In the five weeks since the death of Lars Lamstraud, there has been two more celebrity drug `overdoses`. Thanks to a supremely effective lockdown at Scotland Yard, the general public are still blissfully unaware of the murderous cicutoxin aspects to the case. Sherlock Holmes has employed every room in his Mind Palace to forge a link between the three dead men, to no avail. Even Haystack has proved needle-less.
Jay Willoughby Smith had been a well-packaged reality TV product – limited intellect had not proved an obstacle to his satsuma`d face and dazzling teeth appearing in the weekly gossip and showbiz magazines on a regular basis. There was no envelope that went unopened without the attendance of JWS (as fans, impatient with too many syllables, labelled him). No serious vices or enemies. (Perhaps it was only Sherlock Holmes who was destined to have an arch-enemy.)
Eduardo Lucas. TV `eco-chef`. Pony-tailed hipster with a ruby in his front tooth and 1,001 ways with lentils and meat-free recipes. Eduardo lived in a yurt in the middle of a boggy field; subsisting on home-grown samphire and home-made mead. The man loved nature and regularly shared with the 1.5 million viewers of his TV show, `Live and Let Live with Lucas`, his vision of a brighter, cleaner, better world, without eating animals and `raping the planet`. No badness; no enemies and no longer alive to save anyone or anything.
Sally Donovan slapped a tepid, plastic cup of coffee down in front of Sherlock. Although, not exactly warming to him, John detected a slight sea-change in her attitude since pictures of Benedict had made the rounds in the office.
"There you go, Freak. Don't want you passing out all over the place again."
"Lestrade, I need to know the reasons behind the arrest of Brenda Mortimer."
The Detective Inspector started and glared at Sherlock. "HOW did you know…some lockdown!"
"I need no obstacles, Lestrade – this case has become a serial killing spree. How can a thirty-five year old ex-librarian and BBC wardrobe assistant become one of Scotland Yard`s `Most Wanted`?"
Greg Lestrade had been minutes away from texting Sherlock before the latter had stormed into his office. He wasn't in the mood for Sherlock lording it over him quite yet, today. He needed a little flourish to gain the upper hand. Taking a card from his in-tray, Greg throws it across to Sherlock Holmes.
Angel`s Wings
Trust. Confidence. Integrity.
Discreet Courier Service
For your every need.
Celestial discretion our speciality
"She came in to ask directions at the main desk. Eagle-Eyed Mckentyre was on duty, thank goodness. Spotted this when it fell out of her bag."
Sherlock holds the card up to the light. Exactly the same, in every aspect. Back and front. Except –
He whips out his magnifying lens, focusing on the bottom left hand corner.
"You noticed this? Change in the reflectivity of the card in the corner. Turn out the lights and get me an ultra-violet scanner." Rude, but effective.
Glowing faintly, in the eerie half-light, all see in the bottom left hand corner of the card, the initials.
"B.M."
Hunched over the interview room table, petite with pale red hair, Brenda Mortimer doesn't resemble, in any aspect, a serial killer. However, as Sherlock has often commented, if serial killers were to ever get past murder number one, they would have to resemble a homicidal, nefarious psychopath as little as possible.
Brenda manages this supremely well, so thinks John Watson, as Sherlock sits opposite the object of his client`s affections and takes her hand. John is momentarily touched by the Reasoning Machine`s empathy – until Sherlock pulls out the scanner from his coat pocket and clinically runs it over her hands.
"No evidence of ultra-violet ink Miss Mortimer. Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I have been asked by a Dr. Leo Sterndale to investigate your involvement in this case."
Pale, wet, veridian eyes; framed with pale, blonde lashes. Trembling mouth; pale skin beneath cinnamon freckles. It seems, reflects John Watson, Miss Mortimer is quite the beauty.
"I just – " more tears leak out. John prays Sherlock has adopted his `sympathy face`. "I just wish I could answer any of your questions." Sniffing and tissue fumbling. "I can`t – " Ridiculously beautiful eyes, as green as sea glass, look up at Sherlock. "I just CAN`T remember ANYTHING!" More sobbing.
But Sherlock Holmes is immune.
"You carried a vital piece of evidence linking you to these crimes in your bag. At this very moment, Scotland Yard`s – finest – are carrying out a search of your flat. I can tell you – at this point – there has already been a sizeable haul of class A found on your property."
"NO!" Red hair flying as Brenda Mortimer stands, and shows some of the fire that must have attracted such an alpha-male as Leo Sterndale. "I didn't do anything! I didn't do ANY-THING!" She grabs Sherlock by the forearms and eyeballs him, with new ferocity.
"I promise you, Sherlock Holmes – I WOULD not do anything to hurt my Leo! I was in Medellin six weeks ago, buying props. Leo calls me and tells me we can finally be together. I have waited half my life for that man, so WHY would I jeopardise my happiness by – drug trafficking?" Her energy leaves her and she collapses back on the desk, crying anew.
"Oh, let me see – you have, at least, two jobs; one of which pays quite well, yet you live in a cheap bedsit in Canning Town and wear plastic boots which you have attempted to repair - twice. Your physical appearance does not bely a narcotic or alcohol habit, so my deduction would be – debt. Probably, not an expensive retail addiction from sight of your coat, watch and out of date oyster card, but something else…gambling? – ah…there we have it."
At mention of the g-word, Brenda Mortimer`s face has coloured up, like a flame in a bottle of milk. Sherlock is standing and walking around her, like a buyer at the slave market – assessing; speculating.
"Yet, not you – not you…" She watches, like a meerkat watching a snake.
Triumphantly: "Your parents! I recall the case, John. Robert Mortimer, famous botanist and author – came late to poker but still managed to lose his house, his cars, his reputation and, ultimately, his health."
Brenda has stopped crying and eyes Sherlock with a new and delicate coldness.
"Yes, he died penniless and we had to pick up the pieces. He couldn't live with the shame. Leo has never known how hard I`ve worked to appear affluent. He mustn`t know. I couldn`t bear his pity."
And it the midst of the terrible position she finds herself in, Brenda Mortimer shows something else. Dignity.
John Watson sits down opposite her and shows kindness in his eyes, for that is his strength.
"Whatever you may think Miss Mortimer, we want to help you. We can help you, but we must have the truth. All you know."
Brenda Mortimer had answered an ad in Time Out and found herself on a plane to Columbia. She knew the job seemed a little too good to be true – buying local artefacts to dress a new chain of South American restaurants opening shortly in the West End. After arriving on the Tuesday, she had taken a taxi ride to a dingy office in a South West corner of Medellin and been given a map and handful of pesos to kick start her buying expedition. After that, it seemed that Brenda`s memory had let her down.
"I must have eaten or drank something strange – poisonous. I felt light-headed, headachey. I began to lose hours out of the day, like a fast forward on a DVD. Whole portions of time disappeared. I got scared. I just got on the plane on the Friday. I don't remember the journey, just arriving at my flat. I had that card in my bag, but didn't think much of it. It was an awful experience I just couldn't share with Leo – but I just can`t think how the drugs are in my flat and three men are dead – because of something I may have done."
The evidence is fairly irrefutable, however, and when toxicology find traces of cocaine and cicutoxin in Brenda Mortimer`s handbag, she is arrested and taken down to the cells. And all the King`s horses and all the King`s men can`t get Leo Sterndale the result he wants.
x
"She is innocent, though." Sherlock Holmes so proclaims from the fairly unorthodox podium of his bath tub. Molly Hooper sits on the side of the bath and gently massages coconut shampoo through his thick, dark hair. Her hands are small but strong, and supple fingers release the aches from his temples. It really is quite delightful.
"John says she was remarkably pretty," comments Molly, artlessly, shielding his closed eyes from the soap, much like she does with Benedict.
"Was she?" It`s at times like this that she could kiss the face right off him. But doesn't. He has to be handled in the right way, like a rare species.
"Regardless of Miss Mortimer`s – appearance – I know she is telling the truth. She may indeed have trafficked the drugs that have killed three high profile men over the last five weeks, but she is innocent because she does not know how or why it has happened."
Sherlock lies down amongst the suds and disappears beneath the water to wash away the soap. He emerges, wide-eyed and blinking, like a beautiful, sleek, giant otter – reborn. And Molly`s eyes almost tear up with love for him.
"Molly, you have that `face` - I can`t quite handle that `face` - you know it." She throws a sponge right between his eyes and smiles.
"Ah, shaddap! Or I won`t use conditioner."
x
Sherlock`s brain attic suddenly changes gear and he is thrown back into the here and now. He becomes aware of John Watson sitting in the chair opposite, looking – expectant?
"Have you been there long?"
"Around an hour. I`ve had two cups of tea and given Benedict half a banana. Are you back now?"
"Thinking. I have interviewed literally hundreds of killers. I can always spot the moment they lie to me. A pause before answering; touching of the mouth or nose; too little eye contact, or too much; a longer than usual blink; leaning away or lack of mirroring…"
"You`ve written a blog on this, haven`t you?"
Eye roll.
"She would have made up a better story than `I can`t remember`. If you never lie, you never have to remember."
Sherlock pauses to peel off one of his nicotine patches. Hmm…down to two. A good sign.
"Brenda Mortimer displayed no sign of lying. Not one. She showed dignity when confronted with the misery of her father`s decline and, I believe, genuine affection for Dr. Sterndale."
John could not have been prouder of his friend than at that moment.
"So, love isn`t just a loser`s game, then?"
Sherlock Holmes seems to regress into his Mind Palace, for a brief second, then returns to the present.
"It has its moments." He concedes.