The Other Woman: 2/2
Title: The Other Woman: Chapter 2 of 2
Summary: Anderson's wife is murdered, and both Anderson and Donovan are suspects. When things get bad for them, it seems as if Sherlock Holmes is their last hope. When Sherlock declares the case boring, it all comes down to John Watson.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mention of an adulterous relationship, mild swearing
Spoilers: Study in Pink and The Blind Banker
Disclaimers: Arthur Conan Doyle's original characters are in the public domain now. Moffat and Gatiss are to blame for Detective Inspector Dimmock, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, and Scenes of Crime Officer Anderson. We loves them forever!
Word Count: 4849
Author's Notes: 1) Inspired by an abandoned prompt from the unstoppable Anon on sherlockbbc_fic. TY for the lovely plot bunny. Omnomnomnom! 2) This has been neither beta-read nor Brit-picked, so Caveat Lector. You have been warned. 3) Not slash!
Chapter 1/2 is back there.
John called Sherlock and left a message, then left a text. No response, not even “Get milk”. He collected Lestrade's address from one of Dimmock's constables and moaned. Why would a police inspector live in Hackney? As John walked from the London Overground stop, he had to admit that several neighbourhoods had been impressively gentrified, but as he moved north, he saw fewer white faces and more hostile looks. He heaved a sigh of relief when he turned onto Lestrade's street and saw
the inspector's familiar head of cropped silver hair. Lestrade was lifting a big pane of glass with the help of a small, dark man with a nasty bruise on his left cheekbone. As soon as they had set it in the window, two more small, dark men came rushing up with a ladder and a bag of tools to finish fixing it into place.
“Got it! Got it!” one of the small men called. Lestrade and the bruised man stepped back.
“Should be back open this afternoon, I think.” remarked the bruised man. His accent was pure London. John was sure Sherlock could tell him which street he had grown up on. “Fancy some lunch, Inspector?”
“Hallo,” said John, uncertainly, coming up to them.
Lestrade turned around. “Hello, Dr. Watson. Where's Sherlock?” He looked exhausted. He wore a fresh t-shirt, but John wondered if he had slept at all since the party.
John bit his lip. “No idea. Just came to see how you were. Sorry to hear about your restaurant,” he added to the bruised man with the London accent, who, he proudly deduced, had to be Ahmed.
“Oh,” sighed Ahmed. “It's all insured. It's just... I thought I was done with all of that. Didn't think it could happen around here any more. I mean, it's just... not that kind of street.” He pointed at the wreckage of a CCTV camera on the building facing his restaurant.
A muscle twitched in Lestrade's cheek. “We know bloody well who did it. We gave the footage from the camera inside to DCI O’Brien, and he agreed with my ID. I've no idea why they haven't been picked up already, especially since they have guns, but they should have called you in hours ago for the line-up.”
Ahmed turned back to the window and waved at the faces that had appeared on the other side. Three dark children and the Anderson twins waved back.
“Can't be a coincidence,” John remarked to Lestrade after Ahmed went back into the restaurant. “That your building gets attacked just before Delia Anderson's murder?”
“You alibied Sally, right? You told Dimmock?” Lestrade demanded.
John nodded. “He thinks it's a frame.” He looked down at the pavement. “But I... dozed off, and apparently the prosecutor can convince a jury that Sally's such a brilliant cat-burglar that she could have snuck out without my noticing. Then she got back in through a locked door without me noticing that either. I'll bet that she didn't leave as much as a scratch on the lock. And Anderson is locked up for no particular reason except that a jury will convict him just based on his looks.” That last, thought John, is all to believable. How did a man that ugly manage to seduce Sally Donovan?
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. Ahmed burst out of the restaurant, waving a mobile at Lestrade. “He's got them! Will you come to the station with me?”
“The kids...”
“Oh, Fatima will keep an eye on them. Who knows, they may even have something to say when we come back. Will you come?” He gave Lestrade a pleading look.
Lestrade sighed and nodded. “Want to come with, Doctor Watson? See if this has anything to do with... anything?”
John nodded and grinned back at him.
Ahmed beamed at them. “Be right out!” He was as good as his word, returning with a bulging bag that smelled of take-out and a jacket-pocket full of plastic cutlery.
He's Turkish, John concluded with a sniff, and either he or his wife is a good cook. He cast a brief glance at Lestrade's hand. That looked like a wedding ring, but where's Lestrade's wife then? Does she work? I've never heard him say anything about her. Instead, he babysits other people's kids with his sergeant, and people worry about his drinking. None of my business really.
It was not a long walk to the local police station, and neither Lestrade nor Ahmed seemed much surprised when the line-up wasn't ready. They simply broke open the take-out boxes and had an impromptu picnic of mixed veg, lamb kebabs and cheese bread (which Ahmed smeared with honey), in an empty cubicle, watched by an obviously envious constable.
A lean old fellow, balding, with shrewd blue eyes, sauntered in as they were finishing. “Old Rocky remembers you,” he told Lestrade, smiling. “We've had to get an Armed Response Unit to bring him in, and we've got him and his little friends charged with... oh more than enough to put them away for more years than he probably has left on this Earth. So he really feels a need for conversation. Something that might just get him a deal. In fact , I'd say he's feeling quite cooperative! Got a case he could help you with, then?”
“DI Dimmock's case, actually. And Rocky may not know anything. But if he doesn't, I'll be rather surprised... and suspicious. Perhaps may have a few more things to charge him with. His timing's a bit lucky with respect to some other stuff that went down last night.”
“London's a big place,” shrugged the older man. “But last night's spree was a bit off his usual patch. And above and beyond his usual brand of stupid. Didn't expect to find him with some of the guns his lads brandished at the Armed Response Unit. Something definitely off here.”
He turned to Ahmed. “Mr. Pandit, the constable here is going to be taking you to identify a few of your assailants from last night while Detective Inspector Lestrade and I have a chat with the ringleader, em, presumed ringleader.”
Damn, thought John, Ahmed's not Turkish after all.
The little restaurateur smiled and nodded, “Cheers, Chief Inspector. I hope you find what you're looking for.” He followed the constable out the door, presumably to the line-up.
The chief inspector looked at John, who was tidying up the empty take-out boxes.
Lestrade cleared his throat. “Detective Chief Inspector O'Brien, this is Dr. Watson. He, er, works with Sherlock Holmes, the fellow I sometimes consult with.”
O'Brien groaned. “Not the skinny git that your team has to follow around everywhere to keep from wrecking the case! You didn't bring him!” He looked around the room nervously.
“He's gotten better.” Lestrade said mournfully. “And no, I didn't bring Sherlock. But still, I'm technically on leave, so I'm supposed to be here even less than he is. Rocky had better not see me if you pack him off to talk to Dimmock. Here's what I need to know: did someone hire Rocky's crew to trash the Pandits' restaurant, were they particular about the time of the attack and who was it?”
O'Brien sighed and led them to the observer's station looking into an interview room. A uniformed sergeant sat at the desk, looking intently through the one-way glass at the prisoner. The gang's ringleader must have been about Lestrade's age, John estimated, but nowhere near as healthy. He was rather puffy, with wild salt-and-pepper hair and a scruffy grey beard. His leather jacket must have cost considerably more than Lestrade's, but somehow he looked too old to be wearing it. Over his jeans, he wore a gaudy belt with a huge buckle on the front.
O'Brien entered the interview room and sat across from Rocky. “Our friends at Scotland Yard have some questions for you, my boy.”
Rocky all but leaped from his chair. “I'm not saying I did it! But I might 'of heard about the gang who did, and that they got hired by some black woman, who never showed up to pay them the second half of what she owed. Not real dark, though. Not like them Africans an' the Rastas.”
John's heart sank, but Lestrade raised his eyebrows at this. “Go ask him how tall she was,” he told John.
John knocked at the door, and O'Brien let him in to the interview room. “Eh, excuse me, but how tall was this woman?” he asked Rocky.
“Taller'n you, Sergeant Shrimp. Come to think of it, she was taller'n O'Brien here.” He knotted his bushy eyebrows together in thought. John repressed a smile of triumph. Not Sally.
Ahmed thanked John and Lestrade enthusiastically as they walked back to the restaurant. “I'll be testifying at their trial, but I don't mind. I'll be very happy to have that lot off the street!”
Lestrade called Dimmock as they walked and verified that he had received Rocky's evidence. “He still won't cut Sally or Anderson loose,” he grumbled. “Only one more thing I can think to try. Want a lift back to the Yard?”
John nodded. It's amazing how much cheaper it is to investigate without Sherlock. Cabs cost so much more than trains and police cars are, well, free!
John was slightly surprised when Lestrade collected Anderson's children from the restaurant. “Bet you two want to see your dad back,” Lestrade commented as he led them over to the unmarked car. The little boy nodded, but the little girl looked up with a gleam of suspicion in her eye. “Well, we've got to have a chat with Inspector Dimmock.”
Dimmock was in his office and looking like he was starting to fray a little at the edges. He actually bared his teeth at Lestrade. “Thanks so much for all of that extra evidence... that just makes it all worse!”
“Listen, whoever it was hired the gang is taller than John. Sally's... little. Besides, you've got John's alibi for Sally, and at least five others for Anderson. This is getting ridiculous.”
Dimmock actually shut his eyes and banged his forehead against one of the shorter stacks of paper on of his desk. “I. Don't. Have. My. Killer. Go away!”
“Bet the black woman's not in charge; bet they hired her too. Looks more like a frame every time you turn around, doesn't it?” Lestrade said, helpfully.
Dimmock pressed his forehead against the desk and groaned.
The children looked up at Lestrade. He told them, “Inspector Dimmock here doesn't believe Dr. Watson about Sergeant Sally staying to watch 'Professor Challenger' with you lot until the lady from the party came to fetch them. Says he fell asleep and doesn't know anything.”
“He did fall asleep, and so did Amy!” said the little girl clearly. “But Sergeant Sally fell asleep first. They waked up when the lady knocked on the door.”
Dimmock lifted his head and glowered at Lestrade. “You done coaching these witnesses?”
Lestrade grinned ruthlessly. “Go get their dad so your people can grill them properly.”
John found Sherlock in an armchair in their sitting room locked in a staring match with someone of his own height: his older brother Mycroft. Mycroft was smiling broadly, but Sherlock looked like he had bitten into a lemon.
“Did you get milk, John?” Sherlock demanded without turning around.
“He's been busy, Sherlock, doing your job for you. Sparing the innocent, avenging the dead, all of those things that you used to do,” Mycroft said without breaking the stare.
Sherlock curled his lip at Mycroft. “I'm merely... selective about the cases that I take.”
“You would have far fewer cases to choose among if Dr. Watson had not been pushing things along. Lestrade's superiors at Scotland Yard were discussing the possibility of transferring him to a divisional CID branch, perhaps Lambeth. Of course, they are still wondering just how corrupt his team is.”
“Sergeant Donovan is in the clear now, but I assume you know that already,” John said. Since you have access to very confidential personnel files at Scotland Yard, I might as well assume that you have access to anything else they've got.
“Of course she is,” agreed Mycroft. “Why would she have brought her little sister to a place where she was planning to commit a murder, especially since the child couldn't even give her an alibi?”
“But we still don't know who did kill Delia Anderson,” John pointed out.
“Cherchez la femme, Dr. Watson!” Mycroft rose to his feet and picked up his umbrella.
“And Anderson's kids can talk, Sherlock!” John added, since his flat-mate was still glaring at the chair that Mycroft had just vacated.
“Sherlock refused to speak a word until he was six.” Mycroft commented from the doorway. “Oh, those were the days!” With that, he swept out of the flat.
Sherlock jumped from his chair and slammed the door behind Mycroft. He finally turned to John, who was leaning against the wall, and scowled at him. “I did tell Dimmock to measure the impressions left by the stepladder. The killer stood on the bottom rung and never went higher. Sally could never have reached the window from there, so the killer was quite a bit taller.”
“Did you tell Dimmock?” John asked gently.
“Yes, but that was just after you had left and he and Lestrade were on their way to release her and Anderson.”
“Cherchez la femme... our last lead is the woman who hired that gang to trash the restaurant, I think to lure Lestrade away; they had no idea I was going to be up there with Sally. The gang leader described her as a black woman, not very dark, but taller than me.” John looked expectantly at Sherlock.
Sherlock opened John's laptop and turned it to face him. He had the web browser opened to some sort of celebrity site. John recognized Randolph Pierson from the party and the tanned, leggy blonde on his arm. “Fashion Designer to Marry PA!” blared the headline. On the sidebar was a link to a story about the “Tragic Death of Rising Fashion Star.” Somehow, the press haven't found out that Delia was murdered. Actually, none of us mentioned the words “poison” or “cyanide” to any of the guests after she died.
“Why didn't Randolph and Elaine announce their engagement at the party?” John asked Sherlock.
“She wasn't wearing that ring, and Randolph couldn't take his eyes off of Delia. His pupils dilated when he talked to her. I think he's loved her for quite some time, months or years. Served Anderson right, really. So this... makes no sense. Randolph should be mourning, and I think he is.” Sherlock clicked on the picture, pulling up a larger version. Pierson was not smiling in his engagement photo. In fact, his face was lined and his eyes were reddened.
“If Delia had lived, she was going to serve her husband with divorce papers,” John told him. “Her solicitor brought them to Dimmock's office. They were only two days old, and she was pretty sure that Anderson didn't know about them yet.”
“Why didn't Dimmock tell me?!” shouted Sherlock.
“You decided the case wasn't interesting, remember? It gets better. Delia was going to pay Anderson off and let him take the kids and leave. There was no mention of him having an affair.”
“Where's my phone?!” Sherlock yelped. “Dammit, the battery is gone. Text Dimmock! I need a meeting with Pierson immediately.”
John texted dutifully and watched Sherlock working away at the laptop. “May I ask what you are doing to my computer?” There was no answer, but John's phone chimed a moment later. “It's Dimmock. He says 'Can't reach Pierson, but I've left a message. Will call when I hear from him.'”
Sherlock shook his head. “Bet Dimmock doesn't have his personal number.” He held out his hand. John handed it over his mobile with a sigh.
“Randolph, it's Sherlock. Elaine isn't there? Does she know where you are? Good, then stay there and don't answer if she tries to call you. We're on our way and we'll meet you there.”
Sherlock grabbed John's computer and bounded out of the flat to call a cab. John sighed and trotted upstairs to collect his highly-illegal handgun and to conceal it in the back of his waistband. “Le Coq d'Or, Canary Wharf,” Sherlock told the cabbie.
One look at the menu outside the door made John cringe. He wasn't wearing a tie or a proper jacket, for God's sake! The maitre d' didn't seem to notice, though. He led them to a table in the back where Pierson sat alone. Pierson's eyes were bloodshot, and he looked twenty years older than he had at the party.
Sherlock looked around the room carefully. “I would congratulate you on your engagement, but I don't believe that it was your idea,” Sherlock leaned on the the table, looming over the designer.
Pierson looked down at his half-finished meal. “You seem to know everything, Sherlock, you always do. But I don't think that you can get me out of this one. There are some things that you simply can't fix.”
Sherlock cocked his head to one side. “You are being blackmailed into this? How? You live a pretty quiet life for someone in fashion, and no one in the industry would really care about... just about anything that you would do.”
“It isn't me,” said Pierson, continuing to study his plate. “It's Delia. She wouldn't want... I couldn't... It wouldn't be right. It's such a mess!”
“Elaine killed Delia. What could be right about marrying her? If you do, I predict that you'll be dead within a year, and some poor innocent framed for killing you.”
Pierson finally looked up, his eyes filling with tears. “I wish I could believe it, Mr. Holmes. Elaine is certainly cruel enough. But the truth is a lot more sordid than that. She told me that Inspector Dimmock had arrested David Anderson and Sergeant Donovan for the murder, but they won't be able to get a conviction without the evidence she has. I... had her hire a private investigator a few months ago... David's been having an affair, you see, with Sergeant Donovan, and the PI got proof. Elaine has it now. But she said that if she married me, she would destroy it.
“When she showed me the PI's photos, months ago, I realized that I couldn't tell Delia. Everything's so... complicated! Delia's condition, multiple sclerosis... she's been deteriorating for years, ever since the twins... I can't really blame David for straying... and I could never bear to break Delia's heart. I think... that David must have become desperate. He's not a bad fellow! You see how devoted he is to those poor kids, and he's been as solicitous as he could with Delia. He doesn't understand her love of design any more than she... understood how he felt about police work. The cyanide... it was quick. The symptoms; the dizziness, the apnoea... she suffers from those anyway. We had no idea until it was too late.”
“How did you know she died from cyanide poisoning?” asked John.
“Well, Elaine said...”
“Anderson and Donovan couldn't have done it,” Sherlock pointed out. “They were both in other rooms, surrounded by witnesses, during the murder and for quite some time before it. Elaine knew that Delia was planning to divorce Anderson, didn't she? And that you had bought that engagement ring for Delia, the ring that you had to give Elaine.”
Pierson rubbed at his eyes, looking faintly hopeful. “But Elaine wasn't at the party! Could she have hired someone?”
“Oh, she was there, but she was outside on the street,” Sherlock assured him, “And she probably wanted us to catch a glimpse of her, but no one did. She was almost certainly wearing sunglasses and a wig.”
Sherlock set John's laptop on the table and turned it on. He opened the photo-editing program and showed Pierson the engagement photo, with a few alterations. He had drawn a new head of hair on Elaine, dark and wavy, and added a pair of sunglasses. She looked very much like a tall version of Sally Donovan. “There's a police sketch at Scotland Yard that should match this quite nicely. With the right hair and her eyes hidden, she looks just like the 'black' woman who hired a gang of toughs to smash a restaurant and draw Inspector Lestrade away from the party. If John hadn't been there, unexpectedly, Donovan would have been left without any adults' alibis.”
“That tan... that's why she worked so hard on her tan this last month.” Pierson looked like he was about to be ill. “And Donovan is so light-skinned...” He rose to his feet, trembling visibly.
“No,” said Sherlock firmly. “If you must, let your office know that you won't be back this afternoon. But stay here. If Elaine finds you here, call the police. In the meantime, I need her address.”
John offered Sherlock his phone as they left the restaurant. “Sherlock, time to call the police in.”
Sherlock waved for another cab, “We'll do that when we find something, but if Elaine's not at the office now, we are definitely too late.” John kept brandishing the phone at Sherlock as they got into the cab and Sherlock rattled off the address, but Sherlock ignored him.
It was a rather grotty building, but too close to Canary Wharf to be cheap. Fortunately, there was a resident at the door struggling with her keys, two carrier bags of groceries and an excitable small dog on a leash. Sherlock walked up, gallantly took her keys, opened the door for her, and returned them. He held the door open, smiling warmly, as she staggered through, thanking him effusively. Sherlock kept the door from closing completely. He waited until the woman's footsteps had faded before he opened it again and dove through it. John followed. There was a lift, but it was propped open and obviously out of order, so they had to climb four flights of stairs.
John protested again when Sherlock pulled out a set of pick-locks outside the door of the flat. “How is Dimmock going to be able to use any evidence in there if you break in?”
“There is no evidence in here,” Sherlock replied. “Elaine is far too clever to have left any of that stuff in the flat. No, she'll have destroyed her tools this morning, as soon as they had served their purpose. I just need a look 'round. I need to know who she is and what makes her tick.”
John groaned and leaned against the wall. Sherlock grinned as the deadbolt clicked. It took him only a second to manage the lock in the doorknob, and he used a sort of pliers to deal with the chain inside the door.
On a side table just inside the door was an envelope with the name “Sherlock Holmes” scrawled in elegant, looping letters across the front. Sherlock immediate opened it and pulled out a plain parchment card. John read over his shoulder:
“Dear Sherlock,
I regret that I missed an opportunity to really match wits with you, but a little bird told me that you were meeting Randolph for lunch at Le Coq d'Or. I knew it was over. Au revoir until next time. Don't look for me. I will find you.
Love,
Elaine.”
Sherlock smiled. “Next time it is, then,” he chuckled.
John shuddered. He thought about Delia Anderson dead on her sitting room floor, about Ahmed Pandit's bruised face, about Randolph Pierson giving in to despair. He hadn't seen Sally Donovan since she had dropped him off after the party, or David Anderson since John had sent him away to comfort his half-orphaned children. But I don't need to, he thought. And I don't need to see Elaine Connery ever again.
Sherlock suddenly tensed and he lifted the card and sniffed it. John smelled it too. That ink is fresh, very fresh. Sherlock dashed through the open door on the right. It was a bedroom and the window was open. Sherlock leaned over the ledge at the fire escape. Below it was a familiar parked car with flashing police lights visible on the dashboard. “Lestrade!” Sherlock snarled. “What's he doing here?”
“Hands in the air, gentlemen,” purred a soft contralto from behind them. John whirled around, but it was too late. Elaine emerged from her closet, aiming a gun at Sherlock. She was dressed for travelling, and very well-dressed at that, with a small satchel over her shoulder. “Just in time,” she remarked. “Into the sitting room, no sudden moves. I hope you understand that I won't hesitate to shoot.”
There were heavy, running footsteps in the hallway. Lestrade's flushed face appeared in the doorway. “Careful, Inspector,” warned Elaine, pushing John closer to Sherlock and pointing her gun at his temple. “Wouldn't want me to panic here, now would we? Put your hands up and come stand with your friends.”
Lestrade walked around the sofa. Elaine backed away from them and turned to cover him as well with her weapon. Once she was standing near the door, Lestrade said, loudly, “Don't know what you think you're doing...” and suddenly dropped to the floor behind the sofa as she aimed the weapon at him.
As Elaine fired, John fell to the floor as well, pulling Sherlock down with him. He dragged Sherlock with him to cover behind the sofa, resisting the urge to look up when he heard a shout and thumps from the door. John hissed “Stay!” at Sherlock and crawled around the sofa to find Sally Donovan handcuffing an unconscious Elaine. A baton lay at her feet, and Lestrade was already there, gingerly sliding Elaine's gun into a bag and putting on the safety through the plastic.
John felt a breath on his ear and turned his head to find Sherlock peering over his shoulder. “You called Lestrade!” Sherlock accused John.
“Yes, yes, I did. I rather wanted police backup when you went to confront her, and I knew that you didn't. So I just dialled him and and held the phone up so he could hear when you gave her address to the cabbie. Aren't you glad that I don't have Dimmock's number on here?”
“We could have been shot!” Sherlock snapped at Lestrade.
“That would be just one reason why you shouldn't have been here at all!” Lestrade retorted. “Happily, Dimmock should be hard on my heels.”
Sherlock snooped around the flat under Sally's supervision until Dimmock's small army of uniformed officers, SOCO's and detectives arrived. John woke and examined Elaine while Lestrade rattled off the usual bit about her rights. “Definitely a concussion and some bruises,” John told Dimmock's sergeant as two burly constables marched her away. The sergeant simply nodded.
Lestrade clambered to his feet and dusted off his knees. “Dimmock needs the credit for this one, so he's got to do the paperwork. Going to meet the rest of the team at Pandit's Caravanserai for a celebratory dinner. You want to come along?”
“I need to let Randolph Pierson know that he is to be spared the shackles of matrimony.” Amazing isn't it, how Sherlock manages to sound so terribly grand while he's got his nose to a mobile phone, my mobile phone, John thought. Then Oh, the hell with it, let him go be grand and fashionable at some posh restaurant with bloody Randolph Pierson, but I'm not dressed for it and I'm hungry!
“I'd be up for it, Inspector,” John said. Sherlock looked up from John's phone with a start. “Er, is Mr. Panjit's restaurant Turkish? Or Kashmiri?”
“It's Turkish when Fatima cooks; she's Turkish, you see. He mostly does curries, since he's worked in Indian restaurants for the last umpteen years. D'you like vindaloo? He's does a really good one.”
John nodded, smiling, and trotted downstairs after Sally Donovan and the inspector.
Sherlock trailed after him. “What are you doing?” he hissed in John's ear.
“It's called 'making friends', Sherlock. You should give it a try. Curry's just an added bonus!”
Sherlock glowered at him, but reluctantly got into the police car after him.
Summary: Anderson's wife is murdered, and both Anderson and Donovan are suspects. When things get bad for them, it seems as if Sherlock Holmes is their last hope. When Sherlock declares the case boring, it all comes down to John Watson.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mention of an adulterous relationship, mild swearing
Spoilers: Study in Pink and The Blind Banker
Disclaimers: Arthur Conan Doyle's original characters are in the public domain now. Moffat and Gatiss are to blame for Detective Inspector Dimmock, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, and Scenes of Crime Officer Anderson. We loves them forever!
Word Count: 4849
Author's Notes: 1) Inspired by an abandoned prompt from the unstoppable Anon on sherlockbbc_fic. TY for the lovely plot bunny. Omnomnomnom! 2) This has been neither beta-read nor Brit-picked, so Caveat Lector. You have been warned. 3) Not slash!
Chapter 1/2 is back there.
John called Sherlock and left a message, then left a text. No response, not even “Get milk”. He collected Lestrade's address from one of Dimmock's constables and moaned. Why would a police inspector live in Hackney? As John walked from the London Overground stop, he had to admit that several neighbourhoods had been impressively gentrified, but as he moved north, he saw fewer white faces and more hostile looks. He heaved a sigh of relief when he turned onto Lestrade's street and saw
the inspector's familiar head of cropped silver hair. Lestrade was lifting a big pane of glass with the help of a small, dark man with a nasty bruise on his left cheekbone. As soon as they had set it in the window, two more small, dark men came rushing up with a ladder and a bag of tools to finish fixing it into place.
“Got it! Got it!” one of the small men called. Lestrade and the bruised man stepped back.
“Should be back open this afternoon, I think.” remarked the bruised man. His accent was pure London. John was sure Sherlock could tell him which street he had grown up on. “Fancy some lunch, Inspector?”
“Hallo,” said John, uncertainly, coming up to them.
Lestrade turned around. “Hello, Dr. Watson. Where's Sherlock?” He looked exhausted. He wore a fresh t-shirt, but John wondered if he had slept at all since the party.
John bit his lip. “No idea. Just came to see how you were. Sorry to hear about your restaurant,” he added to the bruised man with the London accent, who, he proudly deduced, had to be Ahmed.
“Oh,” sighed Ahmed. “It's all insured. It's just... I thought I was done with all of that. Didn't think it could happen around here any more. I mean, it's just... not that kind of street.” He pointed at the wreckage of a CCTV camera on the building facing his restaurant.
A muscle twitched in Lestrade's cheek. “We know bloody well who did it. We gave the footage from the camera inside to DCI O’Brien, and he agreed with my ID. I've no idea why they haven't been picked up already, especially since they have guns, but they should have called you in hours ago for the line-up.”
Ahmed turned back to the window and waved at the faces that had appeared on the other side. Three dark children and the Anderson twins waved back.
“Can't be a coincidence,” John remarked to Lestrade after Ahmed went back into the restaurant. “That your building gets attacked just before Delia Anderson's murder?”
“You alibied Sally, right? You told Dimmock?” Lestrade demanded.
John nodded. “He thinks it's a frame.” He looked down at the pavement. “But I... dozed off, and apparently the prosecutor can convince a jury that Sally's such a brilliant cat-burglar that she could have snuck out without my noticing. Then she got back in through a locked door without me noticing that either. I'll bet that she didn't leave as much as a scratch on the lock. And Anderson is locked up for no particular reason except that a jury will convict him just based on his looks.” That last, thought John, is all to believable. How did a man that ugly manage to seduce Sally Donovan?
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. Ahmed burst out of the restaurant, waving a mobile at Lestrade. “He's got them! Will you come to the station with me?”
“The kids...”
“Oh, Fatima will keep an eye on them. Who knows, they may even have something to say when we come back. Will you come?” He gave Lestrade a pleading look.
Lestrade sighed and nodded. “Want to come with, Doctor Watson? See if this has anything to do with... anything?”
John nodded and grinned back at him.
Ahmed beamed at them. “Be right out!” He was as good as his word, returning with a bulging bag that smelled of take-out and a jacket-pocket full of plastic cutlery.
He's Turkish, John concluded with a sniff, and either he or his wife is a good cook. He cast a brief glance at Lestrade's hand. That looked like a wedding ring, but where's Lestrade's wife then? Does she work? I've never heard him say anything about her. Instead, he babysits other people's kids with his sergeant, and people worry about his drinking. None of my business really.
It was not a long walk to the local police station, and neither Lestrade nor Ahmed seemed much surprised when the line-up wasn't ready. They simply broke open the take-out boxes and had an impromptu picnic of mixed veg, lamb kebabs and cheese bread (which Ahmed smeared with honey), in an empty cubicle, watched by an obviously envious constable.
A lean old fellow, balding, with shrewd blue eyes, sauntered in as they were finishing. “Old Rocky remembers you,” he told Lestrade, smiling. “We've had to get an Armed Response Unit to bring him in, and we've got him and his little friends charged with... oh more than enough to put them away for more years than he probably has left on this Earth. So he really feels a need for conversation. Something that might just get him a deal. In fact , I'd say he's feeling quite cooperative! Got a case he could help you with, then?”
“DI Dimmock's case, actually. And Rocky may not know anything. But if he doesn't, I'll be rather surprised... and suspicious. Perhaps may have a few more things to charge him with. His timing's a bit lucky with respect to some other stuff that went down last night.”
“London's a big place,” shrugged the older man. “But last night's spree was a bit off his usual patch. And above and beyond his usual brand of stupid. Didn't expect to find him with some of the guns his lads brandished at the Armed Response Unit. Something definitely off here.”
He turned to Ahmed. “Mr. Pandit, the constable here is going to be taking you to identify a few of your assailants from last night while Detective Inspector Lestrade and I have a chat with the ringleader, em, presumed ringleader.”
Damn, thought John, Ahmed's not Turkish after all.
The little restaurateur smiled and nodded, “Cheers, Chief Inspector. I hope you find what you're looking for.” He followed the constable out the door, presumably to the line-up.
The chief inspector looked at John, who was tidying up the empty take-out boxes.
Lestrade cleared his throat. “Detective Chief Inspector O'Brien, this is Dr. Watson. He, er, works with Sherlock Holmes, the fellow I sometimes consult with.”
O'Brien groaned. “Not the skinny git that your team has to follow around everywhere to keep from wrecking the case! You didn't bring him!” He looked around the room nervously.
“He's gotten better.” Lestrade said mournfully. “And no, I didn't bring Sherlock. But still, I'm technically on leave, so I'm supposed to be here even less than he is. Rocky had better not see me if you pack him off to talk to Dimmock. Here's what I need to know: did someone hire Rocky's crew to trash the Pandits' restaurant, were they particular about the time of the attack and who was it?”
O'Brien sighed and led them to the observer's station looking into an interview room. A uniformed sergeant sat at the desk, looking intently through the one-way glass at the prisoner. The gang's ringleader must have been about Lestrade's age, John estimated, but nowhere near as healthy. He was rather puffy, with wild salt-and-pepper hair and a scruffy grey beard. His leather jacket must have cost considerably more than Lestrade's, but somehow he looked too old to be wearing it. Over his jeans, he wore a gaudy belt with a huge buckle on the front.
O'Brien entered the interview room and sat across from Rocky. “Our friends at Scotland Yard have some questions for you, my boy.”
Rocky all but leaped from his chair. “I'm not saying I did it! But I might 'of heard about the gang who did, and that they got hired by some black woman, who never showed up to pay them the second half of what she owed. Not real dark, though. Not like them Africans an' the Rastas.”
John's heart sank, but Lestrade raised his eyebrows at this. “Go ask him how tall she was,” he told John.
John knocked at the door, and O'Brien let him in to the interview room. “Eh, excuse me, but how tall was this woman?” he asked Rocky.
“Taller'n you, Sergeant Shrimp. Come to think of it, she was taller'n O'Brien here.” He knotted his bushy eyebrows together in thought. John repressed a smile of triumph. Not Sally.
Ahmed thanked John and Lestrade enthusiastically as they walked back to the restaurant. “I'll be testifying at their trial, but I don't mind. I'll be very happy to have that lot off the street!”
Lestrade called Dimmock as they walked and verified that he had received Rocky's evidence. “He still won't cut Sally or Anderson loose,” he grumbled. “Only one more thing I can think to try. Want a lift back to the Yard?”
John nodded. It's amazing how much cheaper it is to investigate without Sherlock. Cabs cost so much more than trains and police cars are, well, free!
John was slightly surprised when Lestrade collected Anderson's children from the restaurant. “Bet you two want to see your dad back,” Lestrade commented as he led them over to the unmarked car. The little boy nodded, but the little girl looked up with a gleam of suspicion in her eye. “Well, we've got to have a chat with Inspector Dimmock.”
Dimmock was in his office and looking like he was starting to fray a little at the edges. He actually bared his teeth at Lestrade. “Thanks so much for all of that extra evidence... that just makes it all worse!”
“Listen, whoever it was hired the gang is taller than John. Sally's... little. Besides, you've got John's alibi for Sally, and at least five others for Anderson. This is getting ridiculous.”
Dimmock actually shut his eyes and banged his forehead against one of the shorter stacks of paper on of his desk. “I. Don't. Have. My. Killer. Go away!”
“Bet the black woman's not in charge; bet they hired her too. Looks more like a frame every time you turn around, doesn't it?” Lestrade said, helpfully.
Dimmock pressed his forehead against the desk and groaned.
The children looked up at Lestrade. He told them, “Inspector Dimmock here doesn't believe Dr. Watson about Sergeant Sally staying to watch 'Professor Challenger' with you lot until the lady from the party came to fetch them. Says he fell asleep and doesn't know anything.”
“He did fall asleep, and so did Amy!” said the little girl clearly. “But Sergeant Sally fell asleep first. They waked up when the lady knocked on the door.”
Dimmock lifted his head and glowered at Lestrade. “You done coaching these witnesses?”
Lestrade grinned ruthlessly. “Go get their dad so your people can grill them properly.”
John found Sherlock in an armchair in their sitting room locked in a staring match with someone of his own height: his older brother Mycroft. Mycroft was smiling broadly, but Sherlock looked like he had bitten into a lemon.
“Did you get milk, John?” Sherlock demanded without turning around.
“He's been busy, Sherlock, doing your job for you. Sparing the innocent, avenging the dead, all of those things that you used to do,” Mycroft said without breaking the stare.
Sherlock curled his lip at Mycroft. “I'm merely... selective about the cases that I take.”
“You would have far fewer cases to choose among if Dr. Watson had not been pushing things along. Lestrade's superiors at Scotland Yard were discussing the possibility of transferring him to a divisional CID branch, perhaps Lambeth. Of course, they are still wondering just how corrupt his team is.”
“Sergeant Donovan is in the clear now, but I assume you know that already,” John said. Since you have access to very confidential personnel files at Scotland Yard, I might as well assume that you have access to anything else they've got.
“Of course she is,” agreed Mycroft. “Why would she have brought her little sister to a place where she was planning to commit a murder, especially since the child couldn't even give her an alibi?”
“But we still don't know who did kill Delia Anderson,” John pointed out.
“Cherchez la femme, Dr. Watson!” Mycroft rose to his feet and picked up his umbrella.
“And Anderson's kids can talk, Sherlock!” John added, since his flat-mate was still glaring at the chair that Mycroft had just vacated.
“Sherlock refused to speak a word until he was six.” Mycroft commented from the doorway. “Oh, those were the days!” With that, he swept out of the flat.
Sherlock jumped from his chair and slammed the door behind Mycroft. He finally turned to John, who was leaning against the wall, and scowled at him. “I did tell Dimmock to measure the impressions left by the stepladder. The killer stood on the bottom rung and never went higher. Sally could never have reached the window from there, so the killer was quite a bit taller.”
“Did you tell Dimmock?” John asked gently.
“Yes, but that was just after you had left and he and Lestrade were on their way to release her and Anderson.”
“Cherchez la femme... our last lead is the woman who hired that gang to trash the restaurant, I think to lure Lestrade away; they had no idea I was going to be up there with Sally. The gang leader described her as a black woman, not very dark, but taller than me.” John looked expectantly at Sherlock.
Sherlock opened John's laptop and turned it to face him. He had the web browser opened to some sort of celebrity site. John recognized Randolph Pierson from the party and the tanned, leggy blonde on his arm. “Fashion Designer to Marry PA!” blared the headline. On the sidebar was a link to a story about the “Tragic Death of Rising Fashion Star.” Somehow, the press haven't found out that Delia was murdered. Actually, none of us mentioned the words “poison” or “cyanide” to any of the guests after she died.
“Why didn't Randolph and Elaine announce their engagement at the party?” John asked Sherlock.
“She wasn't wearing that ring, and Randolph couldn't take his eyes off of Delia. His pupils dilated when he talked to her. I think he's loved her for quite some time, months or years. Served Anderson right, really. So this... makes no sense. Randolph should be mourning, and I think he is.” Sherlock clicked on the picture, pulling up a larger version. Pierson was not smiling in his engagement photo. In fact, his face was lined and his eyes were reddened.
“If Delia had lived, she was going to serve her husband with divorce papers,” John told him. “Her solicitor brought them to Dimmock's office. They were only two days old, and she was pretty sure that Anderson didn't know about them yet.”
“Why didn't Dimmock tell me?!” shouted Sherlock.
“You decided the case wasn't interesting, remember? It gets better. Delia was going to pay Anderson off and let him take the kids and leave. There was no mention of him having an affair.”
“Where's my phone?!” Sherlock yelped. “Dammit, the battery is gone. Text Dimmock! I need a meeting with Pierson immediately.”
John texted dutifully and watched Sherlock working away at the laptop. “May I ask what you are doing to my computer?” There was no answer, but John's phone chimed a moment later. “It's Dimmock. He says 'Can't reach Pierson, but I've left a message. Will call when I hear from him.'”
Sherlock shook his head. “Bet Dimmock doesn't have his personal number.” He held out his hand. John handed it over his mobile with a sigh.
“Randolph, it's Sherlock. Elaine isn't there? Does she know where you are? Good, then stay there and don't answer if she tries to call you. We're on our way and we'll meet you there.”
Sherlock grabbed John's computer and bounded out of the flat to call a cab. John sighed and trotted upstairs to collect his highly-illegal handgun and to conceal it in the back of his waistband. “Le Coq d'Or, Canary Wharf,” Sherlock told the cabbie.
One look at the menu outside the door made John cringe. He wasn't wearing a tie or a proper jacket, for God's sake! The maitre d' didn't seem to notice, though. He led them to a table in the back where Pierson sat alone. Pierson's eyes were bloodshot, and he looked twenty years older than he had at the party.
Sherlock looked around the room carefully. “I would congratulate you on your engagement, but I don't believe that it was your idea,” Sherlock leaned on the the table, looming over the designer.
Pierson looked down at his half-finished meal. “You seem to know everything, Sherlock, you always do. But I don't think that you can get me out of this one. There are some things that you simply can't fix.”
Sherlock cocked his head to one side. “You are being blackmailed into this? How? You live a pretty quiet life for someone in fashion, and no one in the industry would really care about... just about anything that you would do.”
“It isn't me,” said Pierson, continuing to study his plate. “It's Delia. She wouldn't want... I couldn't... It wouldn't be right. It's such a mess!”
“Elaine killed Delia. What could be right about marrying her? If you do, I predict that you'll be dead within a year, and some poor innocent framed for killing you.”
Pierson finally looked up, his eyes filling with tears. “I wish I could believe it, Mr. Holmes. Elaine is certainly cruel enough. But the truth is a lot more sordid than that. She told me that Inspector Dimmock had arrested David Anderson and Sergeant Donovan for the murder, but they won't be able to get a conviction without the evidence she has. I... had her hire a private investigator a few months ago... David's been having an affair, you see, with Sergeant Donovan, and the PI got proof. Elaine has it now. But she said that if she married me, she would destroy it.
“When she showed me the PI's photos, months ago, I realized that I couldn't tell Delia. Everything's so... complicated! Delia's condition, multiple sclerosis... she's been deteriorating for years, ever since the twins... I can't really blame David for straying... and I could never bear to break Delia's heart. I think... that David must have become desperate. He's not a bad fellow! You see how devoted he is to those poor kids, and he's been as solicitous as he could with Delia. He doesn't understand her love of design any more than she... understood how he felt about police work. The cyanide... it was quick. The symptoms; the dizziness, the apnoea... she suffers from those anyway. We had no idea until it was too late.”
“How did you know she died from cyanide poisoning?” asked John.
“Well, Elaine said...”
“Anderson and Donovan couldn't have done it,” Sherlock pointed out. “They were both in other rooms, surrounded by witnesses, during the murder and for quite some time before it. Elaine knew that Delia was planning to divorce Anderson, didn't she? And that you had bought that engagement ring for Delia, the ring that you had to give Elaine.”
Pierson rubbed at his eyes, looking faintly hopeful. “But Elaine wasn't at the party! Could she have hired someone?”
“Oh, she was there, but she was outside on the street,” Sherlock assured him, “And she probably wanted us to catch a glimpse of her, but no one did. She was almost certainly wearing sunglasses and a wig.”
Sherlock set John's laptop on the table and turned it on. He opened the photo-editing program and showed Pierson the engagement photo, with a few alterations. He had drawn a new head of hair on Elaine, dark and wavy, and added a pair of sunglasses. She looked very much like a tall version of Sally Donovan. “There's a police sketch at Scotland Yard that should match this quite nicely. With the right hair and her eyes hidden, she looks just like the 'black' woman who hired a gang of toughs to smash a restaurant and draw Inspector Lestrade away from the party. If John hadn't been there, unexpectedly, Donovan would have been left without any adults' alibis.”
“That tan... that's why she worked so hard on her tan this last month.” Pierson looked like he was about to be ill. “And Donovan is so light-skinned...” He rose to his feet, trembling visibly.
“No,” said Sherlock firmly. “If you must, let your office know that you won't be back this afternoon. But stay here. If Elaine finds you here, call the police. In the meantime, I need her address.”
John offered Sherlock his phone as they left the restaurant. “Sherlock, time to call the police in.”
Sherlock waved for another cab, “We'll do that when we find something, but if Elaine's not at the office now, we are definitely too late.” John kept brandishing the phone at Sherlock as they got into the cab and Sherlock rattled off the address, but Sherlock ignored him.
It was a rather grotty building, but too close to Canary Wharf to be cheap. Fortunately, there was a resident at the door struggling with her keys, two carrier bags of groceries and an excitable small dog on a leash. Sherlock walked up, gallantly took her keys, opened the door for her, and returned them. He held the door open, smiling warmly, as she staggered through, thanking him effusively. Sherlock kept the door from closing completely. He waited until the woman's footsteps had faded before he opened it again and dove through it. John followed. There was a lift, but it was propped open and obviously out of order, so they had to climb four flights of stairs.
John protested again when Sherlock pulled out a set of pick-locks outside the door of the flat. “How is Dimmock going to be able to use any evidence in there if you break in?”
“There is no evidence in here,” Sherlock replied. “Elaine is far too clever to have left any of that stuff in the flat. No, she'll have destroyed her tools this morning, as soon as they had served their purpose. I just need a look 'round. I need to know who she is and what makes her tick.”
John groaned and leaned against the wall. Sherlock grinned as the deadbolt clicked. It took him only a second to manage the lock in the doorknob, and he used a sort of pliers to deal with the chain inside the door.
On a side table just inside the door was an envelope with the name “Sherlock Holmes” scrawled in elegant, looping letters across the front. Sherlock immediate opened it and pulled out a plain parchment card. John read over his shoulder:
“Dear Sherlock,
I regret that I missed an opportunity to really match wits with you, but a little bird told me that you were meeting Randolph for lunch at Le Coq d'Or. I knew it was over. Au revoir until next time. Don't look for me. I will find you.
Love,
Elaine.”
Sherlock smiled. “Next time it is, then,” he chuckled.
John shuddered. He thought about Delia Anderson dead on her sitting room floor, about Ahmed Pandit's bruised face, about Randolph Pierson giving in to despair. He hadn't seen Sally Donovan since she had dropped him off after the party, or David Anderson since John had sent him away to comfort his half-orphaned children. But I don't need to, he thought. And I don't need to see Elaine Connery ever again.
Sherlock suddenly tensed and he lifted the card and sniffed it. John smelled it too. That ink is fresh, very fresh. Sherlock dashed through the open door on the right. It was a bedroom and the window was open. Sherlock leaned over the ledge at the fire escape. Below it was a familiar parked car with flashing police lights visible on the dashboard. “Lestrade!” Sherlock snarled. “What's he doing here?”
“Hands in the air, gentlemen,” purred a soft contralto from behind them. John whirled around, but it was too late. Elaine emerged from her closet, aiming a gun at Sherlock. She was dressed for travelling, and very well-dressed at that, with a small satchel over her shoulder. “Just in time,” she remarked. “Into the sitting room, no sudden moves. I hope you understand that I won't hesitate to shoot.”
There were heavy, running footsteps in the hallway. Lestrade's flushed face appeared in the doorway. “Careful, Inspector,” warned Elaine, pushing John closer to Sherlock and pointing her gun at his temple. “Wouldn't want me to panic here, now would we? Put your hands up and come stand with your friends.”
Lestrade walked around the sofa. Elaine backed away from them and turned to cover him as well with her weapon. Once she was standing near the door, Lestrade said, loudly, “Don't know what you think you're doing...” and suddenly dropped to the floor behind the sofa as she aimed the weapon at him.
As Elaine fired, John fell to the floor as well, pulling Sherlock down with him. He dragged Sherlock with him to cover behind the sofa, resisting the urge to look up when he heard a shout and thumps from the door. John hissed “Stay!” at Sherlock and crawled around the sofa to find Sally Donovan handcuffing an unconscious Elaine. A baton lay at her feet, and Lestrade was already there, gingerly sliding Elaine's gun into a bag and putting on the safety through the plastic.
John felt a breath on his ear and turned his head to find Sherlock peering over his shoulder. “You called Lestrade!” Sherlock accused John.
“Yes, yes, I did. I rather wanted police backup when you went to confront her, and I knew that you didn't. So I just dialled him and and held the phone up so he could hear when you gave her address to the cabbie. Aren't you glad that I don't have Dimmock's number on here?”
“We could have been shot!” Sherlock snapped at Lestrade.
“That would be just one reason why you shouldn't have been here at all!” Lestrade retorted. “Happily, Dimmock should be hard on my heels.”
Sherlock snooped around the flat under Sally's supervision until Dimmock's small army of uniformed officers, SOCO's and detectives arrived. John woke and examined Elaine while Lestrade rattled off the usual bit about her rights. “Definitely a concussion and some bruises,” John told Dimmock's sergeant as two burly constables marched her away. The sergeant simply nodded.
Lestrade clambered to his feet and dusted off his knees. “Dimmock needs the credit for this one, so he's got to do the paperwork. Going to meet the rest of the team at Pandit's Caravanserai for a celebratory dinner. You want to come along?”
“I need to let Randolph Pierson know that he is to be spared the shackles of matrimony.” Amazing isn't it, how Sherlock manages to sound so terribly grand while he's got his nose to a mobile phone, my mobile phone, John thought. Then Oh, the hell with it, let him go be grand and fashionable at some posh restaurant with bloody Randolph Pierson, but I'm not dressed for it and I'm hungry!
“I'd be up for it, Inspector,” John said. Sherlock looked up from John's phone with a start. “Er, is Mr. Panjit's restaurant Turkish? Or Kashmiri?”
“It's Turkish when Fatima cooks; she's Turkish, you see. He mostly does curries, since he's worked in Indian restaurants for the last umpteen years. D'you like vindaloo? He's does a really good one.”
John nodded, smiling, and trotted downstairs after Sally Donovan and the inspector.
Sherlock trailed after him. “What are you doing?” he hissed in John's ear.
“It's called 'making friends', Sherlock. You should give it a try. Curry's just an added bonus!”
Sherlock glowered at him, but reluctantly got into the police car after him.