A Dish Served Cold - Chapter 9 (4558 words)

[theteej2]

Chapter 9

John blinked once then looked sharply at Lestrade. “Who?”

“Sinclair Weston.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He described the bones...” Lestrade murmured, lost a moment in reflection. “He was describing the bones when I caught him trying to strangle his wife to death. It's all staring me in the face now,” he added with a deep bitterness. “He blames me for rescuing his wife. Poor thing would have been better off dying. He was describing what he was going to do to the hyoid bone in her throat when I pulled him off her. He told me way back then I had no right to stop him. I just chalked it up to the ravings of another criminal.” Lestrade took another deep breath, winced in pain, and clamped his arm down on his side.

“Will you sit, before you fall over?” John ordered, turning from the screen and pulling out the prescription bottles from his pocket. He hesitated, holding the bottles in his hand as Lestrade carefully sat down. The chances, at the moment, of Lestrade keeping either medication down was slim to none. John scowled in dismay and set them on the night stand.

“He said he was going to destroy Anne's knee for a friend,” Lestrade said absently. “That's got to be Grigorovich.” He looked for his mobile. “Gregson texted me the make and model of the car she's hired. Maybe we can find it.” He began scrolling through the messages.

John bit down on a response, turning away from Lestrade to reach over and turn the screen of the laptop away from them both. “If she left the same time as we did, she has a couple of more hours to get here.” He turned to face Lestrade. “It's going to do us no good to do anything more tonight. You need to rest.”

“I need to let the Yard know who's behind all this.” Lestrade looked challengingly at John as he hit a speed-dial and lifted the phone to his ear.

John heaved a sigh, shaking his head, turning away again as Lestrade slipped into a no nonsense business mode on the mobile.

John was doing some serious contemplation when he heard Sherlock approach, realizing he had left the door to their room open. Sherlock stopped for a moment in the doorway, taking in the scene then looked at John. Lestrade was still in full police mode on his mobile and ignored them both.

“It's the doctor isn't it? Sinclair Weston.” Sherlock said with certainty. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Of course it would be, he was a little too clinical in his details of what he was going to do to her.”

“You watched it all? On your mobile?”

“All of it. I assume it's still running on your laptop?”

“Yes, I can't watch the suffering any more and not be able to do anything about it.”

“You'll be gratified to know that there really is little we can do until daylight.” Sherlock said, then more loudly, “I hope you heard that.”

Lestrade shot him a dark scowl. “Mind holding it down?” he said before continuing his conversation with whomever he had on the line.

“What I'd be gratified to know is where the hell she's being kept,” John grumbled.

Sherlock smirked slightly, knowing John would be more than happy to wade into a fight to assuage his moral outrage, especially with a woman involved. He tugged his scarf off, followed by his overcoat and carelessly tossed them on the nearest bed. “Checked a few of the pubs, just to see if anyone was about and they're mostly deserted or closed. There's nothing to be gained there for now.” He pulled out his mobile and then jumped onto the bed, landing prone, crossing his feet, then fluffing the pillows behind his head.

Lestrade brought his calls to a close and promptly stood up, gritting his teeth against the pain and trying not to groan out loud. “Dimmock confirmed that Weston was incarcerated at Full Sutton about a year ago,” he said through clenched teeth at the pain, before he began a slow, pacing.

“Neatly tying Grigorovich and Weston together via the guard,” Sherlock said dryly.

“I can't just sit here,” Lestrade said as he reaching for his coat and gingerly shrugged it on, pointedly ignoring the forbidding look coming from John. “I'm going to go look around, see if anything jogs my memory.” He headed for the door but paused to turn the laptop around again. The video was still running. Anne, with her head hanging, was pulling at the restraint of her left wrist and occasionally flinching from the spasms of pain. He could just hear her gasping for air past the gag. He shot a look of sheer indignation and frustration at Sherlock, as he reached for the door.

John was about to move for his own coat when Lestrade's forbidding gaze froze him to the spot. “And I don't need a babysitter,” he added caustically.

John said nothing, just raising both hands in defeat and sitting back down. He cast a frustrated look at Sherlock, intent on texting a message, as silence descended on the room with Lestrade's departure.

“Don't worry,” Sherlock said suddenly. “I happen to know that Lestrade's been wearing an expandable baton on his belt since yesterday. At Donovan's insistence. He's more than capable of defending himself with it.”

“Tried to nick it, did you?” John said, unable to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

Sherlock's only answer was a maddeningly mysterious smirk on his lips.

John got up, beginning to pace. “I wouldn't be all that concerned if I didn't know what state he's in,” he grumbled.

Sherlock abruptly sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. “Do you recall what I said about Weston not having enough funds to be able to pull off a crime like this? That there had to be someone or something behind all this?”

John paused, looking at him with a frown of thought, “Some, yes.”

“Weston's financial state is non-existant. He has nothing to his name. All his savings and investments were awarded to his wife to provide for her care until she dies. She's been in a comatose state since he tried to kill her. Oxygen deprivation to the brain.”

“Which just underscores the fact that the man is cold-blooded killer,” John replied, still pacing.

“So who would he get the funds from?” Sherlock asked.

John looked at him suspiciously, not answering him.

“Somehow, someone, somewhere, found out that Weston wanted revenge on Lestrade and has been making all the arrangements for Weston to get it.”

“But who? And how? He's been in prison...” John asked.

Sherlock only smirked. “The prison systems in this country have an extensive underground network of communications. Whoever is helping Weston has bought him somehow. I've been taking a look at some of the prisoner death records over the last several years and a number of them bear a marked similarity to how Lestrade was stabbed. Granted Lestrade's was precisely placed so that he lived, but so were these others, only they were stabbed to ensure death. One swift stab to the right location and...” he let his words hang, watching John carefully.

John shot a wary glance at him. “A doctor with a prison shiv, could expertly kill someone and no one would be the wiser until its too late. You aren't suggesting he was bought in prison?”

Sherlock looked at John reprovingly.

“But why?”

“Who better to have than a doctor for a personal prison assassin? Dispatch this person, dispatch that person and I'll give you what you want when you get out. The prisoners who died in this manner, all happened to be at the prisons Weston was incarcerated in. So, Weston gains release. Enter Elena Grigorovich. She wants to get rid of a rival, who just happens to be the wife of a man whom Weston holds a grudge against.”

“And you get a match made in hell,” John replied.

“So a deal is brokered between these two to bring about the present circumstances. What I am interested in knowing is just exactly who set this circumstance up and what was Elena Grigorovich's price?”

“So why not let him know?” John nodded at the door, indicating Lestrade.

“In time, in time,” Sherlock reassured. “Right now, he's got one thing on his mind.” Sherlock nodded at the laptop. He stood up then, reaching for his coat.

“Now what?” John asked.

“I have a fairly good idea just where Anne's being kept. Been looking at the public records on pubs in this area that have been closed for some time. Most places like this would have basements, for storing the kegs, to keep them cool. Just looking up the property listings alone shows that there are about nine in the area for sale. Only two are near the railway tracks.”

“How do you know it's one of these types of places? And why not tell him, for god's sake?” John burst.

“If you can look past Anne in the video? You'll notice that there are several tables and chairs, bar stools and benches, with several large casks and barrels, both wooden and metal. She's being held in the basement of an old pub. We just have to figure out which one.”

“That still leaves the question, why not tell him?” John said stubbornly as Sherlock shrugged his coat on.

“What do you think I am about to do?”

John grabbed his coat, scowling in frustration as Sherlock opened the door to leave, they were gone in seconds, leaving the laptop running.

No one was around to see Anne loosen her left fist, her hand trembling as she forced herself to relax. Trying to assert some control of her shaking, she curled her thumb into her palm then pulled on the restraint again. Ballet dancers had, for years, learned to work around pain every single day. Anne forced herself to concentrate on ignoring it and -despite whimpering at the pain of her broken finger- she managed to slide her left hand under the gap the restraint had left from being closed on her fist.

In a matter of moments, her left hand was free.

*

The bracing cold, and bite of the wind, was enough to drive some of the fogginess from Lestrade's mind as he set off down the narrow Baxtergate road, towards the river. Most of the pubs where located on either side of the Esk and there were more pedestrian's concentrated in the area, the harbour being the local hotspot for tourists and locals alike. At that hour though, there weren't very many people about.

To his surprise, despite the dread and uncertainty of the circumstances he was in, Lestrade actually recalled many of the places from a happier point in time. He was approaching one of the biggest intersections in Whitby which culminated at the junctions of five different streets. It was here, just off Flowergate on Lestrade's left, sat the Golden Lion pub and little way up St. Anne's Staith, sat the Jolly Sailor. Both pubs were finishing their closing for the night. Though the customers had long gone, the employees were trickling out of the pubs heading home for the night. Employees of the fishing related enterprises that made of the core of the community were walking down Pier Street, or across the bridge, to the docks for the start of their very early days.

Traffic was minimal, and the people, some in small groups and others alone, where making their way to their cars or homes or jobs. Lestrade, so long accustomed to scanning crowds, didn't fail to scan these, despite the hour of the night. His habits didn't fail him. As he hung back, trying to blend into the back ground, he spotted a lone man, walking towards the intersection, heading for New Quay Road. His mouth set in a grim line, Lestrade followed, keeping far enough back not to attract attention, and still keep his man in sight. Something about him was ringing the alarms in Lestrade's head.

He trailed him slowly up New Quay, sticking to the darker shadows. To all intents and purposes he was just another local, perhaps slightly drunk for the occasional stagger, heading home for the night. Around the first bend in the road, where one couldn't avoid seeing the tall ship Grand Turk at anchor in her berth, there was a tiny car park on their right to which Lestrade's quarry was headed.

Lestrade's instincts paid off. As the man headed for a car, he was illuminated more clearly under a lamp post. He had a profound black eye, and a marked swelling around his face. With his feral smile confirming his suspicion, Lestrade was looking right at the man whose nose he had broke in his flat not two days previously.

Lestrade actually contemplated taking the man on in his present state, watching his quarry get into the car and starting it, then realizing he really was going too far. With a scowl and helpless to do much of anything, he watched the car pull out. He automatically noted the number plate and make of the car, watching as the car backed up and made its way to the exit before turning right onto New Quay and driving away. “Dammit!” he grumbled, reaching up to stroke his mouth as he thought out other options. Everything was leading to dead ends.

He followed New Quay Road himself, heading for the roundabout at Langbourne and Bagdale and realized he was making a circle back towards the George. He was just in time to see the man take a left onto a street further up, nearer to the station and almost directly behind their hotel, before he lost him completely from sight.

Heaving a sigh of disgust, Lestrade continued walking, the streets becoming more and more deserted as he headed towards Bagdale Road. He was about to turn up Wellington Road, to head for the hotel's entrance, when he spotted John and Sherlock, who noticed him at the same time, turning and heading to meet up with him.

“Fancy meeting you two here,” he growled, a look of disgust on his face.

“It's actually the way we need to go.” Sherlock said, “Windsor Terrace.” He nodded at the street sign and crossed the road, leading the other two. “Windsor Terrace follows the railway, until it forks at Waterstead Lane.”

“I just saw the bloke whose nose I busted in my flat the other night.”

“Hah!” Sherlock barked, setting a fast pace. “I told you those men were from Whitby. He had to be driving or you wouldn't be looking so put out. Which road did he take?”

“What'd'you think?” Lestrade shot back.

“This one?” John asked.

“My theory is going to pan out, you'll both see.” Sherlock said.

“And that theory would be?” Lestrade demanded.

“That Anne is being held in closed down pub,” John replied.

“Property listings show that there are two situated close to the railway. And since there is only one track into Whitby, it shouldn't take us long to locate either property. This road, then Waterstead Lane follow the track. We follow the track to the bend in the river and we find the properties. Better still find the one property nearest the track signal. Anne will be there.”

“You're absolutely certain?” Lestrade asked.

“When am I not?” Sherlock called back over his shoulder.

When he said they would follow the track, neither John or Lestrade realized he meant literally. They walked along Waterstead Lane for some time before the road abruptly made a ninety degree turn away from the track at a holiday resort with several cottages. From there a foot path paralleled the track until it dead ended on the A171. The terrain had became more and more wooded. Before losing sight of the railway altogether, Sherlock turned and headed for the tracks themselves, plunging through the growth, heading down an incline that met up with the track.

John inwardly groaned. “I don't suppose you've recognized anything this far out yet have you?” He asked Lestrade.

Lestrade, shaking his head, had simply clammed up, grim determination on his features as he followed Sherlock through a small copse before the three men reached the rocky bed of the railway track. Here the darkness was diminished a little by the reflection of house lights from the opposite side of the river. Even though his wound was throbbing unmercifully, he doggedly clambered up the rocks, reaching the level bed of the track and following Sherlock as he headed out leaving Whitby proper further and further behind.

*

The first thing Anne did on realizing her hand was free was to tear the blindfold off her eyes. She sat there, blinking and stunned at her little success. She was shaking, holding the blindfold a moment before dropping it and pulling the gag out of her mouth. She looked around, gasping for breath, a little wild eyed with fear as she took in the various items of furniture piled against the walls all around her. Frowning in confusion, she hesitated, listening intently as she began loosening the restraint on her right wrist.

Far off, in another room of the house, she could hear men's voices. Anne's mind raced as she reached down to release the restraint on her feet. She stared at her left knee in horror, it was already swelling and it throbbed relentlessly. She caught herself whimpering in fear as she finished freeing her feet, and bit down on her lip to stop any noise from escaping. Once realizing she was fully free, she looked at her foot. It was also swelling with a tell tale, dark, ugly blue bruise forming deep under the skin. A glance at her hand revealed the same type of bruise.

Confusion washed over her as she stared at her hand. Why was this happening, who was this person and why did he think her husband had to be punished? Anne shook her head, trying to control the wild beating of her heart from the fear and looked around again. Sucking in a deep breath of air, she grabbed the arm rest of the chair and tried to stand up. She sat back down abruptly, trying not to cry out. Her leg wasn't going to support her. Shifting forward on the chair, perching on its edge, she got her right leg under her and levered herself up, wobbling badly, but after a moment she maintained her balance and awkwardly experimented trying to put weight on her left leg.

Her knee betrayed her and she toppled forward, catching herself against a pair of tables, one inverted on top of the other which were stacked before her. Trembling in fear, convinced someone would hear her and come looking, Anne searched the dark spaces, under tables, under benches, behind casks, anywhere that would afford her a hiding place.

Lestrade's words seemed to run continually through her mind, 'No matter what happens, you fight. You fight until you can't fight any more. And escape if you can, even if it gets you killed. I'd rather find you dead, then never find you at all.'

Holding herself up with the tables, she turned to look at the chair behind her. Shifting her weight again, Anne stretched out her hand to snag the chair and pulled it closer to her. Using it and other pieces of furniture she managed to hobble her way to the window. She paused, staring at the dingy panes into the pitch darkness outside and listened for any sound of approaching voices.

The volume of the voices had risen, and she could hear a man beginning to argue with someone, a woman? Anne frowned. She had no idea where she was, how long she'd been gone, what time it was, where Greg was at, but she knew she was being held by two, or maybe three, men. She didn't recall any women being around. Shaking her head in dismay, Anne's memories were foggy and distorted, she couldn't even recall how she ended up in the dingy, furniture clogged, basement that seemed vaguely familiar in a deja vú sort of way.

With the voices getting louder, her tenuous control of her panic wavered. Convinced they were on their way to the room, Anne reached up, trying to move the latch of the window, only to find it stubbornly jammed from years of neglect. Panting in fright, she searched her immediate area frantically, her pulse hammering in her ears. Not finding what she needed, Anne moved to the right, wedging herself against a pew-like bench, biting her lip to keep the whimpers of pain from escaping, as she pulled the chair over to her.

Moved with urgency, she twisted, grabbing the chair by the armrests. Taking a deep breath, she threw it as hard as she could at the window. Her balance shifted as she did, bringing weight down on her injured leg. Simultaneously the window broke while she cried out, as she threw herself down away from the flying bits off glass.

The pain shooting through her foot and leg as she connected with the floor was enough to cause her black out.

*

Anyone having followed an actual rail line knew it wasn't all that easy to follow. Unless you could balance on the iron rail itself, the rocks making up the track bed and the railway ties created just enough of an uneven terrain to make a prolonged walk strenuous. It wasn't very long before Lestrade began to lag. Even John was beginning to feel the strain.

“There's the first one...” Sherlock said indicating a large darkened building looming up on their right, away from the river. He immediately plunged into the undergrowth heading for the building. John, by now actually panting with the exertion, came to a stop, bending at the waist, with his hands on his knees. He was reasonably fit, his military stint not having worn off, despite his war wounds. Keeping up with Sherlock on a lead, sometimes, turned out to be an arduous endurance test.

“Greg?” John asked, pushing himself upright. There was no response and John turned around.

Several yards behind him, Lestrade had fallen to one knee, his hand clamped hard to his side and was struggling to stand back up again. He was gasping for breath, the steam of which was hanging in the chilly air. A moment later he felt John grip his elbow, giving him a hand back up.

“This is getting ridiculous,” John said to him.

Lestrade nodded, casting a grateful glance in his direction before managing to gasp out, “You aren't kidding.” Neither one moved, just allowing Lestrade time to catch his breath and try to gain some control over the pain.

“Where'd he go?” Lestrade finally asked.

John pointed in the direction of the abandoned building off to the side of the track. “Checking that place out.”

Lestrade, bending again, bracing himself with his hand on his knee, shook his head. “That's not the place. Don't recognize it at all. Besides, there's no track signal.” They heard a rustling in the bushes and seconds later Sherlock emerged, rejoining them on the track.

“She's at the other one,” he said confidently. “This place has been deserted for some time.” He instantly began setting the pace again. John was about to protest when Lestrade straightened up again, his face showing the strain of pain and fatigue.

“Just follow him, I'll catch up.”

“Absolutely not,” John replied. “We'll follow him at a slower pace.”

Lestrade didn't argue and together, in silence, they set off after Sherlock.

The track evened out for a short space, still hugging the edge of the river Esk, before it began to make a long slow curve to the right. More trees and undergrowth appeared, now on both sides of the river as a small spit of land had formed at the river's bend. The two men trailed fairly far behind Sherlock, almost lost in the dark up ahead of them. As they came further around the bend, a high bridge loomed up in the darkness, devoid of any traffic and Lestrade paused, needing the respite and looked at the bridge a moment with a frown.

“What is it?” John asked.

“That bridge...” Lestrade said. “I recognize it, its a footpath.” He got his bearings, trying not to double over and nodded at the copse of trees to their right. “Just up past these trees is a sports complex. Further up the ridge.”

“You're sure?” John asked. Lestrade nodded.

“Anne and I walked the path.” He straightened again, seeing Sherlock pause at the base of the bridge, turning to look back at them.

When they finally reached him he was standing next to a track signal mounted on its own pole next to the base of the bridge pillar and was eerily illuminated by the green light it cast. Lestrade was looking at him with certainty in his pain filled eyes.

“Anne and I took this footpath,” he said, turning to face away from the signal light. He looked off into the copse where all three men could see a very dim glow of a light from a window. “We stopped at a pub for tea. The staff found out we were on our honeymoon and they were very keen to serve us. Ended up showing us all around the place.”

Lestrade turned a moment, looking out over the river at the light of a single residence on the other side of the river. He turned back to look at the dim light. “Anne is in that room,” he said flatly and started to head off into the thicket.

Sherlock reached out and grabbed his shoulder. “Wait!” he hissed. “Regain some of your breath first, let me go and check out the surroundings. I'll be right back!” Without another word he plunged into the bushes and vanished.

Lestrade couldn't very well argue. Even he realized he wasn't exactly in any shape to just barge in to rescue his wife.

“We'll figure out something,” John said, watching the window in question. Lestrade just nodded, reaching up to place a hand on the pillar as he panted for breath. The seconds seemed to turn into minutes which then seemed to turn into hours as the two men waited. Lestrade had gained his breath back, though the pounding in his side did little to abate. He was slowly standing up straight when a sound caught their ears that galvanized both men into instant action.

The window they were watching suddenly shattered.

End Chapter 9 Entry originally posted at Teej's DW account.