CHAPTER 34: CHERCHEZ LA FEMME

SEPTEMBER 13, 2015

DAY 1

Sunday, 02.55 hrs

The first time Sergeant Donovan ever set foot in 221 Baker Street had been in January of 2010 to engage in a drugs bust under the direction of her boss, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. At the time, she had been rather keen. She had never been to his flat before, but she was acquainted with Sherlock Holmes and had already formed an opinion of him as a pretentious, arrogant, cocksure, psychopathic son of a bitch, and she was eager to see him brought low. She had not imagined, on that night, that it would be far from the first time she would cross that threshold, or that the day would come when she would rush there with the hope of seeing Holmes alive and well.

She arrived at the War Room five minutes before three in the morning. She had woken only twenty-eight minutes earlier and hadn't had time even for a cup of coffee, but she was alert as if it were twelve o'clock noon. On her heel was Thomas Dryers, whose shirt was inside out under his jacket in his haste to dress and get out the door with her. Lestrade hadn't said much, only that it was an emergency meeting, and both Donovan and Dryers had learned well enough by now to not misinterpret Lestrade's words as anything but absolutely literal.

They were the first to arrive, apparently (Lestrade and Molly were already setting up the conference table in the War Room with tech and mugs of coffee), but within three minutes Karim Niazi was there too, unloading his multiple computers and hooking up cables, and Donovan expected that Anthea or Mycroft Holmes himself would be next through the door. So she was surprised when, instead, the next to appear was Scott Anderson.

She didn't say anything to him, not even hello. They barely made eye contact before she turned away in her seat, waiting for Lestrade to begin the meeting and tell them what the hell was going on.

The moment Anderson sat down, Lestrade inclined toward Karim. 'Are we connected?'

At Karim's affirmative nod and the press of a button, Lestrade rose from his chair and stepped toward the hallway of the converted flat. 'We're all here,' he called.

She heard movement in the back of the flat—a door closing, footsteps drawing closer—and had little time to wonder whom they were awaiting before John Watson emerged from the shadows.

Donovan couldn't help herself. She gasped and slapped a hand to her mouth. In the instant the news was reported, she had not believed that his body had been discovered at Appledore, even before Lestrade's phone call instructing her not to believe it. But that still did not allow for the possibility of their being back in England. She realized, in that moment, that she was looking over Watson's shoulder for another familiar figure.

But Watson's attention had snapped to the end of the table, where Anderson sat.

'What the hell is he doing here?'

Lestrade was unfazed. 'You said, gather everyone.'

Anderson's face had gone pale at the sight of John. 'I can leave,' he said meekly.

'Door's right behind you,' John said through gritted teeth.

'John.' Lestrade's voice was impatient. 'We need him. He's a forensics expert, and we have limited manpower as it is—'

'That man'—John stabbed a finger in Anderson's direction—'put Sherlock on a roof. That man conspired to get him thrown into a jail cell. That man turned a whole city against him and nearly got him killed on the banks of the Thames. He's gone.'

'And he's paying for it, for all of it. Look, you don't have to like it. You don't have to like him. You don't even have to trust him. Just trust me.' He nodded at Anderson but talked in a low voice to John, as if they were the only ones in the room. 'He knows he was in the wrong, and he's not asking you to forgive him his many sins against you and Sherlock. But he's doing what he can to help us now. For the last few months, he's been helping us expose a mountain of Moriarty's crimes. And I promise.' He grinned slyly. 'If he crosses us again, we can take him out back and shoot him.'

'Cheers,' Anderson grumbled, but he did not fail to look abashed.

John's face was hard, his jaw tight. He gripped the back of a chair and hung his head, breathing hard, thinking. Donovan couldn't help but pity him. He did not look well, and after what he had endured at Appledore—which they had all born witness to (all but Anderson)—it was no wonder. But it seemed that Anderson's presence was a bridge too far.

Then John spoke.

'Earlier this year, a stranger shot at Sherlock through a window. Almost killed him. A few months later, Sherlock promised to help that man discover what had happened to his lost son. Four years ago'—his eyes rose to look at Donovan—'someone accused him of kidnapping a little girl, inciting a series of events that led to him falling from a rooftop. Today, he counts that same person as one of his most trustworthy colleagues.' Now he shook his head, incredulous. 'He wouldn't forgive you for what you said to me, you know. But he would forgive you for what you did to him. When it comes to those who've done him wrong, Sherlock doesn't hold grudges. Not for himself. He'll defend his friends to the death, but for himself?' He straightened. He sighed. Seemingly speaking to himself, he said, 'He always was a better man than me.' To Anderson, he said, 'Will you help me save him?'

Anderson nodded. 'Yes, Dr Watson. I will.'

He nodded sharply. 'Fine. Then let's get to work.'

Sunday, 03.12 hrs

He was a soldier. A captain. He took command of the room in a more military fashion than Donovan had ever witnessed from him. From anyone, really. Even on Lestrade's best days, he wasn't this—a general readying to lead his troops to war.

He was authoritative, dispassionate, succinct. He spoke nothing of Appledore or what he had endured there, before the bomb went off, but proceeded to explain the riddle left by that woman, Irene Adler, and how the key to her riddle was the rhyme 'Oranges and Lemons', nodding to Molly, who had, months prior, first thought of it. But Donovan couldn't help but think about Appledore. She had seen with her own eyes how Sebastian Moran had taken a knife to his back. If she let herself, she could still hear him cry out in pain. She still saw Sherlock's neck in the noose. But the Watson standing before her now seemed a different man entirely, and she could hardly imagine that beneath his shirt and jacket lay a web of wounds, old and new, not yet fully healed.

At last, he came to his point. 'Adler is the last remnant of a shattered empire, Moriarty's final soldier, and our final target. But she is both vigilant and elusive, and given enough time she'll rebuild what we've destroyed. The only sensible course, therefore, is to act now. Step one of the plan has already been executed: Tease her out of the shadows.'

Dryers looked puzzled. 'How—?'

'Announce my death at Appledore, and let the papers run with it,' John said. 'In April, Adler slipped into my pocket a note written to Sherlock. In it, she promised my safety if he went to her, alone. But news of my death means she cannot make good on that promise, and she knows Sherlock will seek revenge, first by solving that puzzle she had left him and in so doing answering her letter. Sherlock is playing his part—grief-stricken, vengeful, irrational. That's what she believes him to be, which means she'll be reasonably assured that he will not have rallied his forces before setting off to find her and avenge my death. We're counting on that.'

'You're using Sherlock as bait,' Donovan clarified.

'More like Hansel, to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. I followed those crumbs to St Sepulchre-without-Newgate. There, he met a man in the guise of a priest, and there he left a note for me to find that leads to a headstone in Newport Cemetery in Buckinghamshire. But . . .' At last, he faltered, his eyes sweeping around the room. 'I need your help to find the next crumb. To follow the trail. And when that trail reaches the end, I'll need your help to bring Sherlock safely home.'

Lestrade nodded. 'Sunrise is in three hours. If we leave in two, we can get to the cemetery by first light—'

'Wait, sorry,' Donovan chimed in. 'How do you know about the man dressed as a priest?'

John ignored her. 'Phase one is discovery. I want Molly, Dryers, and Anderson at the graveyard before the sun comes up. Anthea will provide a mobile forensics lab, yes?' He glanced down at the screen of a laptop Donovan couldn't see, where, presumably, Anthea and Mycroft had joined the conversation. Apparently, he received an affirmative answer, because he lifted his head and completed his orders. 'Molly will know where the gravestone is. Look for any indication of who was there and what transpired within the last twelve hours. Whatever labs you need to run, run them on site and report back.'

His attention shifted. 'Karim and Anthea, you'll scour CCTV footage. I know he didn't return to London, and CCTV footage isn't great outside of the city, but see how far you can trace him to Buckinghamshire. See if he's being followed. Get me number plates, descriptions, follow suspicious vehicles as far as you can.'

Donovan was anxiously awaiting her own assignment, and at last John's eyes fell on her. 'Donovan and Lestrade, you'll be here with me.'

Even Lestrade looked disappointed. Like Donovan, he wanted to get out there and track the bitch, and bring Sherlock home.

'This flat is headquarters,' he told them all, 'and I'm running point. You find something, you suspect something, you report it directly to me. Mycroft and I will put the pieces together. And the moment we figure out where he is, we shift to phase two: recovery.'

Donovan's eyes met Lestrade's, and silent understanding passed between them. John had just said that he was running the show and would be assisted by Mycroft. Where did that leave her and Lestrade?

'We don't have days,' said John. 'We have hours. Adler is not Moran, but—' His voice caught; he pushed through it. 'But she's not harmless, and Sherlock has been at her mercy already for at least twelve hours. That's twelve hours too long. I promised him I would find him. I prom—' His voice failed him again, and this time, he dropped his head and closed his eyes, fighting for composure. When he spoke again, it was a near whisper. 'I lost him once. I can't lose him again.'

Lestrade stepped in, giving John room to recover. 'You have your assignments,' he said to the table. 'Let's go.'

Sunday, 03.51 hrs

Molly, Dryers, and Anderson left the room, headed for Buckinghamshire, leaving Karim alone at the conference table, unless you counted Anthea and Mycroft in his ear and on the screen. John gestured with his head that Lestrade and Donovan follow him to the back of the flat.

'I've given the others plausible deniability,' he said softly, pausing in the hallway. 'Let me offer you the same. You are both officers of the law, and what I am asking you to do violates the oaths you swore when you joined the Met.' He looked particularly at Donovan. 'Say the word, and I'll give you a different task.'

Lestrade pursed his lips, contemplative, but unbothered. 'John, I've been bending and breaking the law for Sherlock's sake for the greater part of my career.'

'This could end it.'

'So be it.'

They both looked at Donovan, awaiting an answer.

She huffed. 'Not even a clue as to what you're asking of me?'

'Dryers is barely out the door,' said John. 'You can still catch him.'

'Bloody hell,' she murmured, looking down at her feet and shifting her weight, thinking. When she lifted her head again, she stood a little straighter. 'I follow my conscience, Watson. Always have. Most of the time, I'm happy with the outcome. Tell me what you need, and I'll let you know if I can oblige.'

John smiled wryly. 'You asked how I knew about the priest.'

'Yeah, I did.'

He nodded to the door at the end of the hall.

It took both her and Lestrade a second to comprehend what that nod meant. 'Shit,' she mouthed.

'I need you two to interrogate him,' said John. 'He works for Adler. He says he doesn't know where her hideout is. I don't believe him.'

Lestrade let out a long, slow breath.

'Our forensics team, our tech team, they might come up with some clue to indicate where Sherlock was taken,' said John. 'But we don't need to wait to find out.' He nodded again at the door.

'You kidnapped him,' said Donovan plainly.

'How long has he been in there?' asked Lestrade more practically, and Donovan saw that he had just agreed to proceed with the interrogation.

'Couple of hours now. I secured him in that room just before waking you.'

'And his condition?'

'No broken fingers,' said John glibly. 'Maybe a little muscle sore. He didn't come easily, and he's been restrained.'

'But not arrested,' said Donovan, unable to help herself. 'He's not been read his rights, he's being illegally detained—'

'Do you need a moment?' John asked sharply, and his voice was like the tug of a rein on a horse's bit, drawing her in line. He knew this wasn't above board, and he had given her an out. This was her last chance to take it.

Her mind spiralled down two different paths. Down the first, she saw herself getting pulled into Chief Superintendent Gregson's office and put on administrative leave without pay for abusing her powers as a police officer. A little further down that road and she was losing her job altogether. She didn't think jail time would follow—not if she kept her hands off the man—but if John had hurt him and the man sued, she might be considered an accomplice. Then what? Would John be charged? Would her career be over? Would she and Lestrade see the inside of a prison?

Would it matter?

Because what if she didn't interrogate the one person who knew where Adler was hiding? Down the other pathway, she saw the forensics team fumbling to find clues and the tech team losing the scent, and the consequence of both failures was that Sherlock was never found at all. And that failure was completely unacceptable.

'Debrief me,' she said. 'What have you learnt so far?'

Sunday, 05.43 hrs

Mycroft Holmes could have strangled his little brother. Sherlock was supposed to be lying low, keeping safe, and taking a long-overdue rest, far from London. In fact, Mycroft had convinced himself that, should Sherlock ever return, it would be far into the future. Months, maybe even years from now, and he half wondered if he would ever see his little brother again in the flesh.

But damn that little blighter. Only days since they last communicated, and Sherlock was back on British soil . . . and thrust back into danger. And by his own design, no less.

That John Watson had gone along with it was a separate aggravation.

'Karim, I'm sending you the number plate for the white Ford transit. Captured on a CCTV camera at 17.22 hours from a petrol station on the corner of Soullbury Rd and High Street, two hundred metres from the gate to Newport. Heading north. See how far you can trace it.'

Ah, but then there was Anthea. Brave but not foolhardy, intelligent but not overconfident, as trustworthy and competent a companion—erm, assistant—as he could hope for. He watched her now, hands on the keyboard, face aglow from the light emitted by four monitors, dark eyes darting among them, observing, processing, calculating, just as he had taught her. He couldn't help but admire her capability, her poise under pressure, her grace. Fourteen years, and he still remembered the day she had first walked into his office, self-assured and ambitious but not yet understanding the job she had applied herself to.

'Copy,' came Karim's voice through the speaker. 'Tracing now.'

'Forensics team due to arrive on site in thirteen minutes. Report in ten.'

He should have let her go years ago, when she was young. She was still young. But when he had tried, when he had found the words to point her to the door and a life beyond where she would be free from danger and from the weakening vessel he had become, she had done something Mycroft could never have predicted, not even with all his brilliance and insight into human behaviour.

He had been languishing in the hospital bed she had had set up in the penthouse, awake at last but still struggling to speak, but his message to her had been clear. She followed his eyes to door and understood what he meant, exactly what. She stepped closer and held her hair back as she bent over him. He could still feel a few of those hairs escape her hold and brush him lightly on the cheek, the neck, the hand on his chest. Then she kissed his forehead, softly, meaningfully, a gesture sweeter than he had ever known from this remarkable woman. A tear slid from the creased corner of his eye, and she stood upright again and smiled at him. 'Not in this lifetime,' she said, then resumed her chair and pulled out the Sunday crossword. She kept him company the rest of the night.

He trusted her to be his voice, his hands, his eyes. She intuited his needs, and she deftly executed his will when he found himself impaired in speech or physicality. Now, in the darkest morning hour, she sat at the computer and carried out John's orders in coordination with Mr Niazi on the other side of the screen.

They had first tracked Sherlock's taxi from London to Buckinghamshire and as close to Newport Cemetery as the CCTV tale could tell. Since then, they had narrowed their search to four suspicious vehicles within a half-mile radius around the cemetery and were following each as best they could. Within minutes, they ruled out a black Skoda Fabia, which had driven as far as Milton Keynes and onto a street of innocuous-looking bungalows. Two had left Buckinghamshire, travelling west and north and were still being traced. One was had disappeared, though Mycroft believed it had not left the county.

'B roads, probably,' said Mycroft, consulting a map.

'Mycroft, we've just eliminated the black transit van,' said Anthea.

Mycroft. She called him Mycroft now. For thirteen years, he only heard sir and Mr Holmes from her lips. He had never been particularly sentimental about his name. He neither liked nor disliked it. But when she spoke it, he liked it. Decidedly.

'Where did it terminate?' he asked.

'Tiddington, village in Warwickshire, just off the M40. Driver spotted at the Fox and Goat by security cameras at 18.48 hours yesterday. Driver was alone. Male, black, mid to late twenties. Stayed for a little over two hours. No one else in or out of the van.'

That left two.

As the minutes expired, Mycroft's fears escalated. By their estimation, Sherlock had been captured some twelve or thirteen hours ago. What could happen to a man in twelve hours at the hands of a pathological dominatrix? Not for the first time, he thought back to that moment—a lifetime ago, it now seemed—when he had made the decision to set Sherlock onto her scent. Mistakes, such terrible mistakes he had made at the expense of his own brother. He couldn't fail him now.

'That's the third one,' said Anthea, breaking into his thoughts. 'The northbound Ford transit has just been eliminated as a potential lead.'

'He's in Buckinghamshire,' Mycroft concluded, his heart pounding. 'He never left.'

'The search radius is still too broad,' she said. 'Nearly two thousand square kilometres—'

'Better than all of Britain.' He sighed, knowing it wasn't much of a break. But it was something. 'Report to John. And keep searching.'

Sunday, 06.22 hrs

'Follow me.'

It was the first thing any of them had said in nearly an hour on the quiet but tense drive as they hastened to Newport Cemetery. When they parked, just outside the gate beside the groundskeeper's hut, they worked silently to prepare the forensics lab they had cobbled together before leaving London. But the sun was rising, casting grey streaks of light across the eastern horizon, and now they made their purposeful way across the grasses and past rows of headstones, guided by the light from their torches. But Molly knew where she was going; of the three of them, she was the only one who had been there before.

They arrived at Sherlock's grave.

'Why hasn't he removed it?' Dryers asked almost under his breath, but neither Molly nor Anderson could fathom why and so didn't answer.

'Ten metre radius,' said Anderson, pulling police tape from the black bag he carried. 'Tom, take this end and stand just there. Step carefully.'

While Anderson and Dryers created a search perimeter, Molly stared at Sherlock's name carved into the black stone and the date she would never forget. And just beneath it, roughly scratched, was John's name, too.

She forced her eyes away altogether. Turning her back, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves, and they got to work. 'What are we looking for, exactly?'

'If you're looking for something, you're missing something important,' said Anderson, like it was a mantra. But Molly could have sworn she had heard something like it out of Sherlock's mouth before.

It was Molly who spotted the syringe cap—a long, thin, clear plastic cap used to cover needles. She recognised before even picking it up. Anderson passed her an evidence bag, and as he did so, his eyes raked the grass as though looking for more.

'Two impressions in the grass, just there,' he said excitedly. 'See them?'

By the light of the rising sun, which cast just the right shadows across the shallow impressions, she did.

'What are we looking at?' asked Dryers.

Anderson was lifting the camera hanging around his neck. 'My guess? Someone was kneeling. Right there.'

'Sherlock?'

'Mighta been. Who knows.'

'I'm going to start running labs,' said Molly, and Anderson nodded as he planted a little yellow flag into the ground and asked Dryers to hand him the measuring tape.

She returned to the van and started flicking the on buttons of their machines, then sat herself at a microscope and pulled out the syringe cap. She didn't know what she would find, if anything, but she could at least see if she couldn't pull some DNA off of it. Saliva or sweat was most likely.

Less than ten minutes later, Dryers showed up with another evidence bag containing blades of grass.

'I can't really see it myself, but Anderson insists there's white stuff on the blades.'

'Powder?'

'Maybe.'

She frowned, a feeling a dread beginning to bloom in her. She turned to the FTIR spectrometer.

Meanwhile, Dryers was holding the UV light for Anderson when Anderson looked past him and said, 'Someone's coming.'

He looked over his shoulder and saw a round man with a heavy gait headed their way. He wore a brown boiler suit and workman's boots. The groundskeeper, he thought. 'I'll handle this.'

As he walked toward the man, he reached into his pocket to pull out his police credentials. He put on an authoritative expression but couldn't deny that his heart rate had increased a few ticks. Strictly speaking, he had no authority be conducting an investigation. He neither was a detective nor had a warrant, nor was this Met jurisdiction. But he was also the only police officer on the scene, and he just hoped that the groundskeeper was unfamiliar with police protocol.

'Morning,' called the man.

'Morning, sir, are you the groundskeeper here?'

'Aye, an' who might you be?'

Dryers showed his badge. 'Police,' he said simply, giving neither his name nor jurisdiction and hoping he wouldn't be asked. 'A few questions for you, sir, if you don't mind?'

The man blinked, surprised. 'Don' knows as I can be of much help,' he said.

'Were you working here yesterday, Mister . . .'

'Barclay. Donald Barclay.' He gestured toward the plot where Anderson knelt in the grass. 'He's not actually dead, you know. But I mean, well, you're police, so 'course you know.'

'Pardon?'

'That's Sherlock Holmes' gravestone. You know, that London detective what resurrected last year.' He snorted. 'Most popular grave we got, these days.'

Dryers quirked an eyebrow. 'How do you mean?'

'You heard that his partner died, innit? Well, not half a day goes by and the fans start turning up, leaving flowers and cards and coins and teddy bears and what like. Had me a queue of cars going back a quarter mile. It was a mess, I'll tell you, and when they started leaving lit candles I decided it were a fire hazard, and I cleared it all away. Rubbish really's what it was. It keeps up, I'll be applying to the council for a glass barrier, just there, what like they've done with Oscar Wilde's gravesite. But honestly, should be Sherlock Holmes what pays for it, his being still alive and all. I'm meaning him no disrespect, you understand. My condolences go out to the man. Rotten luck he's had, through and through.'

'Fans,' Dryers repeated. 'Did you ever see anyone who didn't seem to be a fan? Anyone come here on their own, anyone who acted a little funny?'

'Funny how?'

'Just . . . funny. Someone who seemed interested in that headstone.'

Mr Barclay scratched his bearded neck.

'Maybe yesterday, between three and six in the afternoon?'

'I have work all over the cemetery, not just here. Woulda been on the south side round about that time.' He cocked his head, thinking. 'Did see a couple a blokes that morning, though. Late morning, woulda been.'

'How many, exactly? Describe them.'

Sensing the importance of this question, Mr Barclay swelled his chest with air and said, 'Three men, all in black. Track suits or something. Saw them at a distance, so didn't get a real good look. They were poking around up near here. Couldn't say for sure it was the Holmes grave, but near enough. Left in a black town car.' He threw a thumb over his shoulder. 'Camera mighta picked up the plate number.'

'Camera!' Dryers exclaimed.

At that moment, Molly, who had just left the van, came running over. She reached Anderson first and grabbed his arm. 'We need to call John,' she said.

Sunday, 05.31 hrs

Donovan wiped her palms on her trousers and stood before the closed door, breathing loudly through her nose. The man on the other side of it had not slept in over twenty-four hours. He had been detained for more than six and had been left alone for nearly three. Alone with his own thoughts for so long and in such uncertain circumstances and suffering sleep deprivation meant, psychologically, he was ready to break.

For the last hour and a half, she had sat and listened to John tell her everything he already knew, which didn't amount to much but hopefully would still prove useful. He had found him in a car park where John had wrestled him into the boot of his own car before commandeering the vehicle and driving to a secluded area. There, ignoring the thumping in the rear of the car, John had riffled through whatever evidence he could find and came up with a registration card for a man named Mason Welling, to which was attached an address in Ilford. He also had the man's phone, though he hadn't been able to get into it. But under the seat he found a second phone. He had set both on the table in front of Lestrade and Donovan, and nodded at the other end of the table.

'Maybe we can get Karim to break into them. See if he's contacted her. Trace the call.'

The morning hours were creeping closer as they strategized just how the interrogation would proceed.

'Sherlock told me once that there are two types of interrogators,' said John. 'The first asks questions he wants to know the answers to, and consequently he's ineffective at his job.'

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. 'And the second?'

'The second is an emotional manipulator. He's sympathetic, builds a rapport, offers something of himself to the subject to elicit a response in kind. We don't have time for that kind of shit.'

'So what kind of game do you want us to play?' asked Donovan, sceptical. She knew she was the first kind of interrogator.

'Coercion. We find out more about this Mason Welling, and we exploit it.'

Cracking her neck and readying herself at last, Donovan pushed open the door to 221C's interrogation room.

The room was bare of furniture, but for the two facing chairs and the man sat in one of them, his wrists cuffed to the legs. John had left him in the dark, but for what city light pushed through the window, so Donovan hit the lights and watched the man turn wince and turn his face away.

He was middle aged but well kept, his dark, groomed hair parted on the side as though with a knife and his sideburns well-trimmed. He wore a suit coat over a white-collared shirt, which was half untucked from his trousers, and no tie. If she didn't know better, she would have guessed that John had abducted him straight from his slide presentation to business investors.

'Sir, I am so sorry,' she started. 'I am so sorry. It's unacceptable what happened to you, it really is. Let me get those cuffs off you.'

His eyes widened with hope as she came over, fiddling with keys on a ring. 'I need to get out of here,' he said. 'That man— He's crazy.'

'I know, I know,' she said, her voice tinged with panic. 'This should never have happened. But don't worry. I'm going call Linda and get her over here right away to pick you up.'

He blanched. His lips came together at though to speak, but he seemed tongue-tied.

'Mrs Linda Welling?' said Donovan. 'That's her name, isn't it?'

'You know my . . .'

Slowly, Donovan slipped the keys back into her pocket. 'Wife of eighteen years, is that right? That's amazing. It's hard work, keeping a marriage strong for two decades, especially when children come into the mix.' She cocked her head. 'Three girls, is it?'

'What's this? What's going on?'

'Seventeen, fifteen, and thirteen, yeah?'

'Yeah . . .'

'I had a sister.' Donovan sighed, wistful and reflective, and, leaving the man still chained to the chair, slowly sat down to face him. 'Just two years apart, like your girls. I was six and she was eight when she died. A congenital heart disease. They didn't actually expect her to live to eight, but she kept beating the odds . . . until she didn't. You know, I've often wondered what it would have been like, being a teenage girl with an older sister to fight with.' She laughed briefly. 'I bet your girls fight all the time.'

'They have their days.'

'Do they fight with their mother?'

'Well, they are teenagers.' He laughed too, like they were sharing some inside joke.

'But they love each other, I'm sure.'

'Of course.'

'I hope so. It's going to be rough days ahead, I imagine. They're going to need each other.'

The smile was slowly slipping away. 'Are you—heh—are you going to take these things off me?'

She ignored the question. 'Again, I'm really sorry about earlier. We had no idea what John was up to. Honest to God. If we had known, believe me, we would have arrested you properly.'

He licked his lips, tensing. 'You're police.'

'John Watson isn't.' Her friendly tone slipped. She smiled to replace it.

'You . . . are you really going to call my wife?'

'It's still pretty early. I wouldn't want to wake her. That is, unless she's been up all night worrying. Do you do this often? Not come home?'

'I always come home. She's probably already reported me as missing.'

'Oh, don't you worry about that, Mr Welling. We'll get that all cleared up. We'll tell her your boss kept you late.'

'Mr Krycek? She would have already called my b—'

'Not that boss.'

He flinched.

'Unless, of course, Linda already knows about Ms Adler.' Donovan tilted her head innocently. 'Does she know about lovely Irene?'

Mason Welling said nothing, but he had paled so rapidly Donovan thought he might be in danger of passing out. With exaggerated nonchalance, she pulled out a phone.

'I know a guy,' she said. 'Fantastic hacker. You see, a few months back, this guy gets nabbed off the streets, tortured, nearly murdered. The day he gets out of hospital, you know what happens? This other guy I know offers him a job. He was already good with computers, but this new job, it gives him training. Specialised training. He can crack any password, quick as you please.'

'Look,' said Mr Welling, shifting nervously.

Donovan laughed shortly. 'I have to tell you, Mr Welling, it never fails to amaze me what some men will do for a thrill. And then photograph it. Idiocy, some would call it. You do know, of course, that she's a psychopath?'

'I didn't take those photos. God. That's blackmail is what that is.'

'Sure. Tell me about that.'

He hung his head.

'Let me explain to you the situation you're in,' said Donovan tersely. 'Your life as you knew it? Over. Your freedom, your reputation, your marriage. Done for. You're about to lose it all. No matter how this plays out next, whether you tell me what I need to know or not, you're going to prison for everything we can pin on you. Conspiracy to kidnap, for one. Conspiracy to commit murder for another. We dig a little deeper, and I'm sure we'll find even more.' She leant forward, elbows to knees, bouncing the burner phone lightly in her hand. 'And Irene Adler will walk free, never giving you a second thought.'

Mr Welling rattled his cuffs. 'What am I supposed to tell you? She seduced me. She made me feel . . . special.' He snorted at how pathetic he sounded. 'But I'm no one special. I don't know anything. She tells me to dress like a priest, I dress like a priest. She tells me to pass along a message, I do just that. If I don't, she'll . . . Well it's like you said. She'd upend my world.'

'You upended your world the moment you saw fit to drop your pants in front a woman who wasn't your wife. How about you set things right again?'

Grunting with frustration, he said, 'I can't give you anything. I don't know where she is, so I don't know where he is.'

'I don't believe that. How did she contact you?'

'Through texts. Just texts.' He nodded derisively at the phone in her hand. 'You know that by now.'

'Yes, we've read them all. But we also know you've had encounters. You meet any of the other cronies?'

'No.' At her dubious look, he got defensive. 'No, I never did. I just knew . . .'

'Knew what?'

'That there were others. I knew I wasn't the only one.'

'How did you know?'

He shrugged. 'Stuff she'd say. Stuff like we and us. I don't know.'

'You have to give me more than a couple of pronouns.'

Mr Welling sighed. ' "Just give this to Sherlock Holmes," she said. "We'll do the rest." That kind of thing.'

'Start at the beginning, Mr Welling. When did you first meet her? Where? In the city?'

He began to tell his sad little tale, the one where he was a hapless victim being chatted up by a pretty little number in a pub who persuaded him to get into a car and follow her to a flat where he had wild sex and drugs and alcohol. This wasn't Irene Adler, but a scout, and once it was determined that he was humiliated enough, pliable enough, and determined enough never to get found out, he met Irene.

'It was in this little cottage somewhere outside the city.'

'Where?'

'Dunno.'

'Where, Mr Welling?'

'Surrey, somewhere. Guildford, maybe, I don't know. She has property all over England, she said, but I thought it was a joke or exaggeration, who the hell knows. But the next time I met her, it was Chelmsford, so maybe she does.' He closed his eyes, remembering. 'God, that mouth.'

'Just twice? You only met her twice?'

He swallowed, shaking his head regretfully. 'Just twice. I thought, though, if I did this for her . . . She'd see me again.'

Sunday, 07.12

John was feverishly trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together, slot by slot, but he couldn't quite see the edges. He never could. Not like Sherlock.

It was all laid out before him, but the pieces just didn't fit.

One: Sherlock had definitely been at Newport Cemetery. There the abduction had occurred, and he had not gone gently. Molly said there were trace amounts of blood matching Sherlock's blood type on blades of grass. Not a lot, but blood was blood, and one did not bleed casually. In some way or another, he had been injured. Images of Belgrade flashed in John's memory; he forced them away.

Two: The syringe cap and white powder were clear evidence of heroin administration, and the thought made John's blood boil. So they had drugged him. A man sober not even ten years, given an intoxicating but deadly drug, just so they could cloud his mind and keep him compliant.

Damn her. Damn her to hell.

Three: Dryers' interrogation of the groundskeeper had lead to security footage of a black town car rolling into he cemetery the previous morning around 10.44 hours. It hadn't been seen again, but Dryers had been able to make out a blurry number plate, which he and Anderson had debated before agreeing on R (not K) L13 (not 2) G (not C) BM. Karim had run the number and learnt that the car was registered to a man named Stephen Bowman with a London address. Currently, Karim was trying to trace the path of the car but had not spotted it outside of Buckinghamshire.

Four: Mr Mason Welling had revealed very little. Only that she could be anywhere.

'John,' said Lestrade slowly, consulting his own notes.

John lifted his heavy head.

'She knows we've been looking for her. She wouldn't be purchasing properties under her own name. Of course she wouldn't.'

'No, not likely,' John said, not quite sure what Lestrade was angling at.

'What about Murray's cottage?'

John's brow furrowed. 'It burned down.'

'I know, but—' The seasoned detective shifted forward, still consulting his notes, but when next he spoke, his voice was tinged with excitement. 'We know that Murray didn't own the deed when it burned down. He had sold it. Last December.'

'Yeah, he was in thick with Moran by then.'

'He didn't sell it to Moran.'

Like the slowly rising sun, a light began to glow in John's mind. 'You said . . . at our last meeting, you said it was sold to . . .'

'A Mr Clement Martin Bailey.'

'An alias.' John slapped his hand on the table. Like a pro, Karim—working steadily on the other end of the table—didn't flinch. 'But not an alias for Moran.'

'For Adler,' Lestrade affirmed. 'They were still working together in December, planning the Slash Man murders. Before their little schism.'

'Clement Martin Bailey,' John repeated in a whisper, thinking hard.

'Bells of St Clement's, bells of St Martin's, bells at Old Bailey.'

'Son of a bitch. It's Adler's riddle.' John pulled the speaker closer to him. 'Mycroft, are you following this?'

Through the speaker came Mycroft's halting voice. 'Am having Ann look . . . for deed holders. With that name.'

While he waited, he paced. Donovan was still interrogating their captive, but he did not seem to know much at all beyond what he had already said. A lackey low on the totem pole. Another Tom, Dick, or Harry. John had thought it before, but it crossed his mind again: Adler was a better Moriarty acolyte than Moran had ever been.

Several more minutes ticked by. John checked in with the forensics team, but though he knew they had run out of leads, he told them to keep looking. The cemetery was the last place they knew for sure Sherlock had been, and he couldn't abandon the place now. Maybe he should have gone with them, another set of boots on the ground.

Donovan came out of the interrogation room, needing another coffee. She, too, was running into brick walls, and John doubted very much there was anymore blood to squeeze from that stone. He told her to sit. Mr Welling wasn't going anywhere.

She herself was eager for any updates. 'Any word from—'

But Anthea interrupted on the speaker. 'No other properties deeded to a Clement Martin Bailey,' she said, and John's heart began to sink. Then she continued: 'But I am seeing some other potential leads. A flat in Bath deeded to a Leonard Shoreditch—'

'That's St Leonard's at Shoreditch,' said Lestrade excitedly. He had the poem pulled up on a laptop.

Too far, too far, thought John.

'—and another to a Dunstan Stepney just south of Chelmsford.'

'Say the bells of Stepney!' cried Lestrade. 'It fits!'

Anthea kept reading out deedholders whose names seemed to have been derived from the nursery rhyme: Clement Danes in Winchester and Martin Fields in Little Hampton and Martin Orgar in Southend-on-Sea, all presumably aliases for Irene Adler.

'And Mary Le Bow in Buckinghamshire,' she finished.

John gasped. Lestrade's head came around. They were both thinking the same thing. If Stephen Bowman's town car had been at Newport Cemetery but had not been spotted leaving Buckinghamshire, then—

'Read me that address, Ann,' said Mycroft.

She did.

There was a long, heavy silence at her finishing. John's heart was pounding so painfully against his ribcage that he thought he might be suffering from hyperoxia.

'Karim, pull up that address on the map,' he ordered. 'Project it on the screen. I want to see exactly—'

'Dr Watson,' said Mycroft through the speaker.

John's mouth closed. He waited for Mycroft to organize his words.

'I believe . . . this is the location where you will find my brother.'

'Why?'

'That house . . . I know it. I sold it in 1999. She— she's taken him back to the worst home he ever knew.'