Nothing too nasty in this chapter.

Chapter Fifteen

'No! No! Dr Knowles, stop!'

Arthur heard the voice shouting and, suddenly, the blows ceased and he heard the sound of struggling, as the Man in Black dragged the so-called therapist to the other side of the room.

'You need to calm down, doctor! Don't let him get to you! You can't kill him. That's not part of the deal.'

It was the first time MIB had spoken and Arthur was surprised at how authoritative he sounded. Up until that point, he had assumed the big man was a minion but this interaction put a different complexion on things.

Dr Knowles – as Arthur now knew him – was panting, raggedly, but his breathing gradually slowed and, at last, he said,

'Thank you, Blake. I'm sorry, you're right. I allowed myself to be goaded. But, I'm calm now. You can let go of me. It won't happen again.

'You should have a break,' Blake insisted. 'I'll deal with this.'

That sounded a bit ominous but, lying on the floor, still curled in a protective ball, Arthur was relieved to hear the door open and then close again, with Dr Knowles - and, presumably, his sjambok - on the far side. Once Knowles was gone, Blake walked over and squatted next to Arthur.

'You're a smart one, aren't you,' he said.

Arthur made no response other than to relax his body a little so that the tight curl became a loose one.

'I must say, I admire your guts. You did that knowing full well what he would do to you, but you still went with it.'

He clapped Arthur on the shoulder and said,

'Come on, let's get you on the bed. Can you stand?'

Slipping one hand under Arthur's left arm, he gave a tug to encourage him to get to his feet. Arthur took the hint and allowed the man to help him up and across to the bed, where he lay down, gingerly, on his side.

His back felt like one massive bruise. He could imagine it criss-crossed with angry purple welts but he didn't think the skin was broken. It didn't sting. It just ached.

Can I get you anything?' Blake asked.

'Who are you, then? Good cop?' Arthur rasped, sucking in the pain.

Blake laughed, heartily.

'Oh, no, mate! Far from it! I'm just here to make sure you survive. And I have a vested interest in that. If you die, I don't get paid.'

'That's very comforting,' Arthur grunted.

'Would you like some water?'

'Only if you drink some, first,' Arthur replied. He was desperate for water, actually, and would probably have drunk it whether Blake tasted it or not but he wasn't about to admit to that.

Blake just chuckled, again, and left the room but returned almost immediately with two plastic bottles of water. He offered one to Arthur but the young man just stared at him and did not reach out to take it. With a huff of amusement, Blake broke the seal, pulled out the spout and took a swig then offered the bottle again. Arthur took it and put the spout between his parched lips, turned his face to the ceiling and filled his mouth with water, swilled it around and leaned over the side of the bed to spit it out, on the floor. He then took a few long swigs, which he swallowed, gratefully.

Every movement was pure pain. His back was throbbing. He knew that ice should be applied, to reduce the swelling and inhibit the bruising but he was also pretty sure that none would be forthcoming.

'I'm going to leave you alone, now, to give you time to consider your options,' Blake advised him.

'Options? I have options?'

'Oh, yes, there are always options. You can co-operate, and make it easy on yourself, or you can resist and make it hard. One thing is for sure, if you keep doing what you're doing, things will definitely get worse. I've seen this guy's tool kit. You have no idea what he has in store for you, if you carry on the way you are.'

'Where are my clothes?' Arthur asked, giving no acknowledgement to the threat.

'You won't see those clothes again.'

'Where are they?' Arthur persisted.

'We cut them off you, on the way here, and dumped them in a Clothing Bank. They'll be shredded, by now, recycled, absorbed into the system.

This was devastating news. Arthur had built so much hope on the belief that his clothes were here, in this building, guiding Mycroft's people to him. Without them, how would anyone ever find him? He fought hard to keep his expression neutral, so as not to give away any information that might assist the enemy.

'And my watch and phone?' he asked, with a steady voice that belied his rising anxiety.

'I don't know about your watch. Your phone was used as a decoy.'

Arthur didn't understand what the man meant by that but he wasn't about to ask for clarification. However, Blake seemed to detect Arthur's confusion and he explained.

'We sent your phone in the opposite direction so that, if anyone tried to locate it – believe it or not, we know about Find My Phone!' He said this, with indignation, in response to Arthur's look of astonishment. Little did Blake know that the other man was thinking about a much more reliable tracker, hidden inside that particular phone.

'And my ring?'

'What ring?' Blake seemed to know nothing about a ring.

'Never mind,' Arthur replied, depressing the spout of the water battle and folding his arms across his chest, trying to find the least uncomfortable position on the narrow bed.

'Well, as I said, I'm going to leave you alone to think. Do yourself a favour, make the right decision.'

This time, Arthur let the man leave, noting that he had left the second water bottle behind – but untasted, so there was no way he would be drinking from it. He wanted to stretch out and let his muscles relax but the thought of rolling over onto his stomach was a daunting one. And rolling onto his back was a complete nonstarter.

He pulled the pillow out from under his head then took several deep breaths before holding one and forcing himself to turn onto his stomach, giving an involuntary groan as his back muscles objected, vehemently, to the effort they were being asked to make. But, once on his stomach, legs extended, toes touching the foot bar of the bed, he felt much more comfortable.

He needed to think. If Mycroft's men weren't, this very minute, on their way, it was even more imperative for him to escape. And, in order to do that, he needed to fool this Dr Knowles into believing that he was, at last, co-operating. He knew he had to be convincing. He couldn't make it look too easy or the man would surely smell a rat. If not him, then Blake. No, he had to make it realistic.

Arthur had done a bit of amateur dramatics at school but, apart from the odd mess room Christmas Pantomime, nothing since then. Despite the lack of practice, he would need to pull off the performance of his life.

ooOoo

The police had been out in Cavendish Square Gardens for most of the morning, interviewing members of the public, seeking witnesses to the incident involving Arthur, the day before. They weren't calling it an abduction. They didn't want to put false memories in anyone's head.

As midday approached, the shop and office workers began to trickle in, seeking a shady spot in which to enjoy their lunch break – read a book, take a nap, listen to music on their MP3 players. Almost immediately, the police began to get results.

'Oh, yes!' said one lady, nibbling on a stick of celery, filled with cream cheese. 'That young man who had the fit.'

'Did you see him have a fit?' asked the police officer.

'Oh, yes! I was sat right here, like always. He was sat under that tree. I remember thinking how maybe I should have sat under the tree, cos the sun was really hot but I always sit here. Everyone has their favourite spot, don't they?'

'So what did you see, madam?' the officer asked, patiently.

'Well, OK, he was sat under that tree, eating his lunch, and his friends must have come along cos they was there when he had the fit. They were very good, his friends. They knew exactly what to do. Still, I suppose if they are his friends and he has a lot of fits, they would have to know what to do, wouldn't they? Anyway, one of them put him in the recovery position – I learned about that on a First Aid course, the recovery position – and the other one phoned the ambulance.'

'And did an ambulance come?' prompted the police officer.

'Oh, yes, a right skanky old thing it was, too. Looked like something out of Heartbeat. Cut backs, I suppose. Making do. Anyway, the ambulance come really quick and they put the young bloke on a trolley and wheeled him away.'

'Away where, madam?'

'Away to the ambulance, of course,' the woman said, rolling her eyes at the officer's stupid question. 'They put him in the ambulance and drove him away.'

'And did his friends go with him?'

Oh! Er…actually, no, they didn't. I expect they had to get back to work. And he was in safe hands so…'

'And did you notice the licence plate number of the ambulance?'

'No. Why would I? It was an ambulance!'

The constable took her name and address, thanked her for her time and moved on to the next person.

By the end of the lunch time period, the police had gathered information from several eye witnesses. All the statements were delivered to the incident room, to be collated and analysed.

Sherlock, who felt he had been kicking his heels for most of the morning, fell on these statements like a hungry hound, almost snatching them from the hands of the bearer. In next to no time, he had created a SOC map, on a previously blank white board. Drawn using whiteboard markers, and notated in Sherlock's scrawled upper case hand, the two-dimensional representation of Arthur's kidnap was realised, for all to see.

Anthea and Delaney watched, slightly in awe, as he feverishly created the masterpiece – pen in one hand, sheaf of statements in the other, shuffling them backwards and forwards, like a pack of cards – drawing matchstick men and dotted lines, indicating sight lines with different colours, marking entrances and exits with directional arrows and indicating temporal intervals with a little symbol of a stopwatch. When he finally stopped scribbling and stepped back, everyone heaved a sigh, unaware that they had even been holding their breath.

'There,' he said, enigmatically.

Delaney frowned, in bewilderment, and Anthea said, for everyone else's benefit,

'Could you talk us through it, please?'

Sherlock looked exasperated but gritted his teeth and set off rattling, at breakneck speed, gesticulating flamboyantly at various elements of the diagram, to emphasise each point.

'These two men – the ones referred to as his 'friends' – they've had him under surveillance for a few days. They've worked out his routine and come up with a plan. Now they need to win his trust. So they walk through the park every day, make sure he notices them. They are about his age so that would make them socially acceptable as potential companions. They ingratiate themselves – smile, nod, say hello and walk on. Except yesterday, on the day of the snatch, they approach and ask if they can join him – probably under the pretext of seeking shade from the sun.'

'This one – Frayne – engages him in conversation, asks him where he works, perhaps. On the CCTV, we saw Arthur gesticulate over his shoulder, indicating the direction in which he had come – perhaps indicating where he had come from. Frayne asks for clarification, he is running interference, keeping Arthur distracted while the second man prepares to incapacitate him.

When Arthur turns his back to point at the alleyway, the accomplice strikes with a hypodermic, delivering a fast-acting anaesthetic to the carotid artery. By the time Arthur realises what's happening, it's already too late.

Now the two men have to control the audience. One attends to the patient, the other calls for backup and keeps the nosey parkers at bay with the cover story – an epileptic seizure.

The bogus ambulance must have been nearby, waiting for the call. There's every possibility that someone else – a passer-by – might have called a real ambulance so they have to act fast and get Arthur away before the second ambulance arrives and blows the gaff. So check CCTV, in the area, for an old make and model of ambulance – several witnessed mentioned that the ambulance was not a modern one – and get a licence number, so we can find out who is it's registered keeper.

The ambulance arrives, they bring up a stretcher, get Arthur on it and – whoosh – he's gone! Taken, in broad daylight, in front of at least fifty witnesses, none of whom suspect a thing. Brilliant!'

Sherlock stood, gazing at the diagram of the crime scene, marvelling at the audacity of the plan and the slickness if its execution. Delaney just stared at him, aghast. Did this man have no concern for his brother's partner, at all?

Sherlock caught him staring and looked puzzled.

'Problem?' he asked.

'No, not at all,' Anthea intervened, to spare everyone's feelings.

Sherlock turned back to the diagram.

'This Frayne person,' he commented, 'you trained him well. No wonder the CIA use him. He's an artist. We need to find the ambulance on CCTV.'

ooOoo