Chapter Eight

Sherlock stepped from the cab, outside the Whitehall building that housed Mycroft's department, at precisely ten minutes to nine on Monday morning, his arrival timed to deliver him into Mycroft's inner sanctum at exactly nine o'clock, allowing for the usual security checks. Despite his frequent dismissive comments with regard to his brother's choice of career, he respected the fact that Mycroft was a busy man and that his time was precious, hence his punctuality.

He emptied his pockets into the grey tray proffered by the security guard behind the desk, passed through the metal detecting arch and submitted to a pat down by the second security guard, then collected his belongings from the tray and made his way to the antique lift, which would deliver him to Mycroft's floor.

When the lift came to a halt, Sherlock slid the metal concertina grill to the side and pushed open the outer door, to be greeted by Anthea, who had been advised of his imminent arrival by the front desk.

'Good morning, Mr Holmes. Mr Holmes is expecting you,' said Anthea, without a trace of irony.

'Miss Smith,' Sherlock replied, and followed her down the short corridor and into the ante room, which doubled as her office. She knocked on the door to the right, then pushed it open and ushered Sherlock in.

Mycroft, seated at his vintage kneehole desk, looked up from the paper he was reading, then opened a drawer in one of the pedestals and slipped it inside, before steepling his fingers under his chin and indicating, with a nod, for Sherlock to take one of the green leather wing chairs, in the middle of the room. This was the usual ritual, whenever Sherlock visited his brother 'at work', and he dutifully complied.

The brothers both sat in silence for a full minute, waiting for the inevitable arrival of a tea tray, which was delivered by Anthea and placed on the coffee table in front of the two wing chairs. She then withdrew, leaving the brothers alone and undisturbed for the duration of their meeting.

Mycroft came round from behind his desk and took the second wing chair, poured tea into the two porcelain cups, and handed one to Sherlock, who added his own milk and one lump of sugar.

'Well, brother mine,' Sherlock began, at last, 'I'm sure you have a lot of important government business to be getting on with, so what could be so urgent that you and I must discuss it, so early on a Monday morning?'

'First things first,' Mycroft began, 'why were you in that building in the middle of the night on Friday?'

'It was the early hours of Saturday morning, actually, and I was acting on a tip-off,' Sherlock replied.

'A tip off about what and from whom?' Mycroft demanded.

'Come along, Mycroft, you know I never reveal my sources…'

'From whom?' Mycroft snapped.

'It was from one of my Homeless Network, if you must know,' Sherlock replied, petulantly, 'and it was to do with a case I'm working on, for the Met.'

'Oh, another one of those Cold Cases,' Mycroft sniffed. 'I would have thought you'd solved them all by now.'

'No, actually,' Sherlock replied, bristling at the implication that the Met only allowed him to work on Cold Cases – which had been the case, when he first came back 'from the dead' but that was a long time ago. 'It's a live case,' he sniffed. 'And, yes, I have solved most of their backlog of old cases - the obvious ones, at least – obviously…and quite a few of the not-so-obvious ones. I'm saving some of the really juicy ones for a rainy day…'

'And this live case,' Mycroft interrupted, 'does it involve City Hall?'

'Possibly…Look, what's this all about?' he demanded.

Mycroft brow furrowed his brow as he replied.

'The Deputy Mayor was suspended from her post on Friday afternoon, accused of corruption, and was under investigation. She was adamant that she was innocent; claimed she was being framed and vowed to fight the charges and clear her name. So, naturally, when you revealed the circumstances of your arrest by the City Police, it occurred to me that she had called upon your services and that you had gone to that place to meet with her. However, if that is not the case, then I must insist you do not investigate this murder.'

'Whyever not?' Sherlock exclaimed. 'It's a damn sight more interesting than the actual case I'm working on!'

'Because,' Mycroft replied, 'I don't think it was a coincidence that you just happened to go to that place, at that time, and found that body.'

'Well, neither you nor I believe in coincidence, brother…'

'Exactly!' Mycroft exclaimed. 'But, as a consequence of you stumbling upon that dead woman, you are now the prime suspect. The Home Secretary has advised me that the City Police are determined to pursue a case against you.'

'Well, they can pursue a case as much as they like, they won't find any evidence to convict me…' Sherlock huffed.

'Perhaps not,' Mycroft replied, 'but that has not deterred them from trying.'

'Then they will be wasting their time,' Sherlock snorted.

'This case you're working on for the Met…Has it anything to do with organised crime?'

'I suppose so,' Sherlock replied, 'if one classes local gangs as organised. There's a new Godfather in town, apparently, directing everything from behind the scenes. No one has any idea who he is – or she. Though this type of crime fits far more into the male pattern of criminality, it would be wrong to assume. My source advised me that there was a sudden burst of activity, in the vicinity of that empty building. The local lieutenants were assembling. It seemed likely that the new CEO was holding a board meeting. So, I went along to see if I could ID him…or her.'

'I see,' Mycroft mused. 'And did you?'

'No. When I arrived, the place was deserted. All I found was the body.'

'Hmm, well, I suspect our new crime lord got wind of the fact that you were on to him and decided to kill two birds with one stone, though exactly why he would want the Deputy Mayor dead, I'm not sure. But I believe you were lured to that building. I believe you were set up.'

'All the more reason to investigate the murder, then,' Sherlock retorted. 'To clear my name.'

'Look, Sherlock, I know you think I'm an interfering old busybody, who's trying to ruin your life…'

'Actually, I don't,' Sherlock replied, much to Mycroft's surprise. 'I used to, once upon a time, and to be fair, I was half right. But not now. I can still be arsy…as I was on the phone yesterday…but old habits die hard. Molly and I have talked about this, and I do believe you always act in my best interests, even though I don't always appreciate you for it.'

'Then please, heed my advice. Stay away from this case. Any attempt by you to investigate this woman's murder will be used by the City Police to infer that you are trying to cover your own tracks. By all means, continue to work on the Met case, but be aware that someone with a great deal of power and influence has you in their sights.'

'Sounds like Moriarty, all over again,' Sherlock huffed.

'Yes, and we both know how that turned out. And you have a lot more to lose now than you did then. You have responsibilities now. You have dependents…'

'Why, thank you for reminding me, Mycroft!' Sherlock snorted. 'It had quite slipped my mind!'

Mycroft had the good grace to look chastened.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock,' he apologised. 'As you say, old habits die hard. I will try not to state the obvious, in future.'

'We'll see,' Sherlock huffed, placing his empty tea cup on the table and getting to his feet.

'Have you given the City Police a statement?' Mycroft asked.

'Yes,' Sherlock replied. 'A Witness Statement. I emailed it to them, yesterday. So, they can't say I'm not co-operating.'

'Good,' said Mycroft. 'Let's hope that's the end of your involvement.'

Sherlock grimaced. He had been so looking forward to investigating a juicy murder.

'I'll see you at the weekend, brother, for this tree planting thingy,' he said.

'Oh, you're coming then?'

'Yes,' Sherlock replied. 'I spoke to Molly last night. She agrees that William and Violet would love it and that I should bring them to you, while she takes Freddie to Brighton. I offered to change places but she declined. Being five months pregnant, she felt she would be better suited to sitting in an air conditioned theatre, watching children dance, than standing in a sun-drenched field, watching children plant trees. So, you will have the pleasure of my company for the weekend.'

'I shall look forward to it,' Mycroft replied, rather unconvincingly. 'I will send a car on Friday evening.'

ooOoo

Sherlock's next port of call was New Scotland Yard, for an unscheduled meeting with DI Lestrade. However, on arrival at the Serious Crime Unit, he was acutely aware of a distinct change in the atmosphere. Normally, his presence was ignored and business continued as usual, but today, the sound of general chatter hushed the moment he appeared and every eye seemed to follow his progress through the department to Lestrade's office.

As he entered the room, Lestrade jumped up from behind his desk and exclaimed,

Sherlock! Where have you been? I've been trying to contact you all morning!'

'I had a meeting with my brother,' he replied, taking his phone from his pocket and switching it back on – something he had failed to do when he left Mycroft's office.

'Well, you can't be here,' Lestrade snapped.

'What? Why not? We need to talk about the case.'

'You can't work on the case, Sherlock…In fact, you can't work on any cases,' Lestrade blustered and, extending his hand, added, 'Give me your lanyard.'

Sherlock was nonplussed. The lanyard Lestrade referred to was his security pass, which gave him access to the Black Museum and the little room where he worked on the Cold Cases.

'What's going on, Lestrade?' he asked.

Lestrade narrowed the gap between them and hissed,

'You're the prime suspect in a murder inquiry!'

Sherlock stepped back and smiled at his friend in disbelief. Could he be serious?

'Greg,' he said, proving beyond doubt that he did know Lestrade's first name, 'we've been here before, don't you remember? The Brul children?'

'I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's out of my hands. Orders from above.'

'But you know it's not true!'

Lestrade shrugged, helplessly.

'They have no evidence,' said Sherlock.

'They say they have your DNA on the body.'

'I don't doubt they have. I found the body,' Sherlock replied. 'I checked for signs of life – listened for breathing and felt for a pulse. But the amount of DNA transferred by those two actions would be miniscule, certainly not enough for a comparison test. To do that, they would have to harvest it and grow it on, in a laboratory. That would take weeks, not a weekend. And besides, my DNA on her body does not prove I killed her, only that I touched the body. Come on, Greg, this is basic stuff. The woman was already dead.'

But Lestrade shook his head.

'There's nothing I can do,' he said. 'My boss called City Police to offer our assistance on the case, since our resources are so much greater than theirs and we all work for City Hall, after all, but they said they already have the culprit, that he was caught red-handed at the crime scene and they have a watertight case against him. They were talking about you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock gave a snort of derision.

'This is absurd!'

'Look,' Lestrade declared, 'I wish this wasn't happening, just as much as you do…'

'I doubt that,' Sherlock huffed.

'…and I really hope you can sort it out. Maybe Mycroft can pull some strings. But, in the meantime, you can't be here. And I can't work with you. Please, give me your lanyard.'

Sherlock stared at the DI in utter disbelief, as an overwhelming sense of deja vu gripped him. He withdrew the lanyard from his jacket pocket – he had never, ever worn it around his neck – and tossed it onto Lestrade's desk.

'Come to Baker Street. We'll talk there,' he snorted.

'Sorry, no can do,' Lestrade muttered. 'I can't risk my career. Remember last time? Ah, you weren't here, so you probably don't…'

'Oh, yes, that's right!' Sherlock exclaimed, oozing sarcasm. 'I was off on a jolly, sipping cocktails on the Cote D'Azure!'

'No! I didn't mean that,' Lestrade protested. 'I know you had it tough, too, but…you know,' he shrugged, helplessly.

'You know nothing, Lestrade' Sherlock snorted, turned, and was gone.

Lestrade watched his retreating back, through the glass wall of his office, and muttered,

'Shit!'

ooOoo

Marie sat in the shade of one of the mature copper beeches that graced this part of the local park. She had brought William and Violet here to play, after dropping Freddie off for his dance rehearsal. She had decided to leave Redbeard at home, on this occasion. It was far too hot for a dog to be running around. Sherlock would probably take him out for run later that evening, when the temperature had reduced somewhat.

William and Violet were conducting some sort of investigation in a patch of grass, a few metres from the tree. William had brought along his folding magnifying glass, the one his father had given him, which was exactly like his own. They were taking turns to examine the contents of that patch of grass – whatever that may be – and then discussing their findings. They both seemed completely absorbed in the exercise.

Marie loved her job with the Hooper-Holmeses. It was certainly never dull or boring. But this was her last week before her month-long summer break and she was so looking forward to that. For the whole of August, her husband of nearly one year, Gavin, would be accompanying his boss, the Foreign Secretary, on an extended tour of Commonwealth countries in Africa, and she was going along for the ride. Of course, it wouldn't be a holiday for Gavin, as this was his job, but she would fill her days with sightseeing and other leisure activities. And, no doubt, she and Gavin would find lots of opportunities to do things together, too.

The nanny looked at her watch and noted that she and the children had been in the park for just over an hour – slightly longer than intended. Freddie's rehearsal would be coming to an end. Getting to her feet, she called to the children, who curtailed their investigation and came over to where she stood. After gathering up their belongings and securing Violet in the buggy, they set off back to the dance school to collect Freddie.

As they turned into the road where the former Social Services building stood, Marie spotted a number of people she recognised – adults and children – exiting the premises and going off in different directions, and one or two hurrying towards and into the building. It was clearly change-over time, and she was reassured that they weren't terribly late, and Freddie would not be wondering where they were.

They entered the building just as Miss Naomi emerged from the Reception Area, at the head of a crocodile of children – mostly girls – of all shapes and sizes, heading towards the rehearsal studios, so Marie held back until the last of the stragglers had disappeared into Studio One. Then, leaving Violet under William's watchful eye in the corridor, in her buggy, she went into the Reception Area, now occupied by the parents and carers of the current cohort.

Looking around, there was no sign of Freddie, and she assumed he must be in the Changing Room, but thought she ought to check with Miss Margo, just to be sure. She stood, patiently, in front of the Guardian Gatekeeper's desk, waiting for the woman to pause her diligent book-keeping and acknowledge her presence, but this was pre-empted by Freddie himself, when he appeared in the doorway from the main corridor.

'Hello, Marie, sorry I'm late. Miss Simone wanted me to show my bruises to Izzy's mum, so I had to wait behind,' he explained.

Marie was not sure what Sherlock or Molly would think about Freddie's body being inspected by another child's mother, but she would report the fact to them and they would deal with it as they saw fit.

'That's alright, Freddie,' Marie assured him. 'You go and get changed. I'll wait for you out there,' she added, indicating the corridor where she had left William and Violet.

As she emerged from the Reception Area, she was very nearly bowled over by another woman, charging down the corridor from the direction of the dance studios, clearly put out about something.

'Oh, so sorry!' Marie exclaimed, even though she was not the one to blame for the near-collision. Without even acknowledging her apology, the other woman pushed past and disappeared from view. Marie gave a wry smile, then joined William and Violet, who were enjoying the cool breeze from the open exit door.

A few minutes later, the sudden sound of a raised voice drew all their attentions.

'What have you been saying about my Izzy?' the voice demanded, angrily.

Freddie, emerging from the changing room had found his path blocked by the woman he was just introduced to by Miss Simone. He was not exactly sure what Izzy's mum meant by 'saying about my Izzy'. He had said quite a few things to Izzy, during their rehearsals. Perhaps that was what she meant…

'Erm…I said she was a very good dancer…' Freddie offered, helpfully.

'Don't try to use your charm on me, Freddie Holmes,' the woman exclaimed. 'You know what I'm talking about.

On hearing the name of one of her charges, Marie instructed William and Violet to stay put and re-entered the Reception Area, where she found the same rather angry-looking woman whom she had encountered earlier, looming over Freddie, who appeared bemused by her demeanour but, thankfully, not distressed.

'Excuse me,' Marie interjected, 'can I help you?'

The woman turned to stare at the nanny, taking her attention away from Freddie, which was Marie's intention. He moved to take the hand that the nanny proffered, and she drew him into her side.

On meeting Marie's polite but unabashed gaze, the other woman drew herself up to her full height and, staring down her nose, said,

'Well, I'd rather speak to the organ grinder than the trained monkey, but since you're here…maybe you can ask that child why he's been telling lies about my daughter.'

Choosing to ignore the insult, Marie gave the woman a placatory smile.

'I'm not exactly sure what you might be referring to…' though she was fairly sure it was Freddie's account of how he got the bruises on his back, as Molly had outlined to her that morning, '…but I can assure you that, whatever Freddie said, it will be the truth.'

'You know exactly what I'm talking about!' the other woman snorted. 'Miss Simone just told me what he's been saying…and she had me look at his bruises!'

'Well, I'm sure Mrs Holmes didn't ask her to do that…' Marie replied.

This issue, that Molly thought had been diplomatically resolved, seemed to have blown up again, rather dramatically.

'My Izzy would never hurt another child,' the woman retorted. 'She's the sweetest, kindest, most caring little girl you could ever hope to meet. I don't know how that boy got those bruises, but he didn't get them from my Izzy!'

Obviously, this was not true. Freddy had explained how he got the bruises and Miss Simone had confirmed his version of events, but Marie was not about to bring Freddie back into this conversation.

'I'm sure Izzy didn't mean to harm anyone…'

'My Izzy did not harm anyone! Don't you dare say she did!'

At that point, Miss Naomi made a timely appearance. She was on her way back down the corridor, after delivering the crocodile of children to their rehearsal with her daughter, when she heard the raised voice, and hurried into the Reception Area, extremely alarmed.

'Ladies, please!' she exclaimed. 'What on Earth is going on?'

ooOoo