Chapter Four

'I'm Sherlock Holmes,' said Sherlock, in a calm, placatory tone. 'I'm sure you must have heard of me.'

'Of course, I've 'eard of Sherlock 'Olmes. But 'ow do I know you're 'im? I only 'ave your word for that,' the young PC replied, still holding the taser in two disturbingly shaky hands and pointing it directly at Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock's tip-off, in the wee small hours, had brought him to an empty building which had formerly housed a branch of a well-known High Street bank but was now defunct – like so many High Street bank branches. He had forced an entry via a service access at the rear of the building and found not what he was looking for but something entirely unexpected. He had attempted to contact DI Lestrade immediately on his mobile phone, but on discovering there was no signal inside the building – possibly due to the thickness of the stone-built walls – he had retraced his steps to the rear entrance, stepped outside and bumped straight into this rookie cop and his older, more experienced, and somewhat jaded partner-cum-mentor, doing a routine check of empty buildings while on foot patrol in the area.

'Hello, hello, hello,' the senior partner had said, giving a good impression of pantomime policeman, 'what have we here then?'

Without giving Sherlock any opportunity to explain, PC Plod had ordered Rookie Cop to…

'Wait here. And don't take any crap from this tosspot. Use your taser on him, if you have to,' and gone inside the building to see what the 'tosspot' had been up to in there.

Rookie Cop, interpreting his mentor's instructions rather literally, had whipped out his taser and, holding it at arm's length, had been aiming it at Sherlock for the last ten minutes. Needless to say, the muscles of his arms were now screaming with pain and his fingers quivering on the taser trigger, causing Sherlock a degree of concern.

'You can lower the taser, officer,' Sherlock advised. 'I'm not going to do anything...untoward.'

At which , the rookie sniggered nervously.

'You must think I'm stupid!' he exclaimed.

No. Not 'think', Sherlock thought. But instead, said, in what he hoped was a reassuring, co-operative tone, holding up the mobile still held in his hand,

'I was just about to call the police to inform DI Lestrade of what I found here. You know of him, surely?'

'No, mate,' the rookie replied, curtly. 'Never 'eard of 'im.'

'He's on the Serious Crime Squad at New Scotland Yard.'

'That's the Met,' Rookie scoffed. 'We're City police. Nothin' to do with the Met.'

'The City Police are a separate force, I grant you, but there is a great deal of co-operation between the two, is there not?'

'Wouldn't know,' the young PC snapped, glancing nervously towards the entrance to the bank, fervently hoping that his partner returned before his hands, which were beginning to lose all feeling, gave up the ghost and dropped the taser.

And his wish was granted as, at that very moment, his portly friend appeared through the doorway, talking into the radio attached to his epaulette.

'Yes, we need a full team down here – SOC, forensics, the lot. Roger, wilko, over and out.'

He then turned to Sherlock and said,

'Turn around, hands behind your back. Don't move unless I tell you to or my partner here will be forced to subdue you.'

Said partner had already dropped his arms to his sides, the taser held limply in one hand, and was gasping with relief as the pain in his straining muscles began to subside.

With a sigh of resignation, Sherlock turned to face the wall of the bank and put his hands behind his back. His phone was immediately wrenched from his grasp and pocketed by the senior partner, who then slapped one half of a pair of rigid handcuffs onto the wrist of that hand before twisting his arm up his back and slapping the other half onto his other wrist, leaving his arms pinned in an extremely uncomfortable position, half way up his back. The police officer then placed the flat of his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades and shoved him, hard, against the wall. It was only Sherlock's quick reflexes, turning his head to the side, that saved him from – at the very least - a broken nose. As it was, he suspected he would have a bruised cheek bone and possibly a black eye by morning.

'If you would care to look at that phone you just confiscated,' Sherlock began, in as civil a tone as he could muster, 'you will see that I was in the process of calling…'

'Shut. Your. Face.' PC Plod hissed in his ear, giving him another shove in the back, for good measure.

Sherlock, resigned to his fate, opted to keep schtum until such times as he would be allowed to explain his legitimate presence at the scene of this crime.

ooOoo

Several hours later, sitting on the thin, bare mattress of the standard bunk bed in a police cell at the local nick, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and a blue custody over-all – all his other clothes having been taken away for forensic examination – Sherlock heard voices and footsteps approaching along the corridor of the custody suite. They stopped outside his cell and the observation hatch was abruptly snapped open. A pair of eyes peered in and Sherlock returned their gaze with a bored one of his own.

Having established that the prisoner was nowhere near the door, the custody officer undid the lock and threw the door open wide.

'Come with us,' he snapped

Sherlock slowly uncrossed his leg and stood up, languidly, before strolling out of the cell and down the corridor, sandwiched between two custody officers, to an Interview Room, where he was ordered to sit at the table in the middle of the room. The two officers took the chairs opposite.

Glancing up at the clock on the wall, Sherlock noted that it was two o'clock in the afternoon. His watch and phone had been confiscated, along with his clothes, when he was admitted to the Custody Suite so, although he knew he'd been in the cell for hours, he had no idea of the actual time. Until now.

'I need to pick up my son from school at four o'clock and I promised my wife I would not be late,' he exclaimed.

One of the officers gave a snort of laughter.

'In case you hadn't noticed, mate, it's Saturday,' he snarked. 'All the schools are closed for the weekend.'

Sherlock gave him a withering look.

'My eldest son has been on a two-week tour of Scandinavia with the choir of St Paul's Cathedral. They get back today. I have to pick him up from the school.'

'Well, the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we'll be able to let you go,' the officer sneered. 'What were you doing at the bank?'

He was clearly the one in charge.

'Shouldn't you be reading me my rights?' asked Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

'You've been cautioned already, when you were arrested,' the officer retorted.

'That was hours ago. I might have forgotten by now. And it is standard police procedure to remind the subject of their rights before being questioned, is it not?' Sherlock queried.

'You seem very familiar with police procedure,' the officer snorted. 'Had a lot of custody experience, have you?'

'A fair amount, I suppose,' Sherlock shrugged, 'but not usually from this side of the table.'

The two officers glanced at one another, suddenly a little apprehensive. Could this snooty bastard possibly be 'Job'?

Exercising prudence, the lead officer repeated the standard Caution and Sherlock nodded, irritably.

'Now, what were you doing at the bank?'

'Aren't you going to record this interview?'

'This is an informal interview so we don't need to record it.'

'What if I confess to something really serious?'

'Then it becomes a formal interview and we will record it.'

'But I might refuse to repeat my confession on tape. What then?'

'Look here, smartarse!' the lead officer snarled. 'Just give us all a break and answer the bloody question.'

'I'm entitled to a phone call, aren't I?'

The officers looked at one another again and then the lead nodded, wearily.

'I want my phone call,' Sherlock declared, folding his arms across his chest, much like Violet in a rare - but nonetheless impressive - strop.

The second officer sighed. And left the room, in search of a telephone, leaving Sherlock and the lead officer eyeballing each other across the table. Number Two returned a few moments later with a cordless handset and placed it on the table in front of their suspect.

'I need my mobile,' Sherlock demanded, adding, 'I can't remember the number off the top of my head.'

'We can get you a duty solicitor.'

'I'm not calling my solicitor,' Sherlock scoffed. 'I'm calling my brother to tell him to come and get me out of here.'

Both officers snorted with laughter, then.

'What makes you think your brother can get you out of here?' the lead man chortled. 'Who does he think he is? The Home Secretary?'

'Not quite,' Sherlock replied.

ooOoo

Less than an hour later, Sherlock – back in his cell – heard footsteps approach once more. This time, the door opened without a precursory glance through the observation hatch, and a familiar person stepped into the cell, carrying his clothes.

'Anthea!' Sherlock exclaimed, standing to greet Mycroft's PA.

'Mr Holmes,' she replied. 'I believe these belong to you?' She placed the bundle of clothing into his outstretched arms. 'What happened there?' she asked, eying the bruising across his cheek and around his eye, on the right side of his face.

'Oh, just a little over-zealous application of restraint techniques by one of the arresting officers,' he shrugged.

Anthea pursed her lips and frowned, then:

'I'll be outside,' she said, turning about and re-joining the custody officer out in the corridor, who closed the door with a resentful glare in Sherlock's direction.

Ten minutes later, he was at the custody desk, reclaiming his confiscated possessions and signing his bail form. He was still a suspect, apparently, and would be required to report back to the station in a fortnight's time, as part of his bail conditions. Signing the form with a flourish, he dropped the pen on the counter, smiled brightly at the custody sergeant and followed Anthea out of the nick.

In the road outside, a government staff car was parked on the double yellow 'No Parking at Any Time' lines.

'Oh, excellent!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'Can you give me a lift to St Paul's?'

'Of course,' Anthea replied, opening the rear passenger door for Sherlock to slide in but he walked around the back of the car and got in on the other side, so she took the seat beside him.

As the car pulled away from the curb, she turned to him.

'That body you found in the old bank?'

'Yes?'

'It's been identified.'

'And?'

'It's the Deputy Mayor of London.'

'Definitely?

'Oh, yes. Mycroft recognised her immediately.'

'Mycroft has viewed the body?'

She nodded.

'He wanted to be sure you hadn't done it.'

'Charming!' Sherlock huffed.

'Well, you know Mycroft. He likes to know what he's dealing with.'

'What's he doing in London at the weekend, anyway?' Sherlock snorted. 'I would have thought he'd be busy back on the farm, bringing in the harvest?' He pronounced the last four words in a parody rural accent.

'He had a meeting with the PM this morning to work on a Cabinet reshuffle. He's on his way home now. You were lucky to catch him.'

'Hmmm. That is interesting,' Sherlock hummed, referring to the identity of the body now, not his brother's movements. He sat back in his seat, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

Anthea left him to his musings.

ooOoo

Sherlock alighted from the staff car outside St Paul's Cathedral School. After thanking Anthea and the driver for the lift and bidding them both goodbye, he checked his watch and was relieved to note that he was almost half an hour early for the e.t.a. of the tour coach. He passed through the school gate to the inner courtyard, where a group of parents and carers was already assembled. He exchanged nods of greeting with the ones he recognised as belonging to William's class mates then took out his phone and texted Molly.

Waiting at the school. Coach arrival imminent.

He thought it prudent not to mention being arrested on suspicion of murder and subjected to some minor police brutality. There would be plenty of time for that later.

Since his phone was already in his hand, he took the opportunity to check his emails, texts, and WhatsApp messages – which saved him from having to engage in small talk with anyone while he waited – and rattled off a few replies until the sound of a large diesel engine approaching caught his attention and that of everyone else present. There was a general murmur of anticipation and the parents processed out onto the pavement, arriving just as the coach carrying the returning choir came to a halt outside the school, with a loud hiss of air brakes.

The door swished open and the driver alighted, opened up the luggage bay and began to decant luggage onto the pavement while the staff who had accompanied the children on the tour, comprising the choir master, the boarding house matron and a couple of the school's academic staff, began an orderly evacuation of children from the bus to the waiting arms of their loved ones.

Sherlock hung back, not wishing to be part of the rabble thronging around the coach. Then he spotted William's travel bag being extricated from the bowels of the coach and placed on the pavement so he stepped forward, picked it up and retreated back to his safe haven by the school gate.

As the gaggle of parents thinned to the last few, William appeared at the top of the steps and grinned broadly at his father, who returned his son's smile and strode forward to greet him.

'Here he is, Mr Holmes, said the matron, who had been tasked with reuniting each child with the correct adult.

'Thank you,' Sherlock replied, opening his free arm – the one not holding the travel bag – and enveloping William in a loving hug. The rush of endorphins that holding his children after a long absence always induced, flooded his brain and almost made him dizzy.

'He's been absolute star on the tour, Mr Holmes,' Matron added and Sherlock looked up to see her smiling benignly. 'I suspect you'll be getting a letter from the choir master before the new term begins.'

Sherlock knew this was both good news and bad – good because it meant William would most likely be made a permanent member of the choir from September; bad because it meant his weekends in term time would be taken up with services at the cathedral, so they would have less time with him at home.

Sherlock looked down at William, whose face was still buried in his chest and arms wrapped around his waist, clearly as happy to see his father as the father was to see his son. He cupped the child's head in his hand and whispered,

'Come on. Let's get you home. Everyone can't wait to see you.'

William eased himself out of the embrace and took his father's hand.

'Goodbye, matron,' he mumbled. 'Thank you for looking after us.'

'You're most welcome, William,' she replied. 'Enjoy the rest of your holiday.'

Father and son moved away along the street and Sherlock's keen eye spotted a cab approaching with its orange 'For Hire' sign lit up. He raised a hand and the cab swerved into the curb. Opening the rear door, Sherlock handed William into the cab first then climbed in after, placing the travel bag on the floor and giving the cabbie their address before sitting back in the seat.

'How was it?' he asked, wrapping his arm around William as the boy snuggle into his side.

'It was…interesting,' William began, 'seeing all the different places. We got to see a bit of every place we visited, not just the churches where we sere singing. And the churches were interesting because they are Lutheran, so very plain. They don't go in for all the gold and statues and stained-glass windows like our cathedral does.'

He paused and thought a bit more.

'We were quite busy and there was a lot of travelling. We only stayed a couple of days in each place. The lodgings were alright, I suppose. Sometimes we were boarded in local people's houses but mostly it was youth hostel dormitories, so a bit like school, really.'

He paused again and Sherlock waited to see if he had anything more to add. But it seemed he didn't. Not on that subject, at least. Tilting his head back and looking up at his father, William asked,

'How did you hurt your face?'

'Oh, I had an argument with a wall, in the dark, last night,' sherlock replied, with a rueful grin. And then went on to explain about the tip off and finding the body in the old bank – but not about his encounter with the City of London Police.

'So now you have a nice juicy murder to investigate,' William grinned.

'In deed, I do!' Sherlock grinned back.

ooOoo

When the cab pulled up outside Firs Lodge, Sherlock swiped his debit card on the card reader while William picked up his own travel bag and stepped out onto the pavement, bracing himself for the onslaught he was expecting from his siblings and Redbeard. But the house seemed strangely deserted and the front door remained firmly closed.

It was both a disappointment and a relief but William made the best of it.

'Can I go and tell the bees I'm home?' he asked.

'Of course,' Sherlock replied, relieving him of his bag and the back pack he'd been wearing since he got off the coach.

As William disappeared round the side of the house, Sherlock put his key in the front door and stepped inside.

It was so quiet and peaceful in the hallway, with dust motes floating in the air, disturbed by the draft from the opening and closing of the front door, and illuminated by the sun's rays shining through the quarter light above the door. The house smelt of wax polish and his footsteps reverberated as he strode across the wooden floor to the kitchen and on to the utility room, where he dumped William's travel bag – to be sorted later.

He unlocked and opened the back door, stepping outside and gazing down the garden to see William in the little orchard at the far end, bending over the bee hive, announcing his return to the family home. The bees liked to know, apparently.

Taking out this phone, Sherlock texted Molly.

We're home. Where are you?

The reply came almost immediately.

At the park. Just leaving. Brace for impact!

ooOoo

'Job', in case anyone was wondering, is police slang for being a police officer, i.e. 'I'm job'.