COUNTDOWN (Part III)
Part I here
“ONE”!
It was strange that there were no premonitions, portents or signs giving him some clue that this was the day it was all going to change… the day he would meet Sherlock Holmes for the first time…
He had been a Detective Sergeant for six years, when Detective Inspector Arthur Brent had been transferred to the London Headquarters of the Yard. His reputation had preceded him. There had been a long queue of hopeful applicants, wanting to join his team. Lestrade had been one of them. When he had been selected, he remembers joyfully hugging Julia, telling her how this was the best thing that had happened to his career in a long time.
He had no inkling, how right he had been.
***
When he began working with Brent, he realised that the reputation was well deserved. The man was an excellent investigator. He handled his team with an iron fist, yet commanded unwavering loyalty from each of them. At the same time, he was never bogged down by the administrative side of the job. He never lost patience, whether it was with a sobbing witness, a nosy reporter or an overbearing superior Officer.
So it was with great surprise, when three months into working with the man, Lestrade saw him lose it completely.
There had been a murder. Lestrade hadn’t known the details as he had been late to work that day, what with Julia’s missed period, the pregnancy test being negative, and her finding out just as he was about to step out of the house in the morning. She had been inconsolable. He sighed as he drove directly to the crime-scene address, willing her tearful face out of his mind. Brent demanded that they leave their problems at home, while coming to work. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. He parked just beyond the yellow tape, blocking off the street, at the back-alley of the restaurant.
He got out of his car, to be assaulted by a strange sight. At the edge of the tape, Detective Inspector Brent was holding someone singlehandedly by the collar and shouting, while shaking the man vigorously.
“GODDAMNED SNOOP, if I catch you messing around my crime-scene one more time, you will seriously regret it… do you understand?”
Lestrade rushed in to placate his Superior. Whoever the bloke was, he wasn’t actively trying to hurt Brent; hell he wasn’t even trying to defend himself.
Manhandling a civilian was plain wrong and not just for the bad publicity. He reached his Boss’s side to place a calming hand on his shoulder. “Sir, I think that’s enough.” His voice was firm. “You should let him go now.”
With the hand on his shoulder, Brent’s unhinged look seemed to dissipate a bit. He still gave the man one last shaking, before throwing him outright, to sprawl on the street. He spat at the now prone figure, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away.”
Lestrade spared the dark haired, pale man in a suit one glance to confirm he was alright, before turning to Brent. “Sir, are you sure you are okay?” he needed to ask the question, because the man still looked a little wild.
“Fine…I’m fine…get back to work”, he snapped.
The stranger had picked himself up, dusting himself off perfunctorily, before saying loudly in an unruffled baritone, “You and your little helpers working so assiduously in there are going to come to the wrong conclusion as usual. Danny Cootes isn’t the murderer, Brent. I know I’m right; and so will you, if you choose to exercise your neurons, a little more than usual.”
Lestrade was looking at the man as though he was mental; before he realised that Brent was moving to attack him again. He held fast to his boss as he ordered the other, “Go…just get out!”
The man looked at him assessing, then smirked as he left.
By the time they had returned to the restaurant kitchen, Brent was back to his old self, reprimanding him for his lateness. Lestrade meekly apologised as he went to work, gathering the reins of the investigation.
The victim was a 43 year old Paul Jones, head-chef of the establishment. His body had been found by the early morning staff, with a paring knife sticking out of it's back; stuck into the walk-in freezer. The wound hadn’t been immediately fatal. The man had slowly bled out, while struggling against the door of the freezer, a large puddle of his frozen blood, now thawing on the floor. There were no signs of a break-in. Forensics gave a tentative time of death. There were hundreds of prints everywhere.
The entire restaurant staff had been assembled in the dining room, for questioning.
Then began the usual gamut of questions. “Where were you between 2.00 and 2.30 a.m. yesterday night?” Of course they had been sound asleep in their respective beds. How was Paul Jones as a Boss/employee? He was a good man, by popular opinion. He had to be, to be in-charge of a kitchen in Central London. Then came the third important question , “Do you know, if he had any enemies or anyone with a grudge?”
“Danny”, chirped the youngest dishwasher promptly. “ ‘e was shagging ‘is daughter. Boss found out only coupla days back…”
“I wouldn’t like to name names”, said the Manager diplomatically. “But we were going to ask them to reach an amicable solution. Daniel Cootes is a talented sou-chef, and Paul fired him without notice, for personal reasons. That’s against Management Policy, and Danny complained about it. Let’s just say that there was no love lost between the two.”
It was Sandra, the 55 year old, matronly Chef de Partie, who was the most informative. “They had a major fight in the kitchen day before yesterday, when Paul fired Danny. He hadn’t known that Danny and Evie were an item, before then. There had been words, and a little roughing up. But hell, this is a busy kitchen. For us, that sort of a thing is a usual Saturday night. We thought Paul didn’t mean it. It would blow over, once he cooled off.”
“Paul didn’t mean what, exactly?”
“I believe his exact words were, ‘Get the hell out of my kitchen, and if I see you near my daughter again, I’ll chop your balls off’.
As Lestrade began scribbling, she added hastily, “But as I said, that was usual pissed-off-Paul talk for the kitchen.”
By the time Lestrade finished with the interviews, Forensics had wrapped up. He stood outside with Brent, comparing notes.
“So what do you think, Greg?”
“Well Sir, I have to say that Daniel Cootes seems to be our prime suspect for the time-being.”
Brent sensed the hesitation in his voice. “But?”
Lestrade didn’t want to admit that the suited stranger was the main reason he doubted the available evidence. The crime was sloppy enough to have been committed by a first-timer, in the heat of the moment. He settled for the nearest reason. “It just…seems too obvious, Sir.”
“Hmm…” Brent muttered looking off into the distance. “But we can’t ignore the evidence, can we? Get back to the Yard. I need to know, if Cootes has a record. Trace his licence plate. I think I’ll pay him a home visit. Keep me updated on forensics.”
“Yes Sir”, said Lestrade, as he turned to head back to his car.
“And Greg, you are not to talk to anyone about this case…anyone…did I make myself clear?”
“Of course, Sir.”
As he fished around his pocket for the car keys, his phone buzzed. It was Julia. “Hello Greg, I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Burns on Regent Street, at 7 today evening. It was very difficult to get, but luckily the receptionist turned out to be an old school friend. I need you there with me.”
Lestrade yanked the door open and slid inside. “Honey, I know I promised, but there’s been a homicide. You know how it is.”
There was a studied silence on the line. His shoulders slumped. “Alright, I’ll try. Dr.Burns…Regent Street…7 p.m. I’ll be there.”
He gave another sigh as he tossed the phone in the seat beside him, before he started the car and pulled out onto the road. He was well on his way to the Yard, when a deep baritone sounded behind him. “Aren’t we off to pick Danny Cootes for questioning?”
“FUCK!” Lestrade yelled, as he abruptly slammed the brakes on his car, making the tyres skid. Fortunately, there had been no one immediately behind, to dash into him. His heart thudding painfully against his ribs, he whirled on the man in the back seat. It was the stranger from the crime-scene.
“How the fuck did you get into my car?”
“Really Sergeant, that’s the question you want to ask me? Oh well, it’s obvious isn’t it? I jimmied your window. Not exactly Fort Knox…”
Lestrade was looking at him properly for the first time. What struck him first, were the eyes; quicksilver with a dollop of blue and a hint of green, looking at him in a way that made him feel like he could hide nothing from them. Jet black curly hair fell over an alabaster forehead, and sharp cheekbones arched over lips curled in a sneer. The upturned coat collar and posh accent completed the haughty picture.
Before Lestrade could open his mouth, the man was talking again. “I know exactly what you’re going to say, so let me just save us some time. No, I’m not getting out of the car. Yes, you may arrest me, if you still wish to; by the time we reach the Yard. Yes, I know that you are not going to share any crime-scene details with me. I am not a journalist. Now, with that out of the way, how about I talk and you listen.”
Lestrade snapped his open mouth shut and re-started the car, one eye on the central mirror. The sharp eyes were not looking at him, but staring straight ahead, unseeing.
“Here’s what you know. Danny Cootes, Sou-Chef with a grudge against Paul; with a very recent and public row with the victim, under his belt. What Forensics will tell you is that Paul died as a result of hypothermia and blood-loss. The paring knife will turn out to have both their prints, which proves nothing. Both of them had keys to the kitchen and the freezer, so no need of a break-in. Now the curious parts: there were no signs of a struggle. No pots and pans overturned. The victim knew the murderer; trusted him enough to walk into the freezer with him, where the murderer caught him unawares, stabbed him in the back, and left him there to die.”
“I’m not done yet”, he retorted, as Lestrade tried to speak again. “Now for the things you don’t know… Paul Jones had a long-standing gambling habit. Recently, he got mixed up with a wrong crowd. He was losing badly. He was a co-owner of the restaurant until six months back; when he sold his stake in it. His family never saw the money. And the second most important thing, Paul and Brent were well acquainted.”
Lestrade forgot to keep quiet, “Detective Inspector Brent?”
“Do we both know any other? Try to keep up; I hate repeating myself.”
That might explain Brent’s strange behaviour in the morning, Lestrade thought.
“Of course, that explains his behaviour”, the man snorted, startling Lestrade. “But not in the grief-stricken way, you are thinking. They were both gambling buddies. Every second Tuesday of the month, they patronised an illegal, high stakes poker game in Chinatown.”
It was Lestrade’s turn to snort. “Brent…gambling illegally…right! No wonder, he almost walloped you.”
The stranger suddenly snapped out of his reverie, as though noticing Lestrade’s existence. “Hero-worship…how quaint! Tell me Sergeant, have you noticed Inspector Brent’s shoes?”
“Shoes! Why the hell would I?”
“You wouldn’t. They are genuine Berluti loafers. The watch on his hand is a limited edition Tag Heur. Do you have any idea, just how much those shoes cost?”
“They could be a gift.”
“The watch, maybe, but who gifts hand-crafted shoes?”
Lestrade realised that his voice had become defensive. “Arthur Brent is a veteran, with an exemplary record.”
“Here’s some news for you Sergeant…heroes don’t exist. Just some individuals who happen to make the right choice, and are benefitted by the expediency of the moment. I’m not contradicting your assessment. Brent may have been an upstanding Officer. The gambling is definitely recent; shoes are less than a year old. He started with winning, people usually do. But, they let him win big. Why would they do that? Not as Brent has deep pockets, because he doesn’t. Obviously, because of his position in the Yard. Now, he is associated with them; and these are some serious people. Brent has a debt to pay, a reputation to uphold, young, naïve underlings to impress; he has a lot to lose.”
“All this based on your assumption that Brent gambles.”
“Aargh! It’s not an assumption. Day before yesterday was the second Tuesday of this month. I was tailing Jones, the last two days. He picked Brent at his apartment and they both drove together to Chinatown. Also the patrons have a tattoo, in the shape of a sun, where it can be displayed at the entrance to the den. The victim had it on his left ankle. Your favourite Inspector has it on his upper chest, below his left clavicle. I happened to catch a glimpse of it in our scuffle today.”
Lestrade had had enough. “Who the hell are you and why are you doing this? Is Cootes a friend?”
“What?” He appeared nonplussed. “Cootes is a client…or rather Evie Jones is. It was a rather boring investigation into finding out how and why Paul was losing money, and slowly becoming paranoid. His murderer made things interesting.” He looked away as he added, “I don’t have friends.”
“So you’re a private detective?”
“He wrinkled his nose at the description, looking all of twelve years old. “Sort of.”
“If you were following Paul around, where were you yesterday when someone decided to kill him?”
He stiffened suddenly, and Lestrade knew he had touched a sore spot. “I didn’t anticipate this development. Paul was losing money, but he wasn’t bankrupt. He owned a summer-house, which he could have sold. Killing him, when they could milk more out of him, was pointless and stupid. In any case when Paul turned in for the night yesterday, at twelve, I left. I had collected all the data that I needed on his illicit activities. As far as I was concerned, my job was done.”
He sniffed, “Then today morning, I got a call from the daughter, that Paul was missing from his home. The first place I checked was the restaurant. The corpse had just been discovered. I got a chance to examine the crime scene, before you lot arrived to stomp around in it.”
“They let you in, to examine the body.”
“Please! Only the half-witted cleaning crew had been present. Not a difficult job, to fool them into thinking I was official.”
“No wonder Brent was mad!”
“He is covering up for his gambling Bosses. He is going to build a false case against…Oh!” , he suddenly gasped as though, he had been slapped.
“Oh…that’s clever…reeeally clever!”
Lestrade parked and turned around to face him fully. “What?”
He exhaled, “Brent killed Cootes.”
“Now that’s bollocks!”
“No! Shush… just THINK! If it was a professional hit, Paul would have been killed on the road, in an alley; even at the den itself, two days back. But this wasn’t about Paul at all. This was about getting their claws into Brent. They ordered him to kill Paul. Paul and Brent were sort-of friends. Paul had been furious about his daughter’s involvement with Danny. I bet he ranted about it, when they met, two days back. Brent knew about the falling-out, and also knew Paul enough to catch him unawares. He fits the bill, don’t you see?”
Lestrade tried to be calm. “All I see is an anaemic lunatic with an over-fertile imagination. For starters, I am yet to hear the iron-clad reason, why Daniel Cootes couldn’t possibly have committed this murder.”
“As you must have already determined, the time of death was between 2.00 and 3.00 am, yesterday night. Danny was nowhere near the restaurant at that time.”
“And how do you know that?”
He looked at Lestrade appraisingly, and then shrugged. “It’s not important.”
“Right!” Lestrade said sarcastically. You sit there, spin stories out of thin air and insult my superior Officer without a whit of evidence to back you up. Look, Brent maybe a slave-driver; hell, could even be a gambler. This job can do that to you. But he is not a murderer. You don’t know Brent. You don’t know me. And I don’t know you from Adam. Why the hell should I trust you?”
“Speak for yourself!” He shot back, and started speaking rapidly without a pause. “Here’s what I know about you…you are Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, 37 years old. You have been happily married since ten years to a five feet seven inch tall brunette. You don’t have any children though. Your parents died when you were very young, in a car-accident. You were either adopted or brought up in foster-care, but you chose to retain the name of your birth-parents. You had a rebellious youth; were probably a part of a motorcycle gang…no criminal activities though. You would prefer riding a bike to a car even today, but your incipient cervical spondylosis has forced you to adjust. You are a chronic smoker, at least two packs a day, sometimes three...you have a strong moral code, ingrained protective instincts. You have a trusting nature, and are honest and straightforward to a fault.” His tone made the last bit sound like a rap sheet, but Lestrade was too impressed to care…
“That was …how the hell…?”
The man rolled his eyes. “See! I don’t imagine. I observe and deduce… That’s what I do.”
“But how?”
Lestrade will never forget, what came next…
“Fine…if you are not going to let it go… I got your name off the parking-ticket stuffed in the dashboard. Your ring tells me the state and the age of your marriage; ten years old and polished regularly. I picked a long black hair off your shoulder, which has to belong to your wife, firstly because I noticed it when you had just arrived and secondly because, the only black-haired female on your team is a bottle-brunette; while this hair is naturally black.”
Here he took a second’s pause to wave his blackberry screen in Lestrade’s face. “Dr. Claire Burns, Regent Street is a renowned expert on infertility treatments, so no kids. You should reconsider the smoking, which I figured out from the number of packets you are currently carrying; one in the front coat of your pocket, and one in your trouser pocket, both of which I saw at different times. You have a photo in uniform with your parents, stuck to your dash, which is probably that of your first day at work. Your parents are much too young to be your birth-parents; besides the fact that both are blue eyed. I know you kept your name because….” And here he whipped out the phone again, “Frank and Dorothy Lestrade expired in a freak car accident in the winter of 1980, and are survived by one son”, he recited. He paused for a breath, impatient to finish.
“I know about your teenage walk on the wild side, from the tattoo you had on the back of your right palm, but which you got surgically covered up before you joined the Met… you also had an ear-piercing on the right side, which closed over, but a faint scar can be seen, especially at the back. I know you love riding a motorcycle, from your posture and the way you are clutching the steering wheel. You don’t have a criminal record, because I am not aware of a 'Lestrade' having one, and I have catalogued all juvenile offenders over the last twenty years. A necessary ordeal, as those records get sealed and the really interesting criminals start young!”
“As to your character sketch, you had no reason to prevent Brent from roughing me up today morning, but you still chose to risk incurring the wrath of your boss on my behalf, when you didn’t even know me; so strong moral principles, and a rigid sense of right and wrong. The rigidity can be determined by the parking-ticket…you’re a cop, and you still accepted and paid for illegal parking. This also tells me that you won’t be able to stand by and let an innocent man go to prison for murder, which is why I’m sitting in the backseat of your car.”
Lestrade could do nothing but stare at the man, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy fish.
“And of course before I forget, my name is Sherlock Holmes; pleased to make your acquaintance”, his smile was all teeth and completely weird.
“That was…brilliant!” Lestrade finally managed. “A bit spooky and creepy, but brilliant all the same. So Mr. Holmes, that your real name?”
He rolled his eyes. “Shall we just say that there is a teensy possibility that my deduction regarding Brent is correct? That is actually what I’m fishing for, while wasting my time telling you things about yourself, which you already know.”
Lestrade sighed, “Even if I were to be convinced, which I’m not, there isn’t a shred of proof connecting Brent to the crime; hell even connecting Brent to Paul.”
Sherlock’s tone was challenging, “You do not have any damning evidence against Danny either.”
“There’s circumstantial evidence, enough to bring him in for questioning.”
“Very thoughtful of Brent”, breathed Sherlock, his tone filled with admiration. “What happens with Danny is immaterial. Whether he’s caught, whether he goes to trial, whether this becomes a cold case consigned to your files, it doesn’t make any difference. He’s just a pawn, so that everyone will look the other way, and Paul’s illegal activities, even if uncovered, won’t matter; not with such a tailor-made suspect occupying your attention. Think about it, he could have planted evidence, over-stepped…but no, just the right amount of false scent... this was done with finesse…”
Lestrade looked at his watch. They must be wondering where he had got to. Yet something made him hold his tongue, when he saw Sherlock sitting with his eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin, as if in prayer and muttering to himself. Just as he finally decided to interrupt, those unearthly eyes snapped open. “Nothing for it…will have to risk it….”, he said loudly to himself, before turning to Lestrade.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
It was after he had handed his phone over without missing a beat that it occurred to him that he had neither objected, nor asked why.
But Sherlock only glanced through it, before handing it back. Then he whipped out his own blackberry, fingers flying across the keys with the unmistakeable sounds of typing and a message being sent.
When he was done, he flipped the phone around, so the screen was inches from Lestrade’s nose. “What do you think?”
Lestrade read the sent message displayed on the screen.
FANCY A GAME OF POKER?
PITY PAUL JONES IS OUT OF ACTION.
TONIGHT, 12 P.M. REGENT’S PARK.
His eyes flicked to the sent number. It was Brent’s…
For a moment, he just stared at Sherlock who had a expectant look on his face. “Are you cra…”
His rant was interrupted, before it could start by the chime of an incoming message. Sherlock checked the message, and grinned triumphantly, before showing it to Lestrade.
LOOKING FORWARD TO THE GAME.
The message was unsigned, and the sent number was unknown. But Lestrade had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he saw the man he had put on a pedestal, tear himself down with one line.
Sherlock didn’t seem to notice his distress. “Thank you, Sergeant. It was very stimulating, talking to you. If it is any consolation, you do know for sure, who the murderer is! You will have your proof by tomorrow.” He moved to leave the car, when Lestrade snapped out of his reverie.
“Where the hell do think you are going off to? What you have planned is incredibly dangerous. You are going to need help tonight.”
Sherlock regarded Lestrade as though he was a particularly slow child. “Firstly, I can manage on my own. Secondly, you cannot officially liaise with me, when the Chief investigative officer is the primary suspect. If you help me unofficially, even if everything goes according to plan and Brent is exposed; when your involvement comes to light, all of your higher-ups may not take it favourably. Everyone has skeletons in their closet. Oh sure, they will clap your back in front of you, but whisper behind it. You have been a Sergeant for too long now”, he gestured towards the photograph. “This might backfire on your career plans. You just don’t see it right now.”
Lestrade stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. “What has that got to do with anything? If you are right, Brent killed a man in cold blood with pre-meditated planning so another would get the blame. He is likely to be armed and desperate. You wanna give him a chance for an encore. And in any case, if you didn’t want my interference, you should'nt have shown me the time and place of your meeting, now should you?”
Sherlock was looking at him as though he had just noticed him, which was both a bit insulting and a bit flattering. “Fine…” he conceded. “You are right. I can’t stop you, if you want to come.”
“See you tonight, then.” Lestrade said with a weak grin.
***
At 9.30 p.m. as pre-decided, Lestrade reached Regent Park. He was having serious misgivings. He had avoided Brent all day, facing him only to submit the Forensic reports. If he was the murderer, he was a fantastic actor as well, as there was no change in his behaviour or demeanor all day. Cootes had been found at his apartment, by Brent. He denied having committed the murder, and had spoken only with his lawyer present. He gave the same alibi as others at the restaurant, which could not be verified as he lived alone.
Time and again, Lestrade found his mind drifting to the brilliant young man. How he had picked his life story apart with only a name and a photo to go on… Now as he walked into the park, the Service revolver he had officially signed out from the armoury, snug against his hip; he wondered at his motivations behind helping a man he had met twelve hours before…a man who had definitely not been completely forthcoming with him either…he squared his shoulders, as he spotted the tall figure in the distance. This was not a time for misgivings. They had a murderer to catch.
Sherlock handed him a small earpiece, in a manner of greeting. “You are late!”
“Well, you know about the doctor’s appointment, right? My wife was…”
“Dull!” Sherlock interrupted pointedly. “We don’t have much time. You will stay behind that spruce tree. You will have a good vantage point, as well as hear everything that happens.”
Lestrade inserted the earpiece in his ear as he nodded.
“Now Sergeant, this is very important. You don’t come out, until we have a confession on tape. No…you need to be clear about this. This is our only chance, and we can’t afford to blow it. You stay under cover, until he confesses…no matter what happens.”
“What if he just turns up and shoots you in the head?”
“All the more reason to remain hidden, as you will be the only witness to my murder. Besides it will be too late for me, anyways…”
He wasn’t kidding, Lestrade realised. He seriously didn’t care, as if it were no big deal, if he were to drop off the face of the earth in the next ten minutes.
Looking at Lestrade’s expression, he hastened to add, “I do not expect anything like that, in any case. He will prefer not to use his weapon. He will have to report weapons discharge at the Met. But he may have some other trick up his sleeve. You will be tempted to interfere…Don’t! Stay hidden!”
Without further ado they took their positions silently.
It wasn’t long before the tall, built figure of Brent sauntered into view. In the half-light Sherlock looked even scrawnier in comparison.
He nodded in greeting, and his voice floated through the earpiece, “Good evening, Inspector.” God, his voice was arrogant!
Brent’s answering voice was hard, “I knew it would be you. Told you to keep your fucking nose out of my business.”
“I know everything…”
“Your word against that of a respected Yard Detective. It doesn’t matter.”
“I have proof. I have video proof of you getting into Brent’s car this Tuesday and driving to Chinatown. What will happen if I were to post it anonymously to your higher-ups in the Met? Nothing much, probably. An enquiry over a fuzzy video that goes nowhere. But you will be discredited, under suspicion. A tainted cop is not of much use to your gambling Bosses. Rather, you will become a liability. I bet, they take you down first.”
“You little…”, the rest of the words drowned in static, as Brent darted forward. There was a solid thunk on the microphone, just before Lestrade saw Sherlock collapse to the ground, in a heap. In the next instant, Brent was behind his kneeling form, using his own scarf to strangle him.
“No!” Sherlock yelled hoarsely, just as Lestrade was about to rush out, instructions be damned; and he knew it was meant for him. Brent’s voice came over the microphone again and Lestrade hesitated, “Who else did you tell? Did you tell anyone about this?” Sherlock was scrabbling at his neck with both hands. Brent shook him like a rag doll. “Answer me, you twerp…”
“No one…nobody else…” Sherlock choked out. Brent finally released him, and he crumpled gasping on the ground.”
The next instant, the distant streetlight glinted off something between Brent’s fingers, and Lestrade forgot to wait as he ran out screaming bloody murder. “BRENT…NO! STOP!”
Brent stilled as he came into view. Lestrade hadn’t even realised that he had drawn his gun, which was now squarely trained on his boss.
“Greg, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” He stepped back from Sherlock. Lestrade’s gaze swept over his hands, but they were empty.
Sherlock wasn’t moving. He bent down to check on him, but he seemed to be out cold; a large bruise blooming on his temple. Brent had pistol-whipped him.
Brent started laughing.
“Oh don’t tell me, he got you, got you with some cock and bull story.” His voice took on a dangerous edge. “Do you know what you’re doing Greg, pointing a gun at me?”
Lestrade didn’t lower the gun. “Sir, I am going to have to ask you to empty your pockets…no sudden movements.”
He advanced on Lestrade, who took a step back reflexively. “You’re wearing an ear-piece.”
“Yes, I heard every word. I also know about you and Paul Jones and your little hobby.”
“Did you also hear how he was blackmailing me?” Brent’s voice was incredulous. “Jesus Greg! I can’t believe, you fell for what this little piece of shit told you. Did he tell you about his buddy? Did he tell you how he was investigating Paul as a favour to Cootes?”
“As a matter of fact, he did.”
Brent faltered for a second but continued. “And did he tell you why he was doing this for him?”
Lestrade tensed visibly, but his voice stayed firm. “He’s a P.I. That’s his job.”
This time Brent’s laugh was actually hilarious. “Oh, that’s precious!” He bent down to Sherlock’s prone form showing his empty hands to Lestrade as he did so, turning him over and yanking up his sleeves. Both of Sherlock’s inner arms were dotted with familiar track marks.
Lestrade had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he took a step back, the hand with the gun dropping to his side. Brent smirked, “Good, do you get the picture now? He’s a no good junkie, and Daniel Cootes moonlighted as a drug peddler. Bet he didn’t tell you that either. Paul had turned a blind eye to his extra-curricular activities, as he was good at his job. But when he got involved with his daughter, Paul threatened to turn him in. That’s why Cootes killed him, probably in the heat of the moment; then asked Holmes to cover up for him. And you believed him; an addict, who will do anything for his next hit…good job, Sergeant!”
Even now Lestrade wanted nothing more than to believe Brent; which made him hesitate, before his thoughts asserted themselves. He understood why Sherlock had been less than honest with him, as all the pieces fell into place. This time he raised his weapon resolutely. “Let’s just talk about you, Sir shall we? If you knew all this, why didn’t you confide it to the team? Why did you agree to meet Sherlock here, instead of arresting him and dragging him down to the Met? If he is lying, why were you trying to kill him? If you are innocent, you have nothing to worry about. Step away from him, and we can interrogate them both at the Yard.”
Lestrade had taken a gamble.
Suddenly, without warning Sherlock lunged towards Brent like a snake. Before Lestrade could appreciate what was happening, something fell across the cobblestones, just as Brent aimed a vicious kick to Sherlock's middle, making him double up on himself and crumple to the ground wheezing again.
On the ground between them was a pre-filled, capped hypodermic syringe!
Brent moved to kick it away, but froze as Lestrade moved his gun-hand to him. “Give me a reason…Hand over any weapons that you are carrying, right now.”
Sherlock gave a hollow laugh, his glittering eyes fixed on Brent. “A paring knife in the freezer for Paul; to frame Danny; and a drug overdose to kill me. No one would look twice at the body of an overdosed junkie lying in the park, or so you thought. You would never have got away with my murder, Brent. But I do admire the logical thought process... In any case, you are absolutely wasted as a cop.”
Brent threw himself on Sherlock with an inarticulate cry.
Lestrade didn’t hesitate as he pulled the trigger and shot Brent through the leg.
***
The park was a crime scene. The first ambulance on the scene had taken Brent away. The bullet had gone clean through without much damage, but he had been bleeding. Lestrade finished briefing the team and the other D.I. who had taken charge of the scene, after which he finally found time to walk up to Sherlock. He was sitting on a sidewalk bench, holding a cold compress (probably given to him by the paramedics) to the side of his face and wincing. He fixed Lestrade with overlarge eyes as he approached.
“Here, drink some water. It’ll help…and I’ll do that…”, he said taking the compress and applying it with greater pressure.
"Ow", he winced. Jesus, he was just a kid, Lestrade thought.
His eyes were staring again, as though wishing to dissect Lestrade with them. As Lestrade held his gaze, he dropped his eyes to his hands, which were splayed open on his lap.
“He was right, you know.”
“About the drug use?” Lestrade said dryly. “I may not have your superior powers of observation, but I figured as much.”
“No…yes…about that and everything else. Danny is my drug dealer. He promised me the next batch for free, if I could dig up some incriminating information on Paul. I only agreed to do it, as I was low on funds, and it was an easy way to get drugs.”
“Pity, that deal’s ruined.” Lestrade’s voice was sarcastic. “Wait a minute, he didn’t ask you to solve the murder…he couldn’t have. He didn’t know a thing, when Brent brought him in today.”
Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “I didn’t need an incentive for solving the murder. It was interesting enough.” He didn’t look up. “I thought, if I told you…” He faltered and took a deep breath. “I should have told you…”
“You mean, you should have trusted me; the way I trusted you, and shot my Boss.”
“Danny didn’t commit the murder.”
“Because, yesterday at the time of the murder, he was with you exchanging drugs, for the dirt you had collected on Paul. Yup, I figured out that part too.”
The silence stretched to minutes.
“Why drugs?” Lestrade finally bit out the foremost thought in his head.
He could see that the retort ‘none of your business’ was at the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but when he looked up at Lestrade’s face, he hesitated before speaking.
“It’s like... there’s a monster inside my head. It needs food for thought, or it gets bored. I’m not an idiot, but everytime I get clean the boredom sneaks back and drives it berserk, until it’s clawing on the inside of my skull. The drugs…numb it for sometime…” He looked away again. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I think I do.” Lestrade said, remembering the sparkling eyes, which had been so alive in his car, even while deducing his boring history. the same eyes, which now looked forlorn and scarily empty. “How about, if I’m still a cop by the time this fiasco’s wrapped up, I’ll try and convince my new Inspector, to call you in to help... unofficially…give you food for thought…You would have to be clean though.”
Sherlock looked dumbstruck for a moment, just as Lestrade’s phone buzzed.
“Sergeant Lestrade, this is Gregson.”
“Sir”, Lestrade muttered as he moved away to take the call.
“Haul your arse down here, Brent confessed to the murder; wants to go State’s evidence against the crime-ring. His lawyer’s here already, haggling over the terms. You did good…will let the Commissioner know tomorrow, when this blows in our faces. But you need to get here pronto; need a detailed recorded statement from you.”
Lestrade smiled as he walked back to Sherlock. “I have to leave now. Brent confessed to the murder. You scared him into turning into a Government witness.” His voice became stern. “Danny will also go to prison for possession and dealing.”
Sherlock regarded Lestrade with a half grin. “Can’t argue with that honest streak, can I?” He stood up and held out his hand, which Lestrade shook with a smile on his face too. “It wasn’t wholly disagreeable working with you, Sergeant.”
“The name’s Greg.”
Sherlock shook his head slightly. “Too many Gregs in the phone-book. I think I will stick with Lestrade. It’s different.”
Lestrade reddened. “And why do you think my name needs to be different?”
Sherlock regarded him with a piercing gaze. “Well, there are many reasons; the most important one being … you believed me.”
Yes, he did; Lestrade realized as he watched Sherlock walk away, not knowing that his life had irrevocably changed forever…
Next part
“ONE”!
It was strange that there were no premonitions, portents or signs giving him some clue that this was the day it was all going to change… the day he would meet Sherlock Holmes for the first time…
He had been a Detective Sergeant for six years, when Detective Inspector Arthur Brent had been transferred to the London Headquarters of the Yard. His reputation had preceded him. There had been a long queue of hopeful applicants, wanting to join his team. Lestrade had been one of them. When he had been selected, he remembers joyfully hugging Julia, telling her how this was the best thing that had happened to his career in a long time.
He had no inkling, how right he had been.
***
When he began working with Brent, he realised that the reputation was well deserved. The man was an excellent investigator. He handled his team with an iron fist, yet commanded unwavering loyalty from each of them. At the same time, he was never bogged down by the administrative side of the job. He never lost patience, whether it was with a sobbing witness, a nosy reporter or an overbearing superior Officer.
So it was with great surprise, when three months into working with the man, Lestrade saw him lose it completely.
There had been a murder. Lestrade hadn’t known the details as he had been late to work that day, what with Julia’s missed period, the pregnancy test being negative, and her finding out just as he was about to step out of the house in the morning. She had been inconsolable. He sighed as he drove directly to the crime-scene address, willing her tearful face out of his mind. Brent demanded that they leave their problems at home, while coming to work. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. He parked just beyond the yellow tape, blocking off the street, at the back-alley of the restaurant.
He got out of his car, to be assaulted by a strange sight. At the edge of the tape, Detective Inspector Brent was holding someone singlehandedly by the collar and shouting, while shaking the man vigorously.
“GODDAMNED SNOOP, if I catch you messing around my crime-scene one more time, you will seriously regret it… do you understand?”
Lestrade rushed in to placate his Superior. Whoever the bloke was, he wasn’t actively trying to hurt Brent; hell he wasn’t even trying to defend himself.
Manhandling a civilian was plain wrong and not just for the bad publicity. He reached his Boss’s side to place a calming hand on his shoulder. “Sir, I think that’s enough.” His voice was firm. “You should let him go now.”
With the hand on his shoulder, Brent’s unhinged look seemed to dissipate a bit. He still gave the man one last shaking, before throwing him outright, to sprawl on the street. He spat at the now prone figure, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away.”
Lestrade spared the dark haired, pale man in a suit one glance to confirm he was alright, before turning to Brent. “Sir, are you sure you are okay?” he needed to ask the question, because the man still looked a little wild.
“Fine…I’m fine…get back to work”, he snapped.
The stranger had picked himself up, dusting himself off perfunctorily, before saying loudly in an unruffled baritone, “You and your little helpers working so assiduously in there are going to come to the wrong conclusion as usual. Danny Cootes isn’t the murderer, Brent. I know I’m right; and so will you, if you choose to exercise your neurons, a little more than usual.”
Lestrade was looking at the man as though he was mental; before he realised that Brent was moving to attack him again. He held fast to his boss as he ordered the other, “Go…just get out!”
The man looked at him assessing, then smirked as he left.
By the time they had returned to the restaurant kitchen, Brent was back to his old self, reprimanding him for his lateness. Lestrade meekly apologised as he went to work, gathering the reins of the investigation.
The victim was a 43 year old Paul Jones, head-chef of the establishment. His body had been found by the early morning staff, with a paring knife sticking out of it's back; stuck into the walk-in freezer. The wound hadn’t been immediately fatal. The man had slowly bled out, while struggling against the door of the freezer, a large puddle of his frozen blood, now thawing on the floor. There were no signs of a break-in. Forensics gave a tentative time of death. There were hundreds of prints everywhere.
The entire restaurant staff had been assembled in the dining room, for questioning.
Then began the usual gamut of questions. “Where were you between 2.00 and 2.30 a.m. yesterday night?” Of course they had been sound asleep in their respective beds. How was Paul Jones as a Boss/employee? He was a good man, by popular opinion. He had to be, to be in-charge of a kitchen in Central London. Then came the third important question , “Do you know, if he had any enemies or anyone with a grudge?”
“Danny”, chirped the youngest dishwasher promptly. “ ‘e was shagging ‘is daughter. Boss found out only coupla days back…”
“I wouldn’t like to name names”, said the Manager diplomatically. “But we were going to ask them to reach an amicable solution. Daniel Cootes is a talented sou-chef, and Paul fired him without notice, for personal reasons. That’s against Management Policy, and Danny complained about it. Let’s just say that there was no love lost between the two.”
It was Sandra, the 55 year old, matronly Chef de Partie, who was the most informative. “They had a major fight in the kitchen day before yesterday, when Paul fired Danny. He hadn’t known that Danny and Evie were an item, before then. There had been words, and a little roughing up. But hell, this is a busy kitchen. For us, that sort of a thing is a usual Saturday night. We thought Paul didn’t mean it. It would blow over, once he cooled off.”
“Paul didn’t mean what, exactly?”
“I believe his exact words were, ‘Get the hell out of my kitchen, and if I see you near my daughter again, I’ll chop your balls off’.
As Lestrade began scribbling, she added hastily, “But as I said, that was usual pissed-off-Paul talk for the kitchen.”
By the time Lestrade finished with the interviews, Forensics had wrapped up. He stood outside with Brent, comparing notes.
“So what do you think, Greg?”
“Well Sir, I have to say that Daniel Cootes seems to be our prime suspect for the time-being.”
Brent sensed the hesitation in his voice. “But?”
Lestrade didn’t want to admit that the suited stranger was the main reason he doubted the available evidence. The crime was sloppy enough to have been committed by a first-timer, in the heat of the moment. He settled for the nearest reason. “It just…seems too obvious, Sir.”
“Hmm…” Brent muttered looking off into the distance. “But we can’t ignore the evidence, can we? Get back to the Yard. I need to know, if Cootes has a record. Trace his licence plate. I think I’ll pay him a home visit. Keep me updated on forensics.”
“Yes Sir”, said Lestrade, as he turned to head back to his car.
“And Greg, you are not to talk to anyone about this case…anyone…did I make myself clear?”
“Of course, Sir.”
As he fished around his pocket for the car keys, his phone buzzed. It was Julia. “Hello Greg, I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Burns on Regent Street, at 7 today evening. It was very difficult to get, but luckily the receptionist turned out to be an old school friend. I need you there with me.”
Lestrade yanked the door open and slid inside. “Honey, I know I promised, but there’s been a homicide. You know how it is.”
There was a studied silence on the line. His shoulders slumped. “Alright, I’ll try. Dr.Burns…Regent Street…7 p.m. I’ll be there.”
He gave another sigh as he tossed the phone in the seat beside him, before he started the car and pulled out onto the road. He was well on his way to the Yard, when a deep baritone sounded behind him. “Aren’t we off to pick Danny Cootes for questioning?”
“FUCK!” Lestrade yelled, as he abruptly slammed the brakes on his car, making the tyres skid. Fortunately, there had been no one immediately behind, to dash into him. His heart thudding painfully against his ribs, he whirled on the man in the back seat. It was the stranger from the crime-scene.
“How the fuck did you get into my car?”
“Really Sergeant, that’s the question you want to ask me? Oh well, it’s obvious isn’t it? I jimmied your window. Not exactly Fort Knox…”
Lestrade was looking at him properly for the first time. What struck him first, were the eyes; quicksilver with a dollop of blue and a hint of green, looking at him in a way that made him feel like he could hide nothing from them. Jet black curly hair fell over an alabaster forehead, and sharp cheekbones arched over lips curled in a sneer. The upturned coat collar and posh accent completed the haughty picture.
Before Lestrade could open his mouth, the man was talking again. “I know exactly what you’re going to say, so let me just save us some time. No, I’m not getting out of the car. Yes, you may arrest me, if you still wish to; by the time we reach the Yard. Yes, I know that you are not going to share any crime-scene details with me. I am not a journalist. Now, with that out of the way, how about I talk and you listen.”
Lestrade snapped his open mouth shut and re-started the car, one eye on the central mirror. The sharp eyes were not looking at him, but staring straight ahead, unseeing.
“Here’s what you know. Danny Cootes, Sou-Chef with a grudge against Paul; with a very recent and public row with the victim, under his belt. What Forensics will tell you is that Paul died as a result of hypothermia and blood-loss. The paring knife will turn out to have both their prints, which proves nothing. Both of them had keys to the kitchen and the freezer, so no need of a break-in. Now the curious parts: there were no signs of a struggle. No pots and pans overturned. The victim knew the murderer; trusted him enough to walk into the freezer with him, where the murderer caught him unawares, stabbed him in the back, and left him there to die.”
“I’m not done yet”, he retorted, as Lestrade tried to speak again. “Now for the things you don’t know… Paul Jones had a long-standing gambling habit. Recently, he got mixed up with a wrong crowd. He was losing badly. He was a co-owner of the restaurant until six months back; when he sold his stake in it. His family never saw the money. And the second most important thing, Paul and Brent were well acquainted.”
Lestrade forgot to keep quiet, “Detective Inspector Brent?”
“Do we both know any other? Try to keep up; I hate repeating myself.”
That might explain Brent’s strange behaviour in the morning, Lestrade thought.
“Of course, that explains his behaviour”, the man snorted, startling Lestrade. “But not in the grief-stricken way, you are thinking. They were both gambling buddies. Every second Tuesday of the month, they patronised an illegal, high stakes poker game in Chinatown.”
It was Lestrade’s turn to snort. “Brent…gambling illegally…right! No wonder, he almost walloped you.”
The stranger suddenly snapped out of his reverie, as though noticing Lestrade’s existence. “Hero-worship…how quaint! Tell me Sergeant, have you noticed Inspector Brent’s shoes?”
“Shoes! Why the hell would I?”
“You wouldn’t. They are genuine Berluti loafers. The watch on his hand is a limited edition Tag Heur. Do you have any idea, just how much those shoes cost?”
“They could be a gift.”
“The watch, maybe, but who gifts hand-crafted shoes?”
Lestrade realised that his voice had become defensive. “Arthur Brent is a veteran, with an exemplary record.”
“Here’s some news for you Sergeant…heroes don’t exist. Just some individuals who happen to make the right choice, and are benefitted by the expediency of the moment. I’m not contradicting your assessment. Brent may have been an upstanding Officer. The gambling is definitely recent; shoes are less than a year old. He started with winning, people usually do. But, they let him win big. Why would they do that? Not as Brent has deep pockets, because he doesn’t. Obviously, because of his position in the Yard. Now, he is associated with them; and these are some serious people. Brent has a debt to pay, a reputation to uphold, young, naïve underlings to impress; he has a lot to lose.”
“All this based on your assumption that Brent gambles.”
“Aargh! It’s not an assumption. Day before yesterday was the second Tuesday of this month. I was tailing Jones, the last two days. He picked Brent at his apartment and they both drove together to Chinatown. Also the patrons have a tattoo, in the shape of a sun, where it can be displayed at the entrance to the den. The victim had it on his left ankle. Your favourite Inspector has it on his upper chest, below his left clavicle. I happened to catch a glimpse of it in our scuffle today.”
Lestrade had had enough. “Who the hell are you and why are you doing this? Is Cootes a friend?”
“What?” He appeared nonplussed. “Cootes is a client…or rather Evie Jones is. It was a rather boring investigation into finding out how and why Paul was losing money, and slowly becoming paranoid. His murderer made things interesting.” He looked away as he added, “I don’t have friends.”
“So you’re a private detective?”
“He wrinkled his nose at the description, looking all of twelve years old. “Sort of.”
“If you were following Paul around, where were you yesterday when someone decided to kill him?”
He stiffened suddenly, and Lestrade knew he had touched a sore spot. “I didn’t anticipate this development. Paul was losing money, but he wasn’t bankrupt. He owned a summer-house, which he could have sold. Killing him, when they could milk more out of him, was pointless and stupid. In any case when Paul turned in for the night yesterday, at twelve, I left. I had collected all the data that I needed on his illicit activities. As far as I was concerned, my job was done.”
He sniffed, “Then today morning, I got a call from the daughter, that Paul was missing from his home. The first place I checked was the restaurant. The corpse had just been discovered. I got a chance to examine the crime scene, before you lot arrived to stomp around in it.”
“They let you in, to examine the body.”
“Please! Only the half-witted cleaning crew had been present. Not a difficult job, to fool them into thinking I was official.”
“No wonder Brent was mad!”
“He is covering up for his gambling Bosses. He is going to build a false case against…Oh!” , he suddenly gasped as though, he had been slapped.
“Oh…that’s clever…reeeally clever!”
Lestrade parked and turned around to face him fully. “What?”
He exhaled, “Brent killed Cootes.”
“Now that’s bollocks!”
“No! Shush… just THINK! If it was a professional hit, Paul would have been killed on the road, in an alley; even at the den itself, two days back. But this wasn’t about Paul at all. This was about getting their claws into Brent. They ordered him to kill Paul. Paul and Brent were sort-of friends. Paul had been furious about his daughter’s involvement with Danny. I bet he ranted about it, when they met, two days back. Brent knew about the falling-out, and also knew Paul enough to catch him unawares. He fits the bill, don’t you see?”
Lestrade tried to be calm. “All I see is an anaemic lunatic with an over-fertile imagination. For starters, I am yet to hear the iron-clad reason, why Daniel Cootes couldn’t possibly have committed this murder.”
“As you must have already determined, the time of death was between 2.00 and 3.00 am, yesterday night. Danny was nowhere near the restaurant at that time.”
“And how do you know that?”
He looked at Lestrade appraisingly, and then shrugged. “It’s not important.”
“Right!” Lestrade said sarcastically. You sit there, spin stories out of thin air and insult my superior Officer without a whit of evidence to back you up. Look, Brent maybe a slave-driver; hell, could even be a gambler. This job can do that to you. But he is not a murderer. You don’t know Brent. You don’t know me. And I don’t know you from Adam. Why the hell should I trust you?”
“Speak for yourself!” He shot back, and started speaking rapidly without a pause. “Here’s what I know about you…you are Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, 37 years old. You have been happily married since ten years to a five feet seven inch tall brunette. You don’t have any children though. Your parents died when you were very young, in a car-accident. You were either adopted or brought up in foster-care, but you chose to retain the name of your birth-parents. You had a rebellious youth; were probably a part of a motorcycle gang…no criminal activities though. You would prefer riding a bike to a car even today, but your incipient cervical spondylosis has forced you to adjust. You are a chronic smoker, at least two packs a day, sometimes three...you have a strong moral code, ingrained protective instincts. You have a trusting nature, and are honest and straightforward to a fault.” His tone made the last bit sound like a rap sheet, but Lestrade was too impressed to care…
“That was …how the hell…?”
The man rolled his eyes. “See! I don’t imagine. I observe and deduce… That’s what I do.”
“But how?”
Lestrade will never forget, what came next…
“Fine…if you are not going to let it go… I got your name off the parking-ticket stuffed in the dashboard. Your ring tells me the state and the age of your marriage; ten years old and polished regularly. I picked a long black hair off your shoulder, which has to belong to your wife, firstly because I noticed it when you had just arrived and secondly because, the only black-haired female on your team is a bottle-brunette; while this hair is naturally black.”
Here he took a second’s pause to wave his blackberry screen in Lestrade’s face. “Dr. Claire Burns, Regent Street is a renowned expert on infertility treatments, so no kids. You should reconsider the smoking, which I figured out from the number of packets you are currently carrying; one in the front coat of your pocket, and one in your trouser pocket, both of which I saw at different times. You have a photo in uniform with your parents, stuck to your dash, which is probably that of your first day at work. Your parents are much too young to be your birth-parents; besides the fact that both are blue eyed. I know you kept your name because….” And here he whipped out the phone again, “Frank and Dorothy Lestrade expired in a freak car accident in the winter of 1980, and are survived by one son”, he recited. He paused for a breath, impatient to finish.
“I know about your teenage walk on the wild side, from the tattoo you had on the back of your right palm, but which you got surgically covered up before you joined the Met… you also had an ear-piercing on the right side, which closed over, but a faint scar can be seen, especially at the back. I know you love riding a motorcycle, from your posture and the way you are clutching the steering wheel. You don’t have a criminal record, because I am not aware of a 'Lestrade' having one, and I have catalogued all juvenile offenders over the last twenty years. A necessary ordeal, as those records get sealed and the really interesting criminals start young!”
“As to your character sketch, you had no reason to prevent Brent from roughing me up today morning, but you still chose to risk incurring the wrath of your boss on my behalf, when you didn’t even know me; so strong moral principles, and a rigid sense of right and wrong. The rigidity can be determined by the parking-ticket…you’re a cop, and you still accepted and paid for illegal parking. This also tells me that you won’t be able to stand by and let an innocent man go to prison for murder, which is why I’m sitting in the backseat of your car.”
Lestrade could do nothing but stare at the man, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy fish.
“And of course before I forget, my name is Sherlock Holmes; pleased to make your acquaintance”, his smile was all teeth and completely weird.
“That was…brilliant!” Lestrade finally managed. “A bit spooky and creepy, but brilliant all the same. So Mr. Holmes, that your real name?”
He rolled his eyes. “Shall we just say that there is a teensy possibility that my deduction regarding Brent is correct? That is actually what I’m fishing for, while wasting my time telling you things about yourself, which you already know.”
Lestrade sighed, “Even if I were to be convinced, which I’m not, there isn’t a shred of proof connecting Brent to the crime; hell even connecting Brent to Paul.”
Sherlock’s tone was challenging, “You do not have any damning evidence against Danny either.”
“There’s circumstantial evidence, enough to bring him in for questioning.”
“Very thoughtful of Brent”, breathed Sherlock, his tone filled with admiration. “What happens with Danny is immaterial. Whether he’s caught, whether he goes to trial, whether this becomes a cold case consigned to your files, it doesn’t make any difference. He’s just a pawn, so that everyone will look the other way, and Paul’s illegal activities, even if uncovered, won’t matter; not with such a tailor-made suspect occupying your attention. Think about it, he could have planted evidence, over-stepped…but no, just the right amount of false scent... this was done with finesse…”
Lestrade looked at his watch. They must be wondering where he had got to. Yet something made him hold his tongue, when he saw Sherlock sitting with his eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin, as if in prayer and muttering to himself. Just as he finally decided to interrupt, those unearthly eyes snapped open. “Nothing for it…will have to risk it….”, he said loudly to himself, before turning to Lestrade.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
It was after he had handed his phone over without missing a beat that it occurred to him that he had neither objected, nor asked why.
But Sherlock only glanced through it, before handing it back. Then he whipped out his own blackberry, fingers flying across the keys with the unmistakeable sounds of typing and a message being sent.
When he was done, he flipped the phone around, so the screen was inches from Lestrade’s nose. “What do you think?”
Lestrade read the sent message displayed on the screen.
FANCY A GAME OF POKER?
PITY PAUL JONES IS OUT OF ACTION.
TONIGHT, 12 P.M. REGENT’S PARK.
His eyes flicked to the sent number. It was Brent’s…
For a moment, he just stared at Sherlock who had a expectant look on his face. “Are you cra…”
His rant was interrupted, before it could start by the chime of an incoming message. Sherlock checked the message, and grinned triumphantly, before showing it to Lestrade.
LOOKING FORWARD TO THE GAME.
The message was unsigned, and the sent number was unknown. But Lestrade had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he saw the man he had put on a pedestal, tear himself down with one line.
Sherlock didn’t seem to notice his distress. “Thank you, Sergeant. It was very stimulating, talking to you. If it is any consolation, you do know for sure, who the murderer is! You will have your proof by tomorrow.” He moved to leave the car, when Lestrade snapped out of his reverie.
“Where the hell do think you are going off to? What you have planned is incredibly dangerous. You are going to need help tonight.”
Sherlock regarded Lestrade as though he was a particularly slow child. “Firstly, I can manage on my own. Secondly, you cannot officially liaise with me, when the Chief investigative officer is the primary suspect. If you help me unofficially, even if everything goes according to plan and Brent is exposed; when your involvement comes to light, all of your higher-ups may not take it favourably. Everyone has skeletons in their closet. Oh sure, they will clap your back in front of you, but whisper behind it. You have been a Sergeant for too long now”, he gestured towards the photograph. “This might backfire on your career plans. You just don’t see it right now.”
Lestrade stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. “What has that got to do with anything? If you are right, Brent killed a man in cold blood with pre-meditated planning so another would get the blame. He is likely to be armed and desperate. You wanna give him a chance for an encore. And in any case, if you didn’t want my interference, you should'nt have shown me the time and place of your meeting, now should you?”
Sherlock was looking at him as though he had just noticed him, which was both a bit insulting and a bit flattering. “Fine…” he conceded. “You are right. I can’t stop you, if you want to come.”
“See you tonight, then.” Lestrade said with a weak grin.
***
At 9.30 p.m. as pre-decided, Lestrade reached Regent Park. He was having serious misgivings. He had avoided Brent all day, facing him only to submit the Forensic reports. If he was the murderer, he was a fantastic actor as well, as there was no change in his behaviour or demeanor all day. Cootes had been found at his apartment, by Brent. He denied having committed the murder, and had spoken only with his lawyer present. He gave the same alibi as others at the restaurant, which could not be verified as he lived alone.
Time and again, Lestrade found his mind drifting to the brilliant young man. How he had picked his life story apart with only a name and a photo to go on… Now as he walked into the park, the Service revolver he had officially signed out from the armoury, snug against his hip; he wondered at his motivations behind helping a man he had met twelve hours before…a man who had definitely not been completely forthcoming with him either…he squared his shoulders, as he spotted the tall figure in the distance. This was not a time for misgivings. They had a murderer to catch.
Sherlock handed him a small earpiece, in a manner of greeting. “You are late!”
“Well, you know about the doctor’s appointment, right? My wife was…”
“Dull!” Sherlock interrupted pointedly. “We don’t have much time. You will stay behind that spruce tree. You will have a good vantage point, as well as hear everything that happens.”
Lestrade inserted the earpiece in his ear as he nodded.
“Now Sergeant, this is very important. You don’t come out, until we have a confession on tape. No…you need to be clear about this. This is our only chance, and we can’t afford to blow it. You stay under cover, until he confesses…no matter what happens.”
“What if he just turns up and shoots you in the head?”
“All the more reason to remain hidden, as you will be the only witness to my murder. Besides it will be too late for me, anyways…”
He wasn’t kidding, Lestrade realised. He seriously didn’t care, as if it were no big deal, if he were to drop off the face of the earth in the next ten minutes.
Looking at Lestrade’s expression, he hastened to add, “I do not expect anything like that, in any case. He will prefer not to use his weapon. He will have to report weapons discharge at the Met. But he may have some other trick up his sleeve. You will be tempted to interfere…Don’t! Stay hidden!”
Without further ado they took their positions silently.
It wasn’t long before the tall, built figure of Brent sauntered into view. In the half-light Sherlock looked even scrawnier in comparison.
He nodded in greeting, and his voice floated through the earpiece, “Good evening, Inspector.” God, his voice was arrogant!
Brent’s answering voice was hard, “I knew it would be you. Told you to keep your fucking nose out of my business.”
“I know everything…”
“Your word against that of a respected Yard Detective. It doesn’t matter.”
“I have proof. I have video proof of you getting into Brent’s car this Tuesday and driving to Chinatown. What will happen if I were to post it anonymously to your higher-ups in the Met? Nothing much, probably. An enquiry over a fuzzy video that goes nowhere. But you will be discredited, under suspicion. A tainted cop is not of much use to your gambling Bosses. Rather, you will become a liability. I bet, they take you down first.”
“You little…”, the rest of the words drowned in static, as Brent darted forward. There was a solid thunk on the microphone, just before Lestrade saw Sherlock collapse to the ground, in a heap. In the next instant, Brent was behind his kneeling form, using his own scarf to strangle him.
“No!” Sherlock yelled hoarsely, just as Lestrade was about to rush out, instructions be damned; and he knew it was meant for him. Brent’s voice came over the microphone again and Lestrade hesitated, “Who else did you tell? Did you tell anyone about this?” Sherlock was scrabbling at his neck with both hands. Brent shook him like a rag doll. “Answer me, you twerp…”
“No one…nobody else…” Sherlock choked out. Brent finally released him, and he crumpled gasping on the ground.”
The next instant, the distant streetlight glinted off something between Brent’s fingers, and Lestrade forgot to wait as he ran out screaming bloody murder. “BRENT…NO! STOP!”
Brent stilled as he came into view. Lestrade hadn’t even realised that he had drawn his gun, which was now squarely trained on his boss.
“Greg, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” He stepped back from Sherlock. Lestrade’s gaze swept over his hands, but they were empty.
Sherlock wasn’t moving. He bent down to check on him, but he seemed to be out cold; a large bruise blooming on his temple. Brent had pistol-whipped him.
Brent started laughing.
“Oh don’t tell me, he got you, got you with some cock and bull story.” His voice took on a dangerous edge. “Do you know what you’re doing Greg, pointing a gun at me?”
Lestrade didn’t lower the gun. “Sir, I am going to have to ask you to empty your pockets…no sudden movements.”
He advanced on Lestrade, who took a step back reflexively. “You’re wearing an ear-piece.”
“Yes, I heard every word. I also know about you and Paul Jones and your little hobby.”
“Did you also hear how he was blackmailing me?” Brent’s voice was incredulous. “Jesus Greg! I can’t believe, you fell for what this little piece of shit told you. Did he tell you about his buddy? Did he tell you how he was investigating Paul as a favour to Cootes?”
“As a matter of fact, he did.”
Brent faltered for a second but continued. “And did he tell you why he was doing this for him?”
Lestrade tensed visibly, but his voice stayed firm. “He’s a P.I. That’s his job.”
This time Brent’s laugh was actually hilarious. “Oh, that’s precious!” He bent down to Sherlock’s prone form showing his empty hands to Lestrade as he did so, turning him over and yanking up his sleeves. Both of Sherlock’s inner arms were dotted with familiar track marks.
Lestrade had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he took a step back, the hand with the gun dropping to his side. Brent smirked, “Good, do you get the picture now? He’s a no good junkie, and Daniel Cootes moonlighted as a drug peddler. Bet he didn’t tell you that either. Paul had turned a blind eye to his extra-curricular activities, as he was good at his job. But when he got involved with his daughter, Paul threatened to turn him in. That’s why Cootes killed him, probably in the heat of the moment; then asked Holmes to cover up for him. And you believed him; an addict, who will do anything for his next hit…good job, Sergeant!”
Even now Lestrade wanted nothing more than to believe Brent; which made him hesitate, before his thoughts asserted themselves. He understood why Sherlock had been less than honest with him, as all the pieces fell into place. This time he raised his weapon resolutely. “Let’s just talk about you, Sir shall we? If you knew all this, why didn’t you confide it to the team? Why did you agree to meet Sherlock here, instead of arresting him and dragging him down to the Met? If he is lying, why were you trying to kill him? If you are innocent, you have nothing to worry about. Step away from him, and we can interrogate them both at the Yard.”
Lestrade had taken a gamble.
Suddenly, without warning Sherlock lunged towards Brent like a snake. Before Lestrade could appreciate what was happening, something fell across the cobblestones, just as Brent aimed a vicious kick to Sherlock's middle, making him double up on himself and crumple to the ground wheezing again.
On the ground between them was a pre-filled, capped hypodermic syringe!
Brent moved to kick it away, but froze as Lestrade moved his gun-hand to him. “Give me a reason…Hand over any weapons that you are carrying, right now.”
Sherlock gave a hollow laugh, his glittering eyes fixed on Brent. “A paring knife in the freezer for Paul; to frame Danny; and a drug overdose to kill me. No one would look twice at the body of an overdosed junkie lying in the park, or so you thought. You would never have got away with my murder, Brent. But I do admire the logical thought process... In any case, you are absolutely wasted as a cop.”
Brent threw himself on Sherlock with an inarticulate cry.
Lestrade didn’t hesitate as he pulled the trigger and shot Brent through the leg.
***
The park was a crime scene. The first ambulance on the scene had taken Brent away. The bullet had gone clean through without much damage, but he had been bleeding. Lestrade finished briefing the team and the other D.I. who had taken charge of the scene, after which he finally found time to walk up to Sherlock. He was sitting on a sidewalk bench, holding a cold compress (probably given to him by the paramedics) to the side of his face and wincing. He fixed Lestrade with overlarge eyes as he approached.
“Here, drink some water. It’ll help…and I’ll do that…”, he said taking the compress and applying it with greater pressure.
"Ow", he winced. Jesus, he was just a kid, Lestrade thought.
His eyes were staring again, as though wishing to dissect Lestrade with them. As Lestrade held his gaze, he dropped his eyes to his hands, which were splayed open on his lap.
“He was right, you know.”
“About the drug use?” Lestrade said dryly. “I may not have your superior powers of observation, but I figured as much.”
“No…yes…about that and everything else. Danny is my drug dealer. He promised me the next batch for free, if I could dig up some incriminating information on Paul. I only agreed to do it, as I was low on funds, and it was an easy way to get drugs.”
“Pity, that deal’s ruined.” Lestrade’s voice was sarcastic. “Wait a minute, he didn’t ask you to solve the murder…he couldn’t have. He didn’t know a thing, when Brent brought him in today.”
Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “I didn’t need an incentive for solving the murder. It was interesting enough.” He didn’t look up. “I thought, if I told you…” He faltered and took a deep breath. “I should have told you…”
“You mean, you should have trusted me; the way I trusted you, and shot my Boss.”
“Danny didn’t commit the murder.”
“Because, yesterday at the time of the murder, he was with you exchanging drugs, for the dirt you had collected on Paul. Yup, I figured out that part too.”
The silence stretched to minutes.
“Why drugs?” Lestrade finally bit out the foremost thought in his head.
He could see that the retort ‘none of your business’ was at the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but when he looked up at Lestrade’s face, he hesitated before speaking.
“It’s like... there’s a monster inside my head. It needs food for thought, or it gets bored. I’m not an idiot, but everytime I get clean the boredom sneaks back and drives it berserk, until it’s clawing on the inside of my skull. The drugs…numb it for sometime…” He looked away again. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I think I do.” Lestrade said, remembering the sparkling eyes, which had been so alive in his car, even while deducing his boring history. the same eyes, which now looked forlorn and scarily empty. “How about, if I’m still a cop by the time this fiasco’s wrapped up, I’ll try and convince my new Inspector, to call you in to help... unofficially…give you food for thought…You would have to be clean though.”
Sherlock looked dumbstruck for a moment, just as Lestrade’s phone buzzed.
“Sergeant Lestrade, this is Gregson.”
“Sir”, Lestrade muttered as he moved away to take the call.
“Haul your arse down here, Brent confessed to the murder; wants to go State’s evidence against the crime-ring. His lawyer’s here already, haggling over the terms. You did good…will let the Commissioner know tomorrow, when this blows in our faces. But you need to get here pronto; need a detailed recorded statement from you.”
Lestrade smiled as he walked back to Sherlock. “I have to leave now. Brent confessed to the murder. You scared him into turning into a Government witness.” His voice became stern. “Danny will also go to prison for possession and dealing.”
Sherlock regarded Lestrade with a half grin. “Can’t argue with that honest streak, can I?” He stood up and held out his hand, which Lestrade shook with a smile on his face too. “It wasn’t wholly disagreeable working with you, Sergeant.”
“The name’s Greg.”
Sherlock shook his head slightly. “Too many Gregs in the phone-book. I think I will stick with Lestrade. It’s different.”
Lestrade reddened. “And why do you think my name needs to be different?”
Sherlock regarded him with a piercing gaze. “Well, there are many reasons; the most important one being … you believed me.”
Yes, he did; Lestrade realized as he watched Sherlock walk away, not knowing that his life had irrevocably changed forever…
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