Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy

Part Three – Unfinished Business

Chapter Fourteen

The medical staff needed to carry out a full examination of Molly to assess her readiness to be disconnected from all the equipment and to establish whether the hypothermia had caused any serious nerve damage. As this was likely to take a while, Sherlock took the opportunity to go to the hospital canteen and take on some much needed fuel. Now that the crisis appeared to be over, he felt extremely hungry.

On the way up there, he texted Mrs Hudson, John and Mycroft, to let them know that Molly was more or less conscious. As an afterthought, he also texted Greg Lestrade. He received texts back from everyone, expressing their relief but the one from Lestrade also said that he would be there in a few minutes as they needed to talk.

Meet me in the refectory, Sherlock texted back.

Will do, came the reply, and, true to his word, Lestrade arrived a few short minutes later.

'You haven't just come from Scotland Yard,' Sherlock commented, as Lestrade pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, eying Sherlock's plate of food with undisguised envy.

'No. Well spotted, Sherlock,' Lestrade quipped. 'Actually, I've been chatting to the not so lovely Ms Jamieson. She was brought here, too, as it's the nearest specialist trauma hospital to Tilbury. She could be in the next bed to Molly, but for that fact that she's under police guard.'

'Not remotely funny, Lestrade,' Sherlock replied. 'What does she have to say for herself?'

'Not a lot. But, fortunately, a few other people have been very informative.'

'Meaning?' Sherlock prompted.

'The charity which owns the containers came up trumps. Apparently, she contacted them through the W. I. website and arranged to come over and do some voluntary work for them. She told them it was some sort of alternative retreat. Instead of sitting in a nunnery for a month, taking a vow of silence or something, she wanted to collect used clothes from people's doorsteps. The Ford Transit belongs to them - she drove it down from Liverpool as a favour. She changed the plates as and when it suited her purpose. She's been staying in a Catholic women's hostel in Billericay. They reported her missing when she didn't come home night before last.'

'Clever,' Sherlock mused. 'That kept her under the radar. I don't suppose the Homeless Network stretches as far as Billericay. I should do something about that.'

'She's been driving that blue van all around Essex, collecting used clothing and bringing it back to the container park, setting up her cover. Once she gained access, she could source the container for Molly and William,' Lestrade continued.

'And how did she do that?' Sherlock asked.

'All the containers in that section are in need of repair. In fact they are mostly derelict, which is why no one ever goes near them,' the DI explained.

'So why didn't security notice her snooping around?' Sherlock demanded. 'And how did she get William in and out? Molly was obviously in the back of the van when she was taken in but William recognised the place, so he must have been in the cab. How come they didn't notice when she drove in with him but drove out without and vice versa?'

'Well,' Lestrade replied, holding up a placatory hand, 'it would seem that the security gate is not always manned. Due to staff cuts, sometimes there's only one guard on duty and he has to patrol the site once every two hours so, while he does that, the gate is left unattended. Everyone with a legitimate reason to enter the park is given a pass key card, so they can let themselves in and out. The security camera records their number plate and the computer records the use of the key card. We're guessing that Ms Jamieson studied the schedule and came when she knew there'd be no one on the gate.'

'So, something else I can blame on the recession, then – damn, those greedy bankers,' Sherlock cursed, in mock outrage, giving the table a theatrical thump with his fist.

'She wants to speak to you,' Lestrade informed him

'About?' Sherlock asked.

'Won't say. You don't have to see her. It's entirely up to you.'

'Well, why not,' Sherlock replied. There was something irresistible about the idea of confronting this woman who had tried to kill him, his son and his child's mother – this was very personal.

'Well, she's down on the next floor. I can take you now, if you like. I don't think I'll be getting to see Molly any time soon but it's not that urgent to get her statement. It can wait until she's completely recovered.' Lestrade replied.

'OK,' Sherlock agreed, 'but why don't you get something to eat, first. You are practically chewing my food for me. Bernadette won't be going anywhere soon, will she?'

ooOoo

Half an hour later and one floor down, Sherlock was shown into a room identical in design and lay out to the one in which he had spent the last two days, at Molly's bedside. The woman in this room looked a good deal healthier than her victim in the other, but only had a police guard for company. She was sitting up in bed, wearing a hospital gown, her injured arm in a sling. She was a good deal less well groomed than before, having not applied make-up or coiffed her hair for a couple of days, and the family resemblance between her and her late son was considerably more marked.

Sherlock walked into the room, with his hands clasped behind his back and stood at the bottom of the bed, scanning the woman with a critical eye. She watched him, in silence, for a moment or two and then spoke.

'And what do you deduce from me, Mr Sherlock Holmes,' she asked, with disdain.

'Absolutely nothing worth my time or attention,' he replied, blandly. 'You wished to see me, I believe, so here I am. What do you want?'

'I want to know what you did with my boy, after you murdered him,' she squawked, venomously.

Sherlock looked momentarily surprised and then threw back his head and laughed, ironically.

'You think it's funny, do you, killing a woman's only son and then depriving her of the opportunity to give him a decent burial?' she spat.

'Not I, Ms Jamieson. That is your proclivity. You had every intension of shooting my child, an innocent baby, in the back and leaving his mother to die alone in that shipping container, just to punish me, whom you imagine has slighted you,' he declared, dispassionately.

'Slighted? Is that what you call it when you take a man's life?'

Bernadette was becoming quite agitated now.

'You and your sort, like that brother of yours, you think you can murder with impunity. You think the law doesn't apply to you!'

'Madam, I am not the one who has been breaking the law. Abduction, false imprisonment, attempted murder, physical abuse, possession of an illegal fire arm, driving a vehicle with false number plates, theft – these things are all against the law.'

He remained resolutely calm and unperturbed, which seemed to infuriate her still more.

'So, what? Are you claiming you killed my son in self-defence?' she sneered.

'Not at all,' he replied.

'Then how and why did you kill him?' she demanded.

'No, madam, you misunderstand. I did not kill him, not at all. He killed himself,' Sherlock said, bluntly.

'Liar!' she roared and made to leap from the bed towards him but the police officer sitting at the side of the room, sprang up and restrained her, telling her to calm down before she caused herself further damage.

The pulse monitor, attached to her finger, was beeping rapidly as her heart rate accelerated. A nurse came into the room, alarmed by the shout she had heard. She took in the scene of Sherlock, standing at the foot of the bed, looking mildly amused, and the enraged patient under restraint by the police woman, then turned to the officer and said,

'If this man is upsetting the patient, I will have to ask him to leave.'

'No,' screamed the irate woman in the bed, 'he must tell me where my son is. I have to give him a decent Christian burial.'

'Your son had a very decent Christian burial, all paid for by my family,' Sherlock advised her. 'The only thing missing is his name, but that can be amended. I could take you to his grave right now. Unfortunately, his headstone has my name on it.'

The woman was shocked into silence, so Sherlock went on.

'I never went looking for your son. In fact, I didn't even know he existed until he made himself known to me. He seemed to see me as some sort of rival, though goodness knows why as we were not remotely interested in the same things. Your son seemed hell bent on world domination whereas I just enjoyed solving puzzles. Unfortunately, some of the puzzles I solved seemed to be important to him so he decided he had to defeat me, get the better of me - annihilate me, in fact.

He could have just walked away, taken his business elsewhere, set up shop in another town, so to speak, but he was obsessed with me. He decided that the world was not big enough for both of us and he wanted me gone.'

Sherlock paused and Bernadette continued to stare at him, with an expression half way between contempt and outrage.

He continued.

'James Moriarty went to an awful lot of trouble to set me up – got himself arrested for three daring crimes, all committed on the same day…'

'He was acquitted of those crimes,' the woman interjected, indignantly.

'Only because he blackmailed the jury members,' Sherlock retorted. 'He told me so himself. Every fairy story needs a good old fashioned villain, he said, and he was it. He kidnapped and almost killed two children – a bit of a family pastime, it would seem – just to implicate me. And once he thought he had destroyed my reputation, he threatened to kill three of my closest friends, just to force me to kill myself. When it looked as though I wouldn't play ball, he stuck a gun in his mouth and shot himself, blew his brains out, all over the roof of St Bart's hospital – not a pretty sight, I must say.'

Sherlock was revelling in the graphic description of Moriarty's demise, enjoying the look of horror on the mother's face.

'You are a liar,' she hissed.

'You don't have to believe me. The body can be exhumed and a post-mortem carried out. It will confirm everything I've told you – the nature of the injury, the powder burns on his left hand – he was left handed, wasn't he? Like yourself?'

Sherlock looked enquiringly at the woman. She did not respond.

'So,' he concluded, 'now you know how your son died; and why, and where he is. You can have him dug up and taken to a final resting place of your choosing or you can leave him where he is and just get him a new head stone - your choice. Personally, I could not care less.'

With that, he turned, walked out of the room and made his way back to Molly.

ooOoo

When Sherlock arrived back at Molly's room, he was rather put out to find that her mother and sister by her bedside. He saw them, through the window in the door, just as he was about to enter the room. He stopped and considered walking away but, coming to a decision, pushed open the door and walked in.

Both women turned and stared at him, the sister with curiosity and the mother with the pursed lips of the perennially disapproving. Sherlock switched on his most disarming smile and approached the older woman with his hand outstretched. Taken completely by surprise, she reached out automatically and they shook.

'Mrs Hooper, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,' he gushed. 'Please forgive my rude behaviour earlier. It was quite inexcusable. And,' he continued, turning to the younger one, 'you must be Molly's sister,' grasping her hand and squeezing it, warmly, 'I can see that attractive woman run in the Hooper bloodline.'

Even in her weakened state, Molly found it hard to stifle a smile at this incorrigible performance. Having completely bamboozled the two ladies, Sherlock swooped around to the far side of the bed and bent to place an affectionate kiss on Molly's cheek, then sat down on the bedside chair, reached for her hand and beamed at her. She fixed him with a warning glare then turned to her mother and said,

'Mum, this is Sherlock. He's William's father.'

Mrs Hooper, too stunned to say anything, just stared open-mouthed from him to Molly and back again.

'I was just saying to Mum that she could perhaps go and see William, while she's here. She doesn't get to see him very much,' Molly said, pointedly, to Sherlock.

'Oh, you must!' he insisted. 'Mycroft's driver will take you. I'll call Mrs Hudson and tell her to expect you, shall I?'

'Er, yes…thank you…that would be lovely…' Mrs Hooper stammered.

'Fine!' exclaimed the horrendously over-acting detective. 'Shall I do it now?'

'Er…OK, yes…thank you,' the woman stammered again.

Sherlock whipped out his phone, speed dialled Mrs Hudson's number and advised her to expect two visitors within the hour and to provide tea and cake, if she would be so kind. Having completed his task, he rose, swept round to the other side of the bed and ushered the two ladies out, with smiles and further handshakes and helping them on with their coats. The ladies did not stand a chance.

Having closed the door behind them, he turned, leaned on the door and heaved a sigh of relief.

'Sherlock, you are evil,' Molly chided him, even while she struggled not to smile.

He took off his coat, laid it on the chair vacated by Molly's mother and walked round to sit back in his usual spot.

'I needed somewhere to put my coat,' he explained, with a straight face.

'Well, I was just going to ask my sister to help me to the bathroom so now you will have to do it,' she concluded.

The expression on his face was priceless. Enjoying the moment, Molly pressed the call button to summon a nurse.

ooOoo