CHAPTER 17: GOOD M...URDER!
* * * Quick Author's Note. A little advice: if you can, listen to Lacrimosa, an amazing piece from The Requiem by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I'd recommend the version of David Garrett performing the piece on the violin. It will let you immerse in the atmosphere at the beginning of this chapter.
Several days later, Giulia enters the flat, following the plaintive violin tune coming from upstairs.
"Good morning," she cheerfully exclaims as she steps into the living room and waves at John sitting in his armchair.
"Look who's in a good mood," she ironically adds, nodding at Sherlock who is playing the violin standing near the window, with his back facing her. The heart-wrenching notes of Mozart's Requiem fill up the room, making the atmosphere gloomy and sorrowful.
She bends down to whisper in John's ear, "What happened?"
"He's simply depressed. He hasn't had a proper case in a week, and it's driving him crazy. Here he is: officially celebrating the death of his own mind," he replies, sipping his tea. Business as usual at 221B.
She looks at the absorbed violinist, seemingly unaware of their presence.
"And what will happen when a big case finally pops up? Will he spring across the room playing Beethoven's Ode to Joy?" she jokes.
At that moment, the bow slides harshly along the strings, and the music immediately stops. Sherlock turns around and complains, "You two distracted me."
"To be fair, you were the one who turned breakfast into a funeral," Giulia rebuts.
He groans, places his violin on the table, and walks back and forth across the living room. She observes his movements with a scowl. Her eyes scan his arms in search of some signs of narcotics, but he is wearing a long-sleeved gown, and it's impossible to say whether he is on drugs or simply having a nervous breakdown.
"I want a case. Give me a case," he bursts out, sinking down into his armchair.
Right when John and Giulia exchange an exasperated look, Sherlock's phone rings.
"What a coincidence," she says excitedly.
"Coincidences don't exist. The universe isn't so lazy," Holmes snaps back, stealing a look at the lit screen.
"It means the universe has listened to your prayers, then."
He takes the call and puts it on speakerphone. "Lestrade? What do you have for me?"
"Hello, Sherlock." The unmistakable voice of the D.I. crackles from the device. "I'm fine. Thank you for asking. It's very kind of you," he adds sarcastically.
"The whole point of my gruff manner and clipped replies is to skip the small talk, but you don't seem to get it. Now, please, hurry. I'll give you two minutes to show me you have something worthy of my time."
"A strange thing has happened to me today," Greg starts off nervously.
"What is it? You managed to solve a crime all by yourself?" Sherlock mocks him.
They distinctly hear Greg sigh on the other end of the line.
"I've run across a new, mysterious case. Death on the Alpes."
"No, please. Don't give cases a title as John does. You are not a blogger, for goodness sake. You're a detective inspector—even if you wouldn't deserve such an appellation," Holmes bitterly remarks.
"Whatever. There's a dead man here, Sherlock." Greg's voice resounds deeper.
"Here? Why are you investigating a crime scene on the Alpes? I'm pretty sure it doesn't fall within your division. What are you doing up there, Lestrade?"
"I'm supposed to be on holiday, believe it or not. Could you please help me, now?" he begs.
"Fine. So, somebody died on a mountain. What's interesting about that?"
"To begin with, we cannot identify this man. I didn't find any ID, mobile phone, credit cards on the body—nothing. No one seems to have ever met him; he was alone, and nobody has been reported missing yet," Lestrade dutifully reports.
"You keep missing the point, Lestrade. Why should I be involved? You're running out of time: two minutes nearly expired," Sherlock informs the officer in a bored tone.
"Wait!" Greg shouts out, panicking.
Sherlock lets out a deep breath and massages his forehead.
"Alright, here's the thing: you're a detective from Scotland Yard who has just found an unidentified corpse. I'm sure you could work something out with the local police, and yet you phoned me. So, I suggest you cut to the chase now. Inspector, why do you think this is murder?"
"I don't," Greg hastens to reply. "It's fairly obvious that it was an accident: this guy unwisely went off the ski slope, trying to make his way through the trees toward the bottom of the valley, but he fell down and slammed his head on a rock."
"What was the point in phoning me, then?" Sherlock says, losing his patience.
"I found a piece of paper on the body, with handwriting on it: just a name and a phone number," is his laconic reply.
"Here we go: you're finally delivering relevant information." Holmes rubs his hands together expectantly. "Do you recognise the name?"
"I sure do. It's yours."
Greg's words linger in the silent room. Sherlock, John, and Giulia stand still and exchange shocked looks.
"My number and name, huh? It would seem that this poor devil wanted to contact me. Oh well, I believe it's too late now." Sherlock puts up the fakest sad face he is capable of. "I already have a lot of clients, most of whom are alive and annoying. I gotta go." He hastily dismisses the problem, earning reproachful stares from both his flatmates.
"Hold on a second," the D.I. intervenes. "There's a problem: the name is yours, but the number isn't."
Sherlock's head jerks up. "What did you say?"
"This isn't your number, not the one I know. Have you changed it?"
"I've just answered your call—terrible idea, by the way. How could I have possibly changed my number?" he blurts out, rubbing a hand on his face in front of the impossible incoherence of that question.
"I mean, have you bought a new SIM card recently or used someone else's phone, maybe?"
"No. Why do you keep asking?" Holmes replies in a frustrated tone.
"Because I find it strange. Don't you?" Lestrade is hopelessly groping in the dark.
"He might have made a mistake. Perhaps he was in a hurry and wrote it down wrong," John chimes in for the first time.
"Impossible," Greg immediately replies. "He could have made one mistake, two at most. But this is an entirely different number."
Sherlock freezes as a sudden realisation strikes him. "Because I wasn't supposed to be the receiver of the call. I should be the caller."
"What are you talking about?" the inspector's hoarse voice croaks out of the speaker.
Sherlock folds his hands together and props his chin on them.
"Lestrade, just think: the intention wasn't to call me. The message is that I should call that number."
Nobody dares to move or respond as he paces across the room, lost in thought.
"Dead. Why is he dead?" he talks to himself and immediately stops in his tracks, exclaiming in vague excitement, "He's been murdered."
Giulia and John stare at him with vacant looks on their faces. He meets their void gazes and exhales in annoyance.
"The killer planted the message on the dead man's body. Quite the informed murderer, by the way, since he knew Lestrade was there and would be drawn to investigate the matter, given his police job. The killer took everything into consideration and exploited the fact that he is a detective inspector of Scotland Yard who knows me."
"Everybody knows you," John points out.
"Yet somehow the killer knew that only this officer would willingly call me asking for an explanation. He is two moves ahead of us," Sherlock ponders, intrigued.
"Alright, Sherlock, slow down. What killer?" Greg asks, puzzled.
"The skier's killer, of course. It wasn't an accident. And I guess deep down you've always known," he replies in a grim tone.
"Will you help me identify him now?"
Holmes furrows a brow at his irrational request. "How? I'm currently in London, in case you'd forgotten."
"But maybe we could be of some use even from here," Giulia timidly intervenes.
Sherlock turns toward her as a glint of curiosity glimmers in his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"
She grins and speaks up towards the phone. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
"Yeah?" He asks, surprised by the sound of a female voice coming from the other end of the line.
"Hi, it's Giulia."
"Hey, Giulia. I didn't know you were listening to the conversation this whole time." Greg still can't believe that she has been enduring cohabitation with Sherlock Holmes for so long.
"I can try to help. And I promise I won't implicate myself in another murder, this time," she jokes.
"Fine by me. I'm all ears."
"Could you describe what the victim is wearing?" she asks methodically.
"A basic, plain snowsuit; nothing special about it. It's what everyone wears up here," he answers, perplexed by her line of questioning.
"Of course, quite inevitable, given the cold weather. And did you check all his pockets?"
"I did. There was absolutely nothing, except for the piece of paper I've just mentioned," Greg comments without hiding his despondency. Is she double guessing his police work?
Sherlock scowls at her. "May I know where this is going?"
"Just trust me." She winks at him.
"I find it quite hard," he snaps back.
She looks daggers at him and focuses again on the inspector. "Detective Lestrade—"
"Call me Greg," he interrupts her. He is not one to stand for formalities.
"Greg, do me a favour: check both of his sleeves. Just above the forearm, before the wrist, there should be a small hidden pocket. More likely on the left sleeve, if memory serves me correctly," she instructs him.
John and Sherlock frown at her. They hear some commotion on the line as Lestrade huffs and puffs while fumbling about in the snow.
"You're right. Left sleeve over his forearm. Remarkable," he compliments her.
"Great. You'll find his ski pass inside," she guides him.
"There it is. Right again," Lestrade confirms triumphantly.
"How does it help us?" John asks.
"I'm confident that it contains the answers to all our questions. First, there must be the victim's name printed on it. Second, we'll get to know when the pass was issued and when it expires. So, it'll tell us how long he was planning to stay on the Alpes."
"That's it?" Sherlock asks, seemingly unimpressed, even though his eyes are captivated by her undeniable skills.
"I think it's far more information than I expected to find." Lestrade's voice spreads out from the phone.
"How did you know that?" Sherlock gives Giulia an inquiring look.
"I have gone skiing with my family since I was five. I'm very familiar with ski slopes, snowsuits, and everything related to that environment. That's how I knew he couldn't have reached the top of the slope without a ski pass. It's impossible to could go through the turnstiles allowing access to the ski lifts without a pass," she explains. When she reminisces about her skiing holidays, her face clouds over; even the happiest memories can turn into merciless persecutors when they belong to a time that is now gone.
"Let me get this straight: everyone has to swipe a ski pass at the turnstile before getting on every ski lift on the slopes, correct?" John strives to understand.
"Exactly. I'm pretty sure that a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard could encourage enough cooperation from the local police and the operators of the lifts and use the man's ski pass to trace the victim's movements on the slopes before his death," Giulia affirms.
"If swiping the pass at the turnstiles is compulsory, the man must have used it to get to the very place where he is lying now. This means that we can determine the exact time of his death," Sherlock says, smirking. "Brilliant."
"Thank you." Giulia gives him a smug smile.
He stammers, "I wasn't actually—"
She sneers. "I know, I know. Sherlock Holmes doesn't praise other human beings."
"But I do. Thank you very much, Giulia. You've been a great help," Greg says from the phone. "Now I have to carry on with the investigation."
"If you don't mind, I'd need the phone number written on the note," Sherlock demands before he can hang up. The inspector dictates the number then ends the call.
Sherlock grabs his phone and begins to digit on it the number he's just jot down.
John narrows his eyes at him. "What are you doing?"
Holmes raises a brow. "What do you think?"
"You can't be serious. You can't phone a killer," the doctor protests, jumping up from his armchair.
"It wouldn't even be the first time." He shrugs as he remembers their very first case together when he made John phone Jennifer Wilson's killer. John's mind goes back in time too, and he shakes his head with a small sigh. He is incorrigible.
"And what do you plan on telling him?" Giulia asks, genuinely curious.
"Invite him over for tea, maybe?" Sherlock sarcastically replies, while putting the phone up to his ear. He walks away from them, looking for a quiet corner in the flat.
In the meantime, someone opens the call but doesn't speak.
"Hello?" Sherlock starts.
"Mr Holmes, I'm so glad you found my message and understood my intentions." A low voice with an American accent echoes along the line.
How could he know the identity of the caller? Sherlock wonders, then he logically concludes: Easy, he is using his mobile number—the one anyone could find on his website 'The Science of Deduction'.
"They were crystal clear. Who are you?" His voice turns granitic.
"A shadow from the past," is his ambiguous reply.
Sherlock furrows his brow. "My past?"
"Each person who crosses our path leaves a mark," the voice replies ominously, causing Sherlock to roll up his eyes. A fan of platitudes and empty phrases: dull.
"It would seem that we have already met, then."
"Indeed, we have. And you marked my life indelibly. So here I am, on your path again. But this time, things will go differently. This time I will be unforgettable," the man puts theatrical emphasis on the last word.
Could he get any more stereotypical? Sherlock grumbles.
"A note on a corpse, a veiled threat on the phone, some history between us... This is all very fascinating," Sherlock intentionally pronounces in the most unfazed tone possible, "Unluckily, though, I don't deal with shadows; they are too evanescent. Very sorry. Bye-bye," he cuts it short.
"Don't worry. I'll be sure to become a very concrete presence in your life, Mr Detective of Baker Street."