett and Sadie?" Lestrade asked her.
"I knew you'd ask that," she said tartly. "Yes, he did. He and Brett in particular got on. It's just that Adrian had a darts tournament on that weekend and couldn't go, that's all, and you can check that, if you like."
"Did Brett or Sadie ever ask you or Adrian about doing an insurance job on the yacht?"
She looked up from her fingernails. "Sorry," she said. "An 'insurance job?'"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, please," Sherlock broke in, unable to keep silent a second longer. "You know perfectly well what we're talking about. Did Brett or Sadie ever ask you and Adrian help him scuttle the Marie Celeste for insurance?"
"No!"
"Because if I wanted advice on how to do it," Lestrade put in, "and I knew my brother-in-law had a history of-"
"Oh, I knew," she exclaimed. "I knew it would come out. What, you think that because Adrian made a mistake - one mistake - years ago, it means he would murder Brett and Sadie and Maisie?"
"Who said he murdered anyone?" Sherlock asked politely.
"Well someone murdered Brett!" she exclaimed. "And Maisie - Maisie might be out there somewhere and you need to find her, not arse about with a case that Adrian already did his time for. He's paid for that. He's changed!"
"Tell that to Ethan," Lestrade said, provoked into acidity. "I heard he lost an eye, thanks to Adrian."
"Oh, if you only knew what Ethan was like, you'd say it was a pity he didn't lose both of them!"
Siobhan got up, so abruptly that her chair tipped. She blundered out to the hall, scrabbling for one of the door handles like she'd been struck blind. They all watched her slam the door after herself.
Lestrade gave a barely perceptible sigh. There was no point in going after her, though if Donovan had been on hand he might have asked her to go down the hall and knock on the bedroom door a few times. "I love it when I get to upset innocent witnesses," he said dryly.
"Who said she's innocent?" Sherlock wanted to know.
"Oh, Sherlock, come on."
"Granted, she has no motive and no physical evidence linking her with the crime, but she told us much more than she meant to just now about Adrian, and that's important."
They listened for a few seconds to the thumps and bumps emanating from behind that closed door, interspersed with sniffs. Siobhan was opening and closing drawers.
"If she's even thinking about leaving London…" Lestrade muttered. "I think we're done here," he said in a louder voice. "But we need to talk to Beryl and Chris again. And Adrian, when he's home. Do you think if we came back tonight-"
A thump shook the walls around them.
Sherlock, already on his feet, reached the bedroom door in seconds. It swung open without much force on his part and he charged in, Lestrade and John on his heels. John, fighting to make his way past Lestrade in the bedroom doorway, saw that Siobhan hanging from the light fitting, a coil of pink cloth around her neck. Her face was purple, and flecks of foam bubbled up from her mouth. Sherlock lunged forward and clasped both arms around her knees, trying to hold her up.
"Move over!" Lestrade pulled the chair under Siobhan's heels over to one side and climbed up, fumbling with the knot around her throat until it came apart in his hands. She fell heavily against Sherlock's shoulder, slung over it fireman-style. Sherlock staggered for a second under the dead weight, then gathered her up in a limp bundle and laid her across the bed, one hand cradling the back of her neck. She left a smear of foam and vomit on the shoulder of his jacket.
"Let me through." John pulled at Lestrade's shoulder to get past him. Kneeling on the mattress, he leaned in close to the unconscious woman. "Not breathing," he rapped. "Sherlock, call an ambulance. Greg, give me a hand…"
When the ambulance arrived twelve minutes later, John and Lestrade were still administering CPR.