The Ghost In The Theatre: Ch12

Chapter 12: The Second Residence

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Throughout the evening after Sherlock and John returned to the flat, the sky fell to an invading army of black storm clouds. They ripped open shortly after midnight and continued alternating between a misty drizzle and windblown sheets of needle-like drops. For about an hour the following morning, John entertained the hope that Sherlock would take a rain check on any further investigations for the day. It would give them both a chance to take it easy before continuing with the mystery. It was a mad, foolish hope. But at least if anyone was going to dash his hopes, it was Lestrade.

Before the blurred lights of the police car started blinking wetly through the be-dewed window and caught John's attention as he came out of the kitchen, he spent his time after breakfast attempting to feed Sherlock. As expected, his friend had asked for nothing but tea and attempted to spend the whole morning searching the Web for various pieces of information, none of which John was permitted to view at the time. John was less concerned about knowing what Sherlock was looking up and more about what he was putting in his stomach. After an hour of coaxing, lecturing and begging, John managed to force his flatmate to sit at the table and eat half a piece of toast with a smudge of marmalade.

"Take your one-a-day, too," John reminded him, dropping a pale-orange pill the size of a thimble next to Sherlock's plate. "I'm not looking away until I see you swallow it."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table and engaged the vitamin caplet in a staring contest. How you could even have a staring contest with something that had no eyes, John couldn't figure, but somehow Sherlock pulled it off. He looked as if he expected the lifeless pill to lunge at him for no reason.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, just swallow the damn thing!"

With all the caution of someone deactivating a bomb, Sherlock picked up the vitamin between his forefinger and thumb, careful not to squeeze it too hard, even though there was no reason for concern. It wasn't a gel pill or a capsule that might break open. Sherlock held it up at his eyelevel, turning it over in the dreary light from the cloud-clotted sky. Raindrop shadows danced across the tangerine-coloured caplet, as well as Sherlock's large, glacial hand. Metallic eyes studied the pill under heavy, hooded lids.

John sucked in a breath and gave Sherlock till the count of five before he grabbed the vitamin and forced it down his throat. He managed to reach four-and-a-half when Sherlock finally brought it to his lips, albeit so very slowly.

"Is this some kind of test?" He might have been over analysing things, but John considered whether his friend was purposefully recalling to his mind the case with the cabbie and the two pills. If he was, Sherlock was going to get his if he didn't stop.

John used the back of his hand to mop up the first drops of sweat on his forehead as Sherlock shoved the vitamin halfway into his mouth, and then sucked it the rest of the way in. He swallowed, looked up at John and gave a closed smile.

"Nice try," John said flatly. "Mouth check. Open up."

Sherlock scowled as if he didn't understand.

"Open your mouth before I do it for you. Don't make me use the tongue depressor."

The detective rolled his eyes and opened up. His mouth looked vacant of all ingested items. John kept his face relaxed as he lightly gripped Sherlock's jaw with his right hand. At the same time, he slowly raised the left one which wielded the spoon for his tea. He let one second slide before tightening his grasp on the jaw and digging the spoon under Sherlock's tongue. Sherlock cried and gagged in surprise.

"Aha!" John fished out the vitamin hiding under the saliva-slicked muscle and released Sherlock from his steely grip. Sherlock coughed and pressed his sleeve against his mouth.

"Are you trying to make me choke?"

"It wouldn't be an issue if you just cooperated," John retorted, setting the moist, partly-disintegrated vitamin on Sherlock's unused napkin. "It's flu season, and this is the thing that will keep you working on cases and not getting laid up for sickness."

"I don't need pills for that," Sherlock snarled. He picked up his napkin to wipe his mouth, causing the pill to roll over and bounce once on the wooden tabletop. He muttered "I think I'm bleeding" under his breath.

"If you do get sick, don't say I didn't try to prevent it. And don't expect me to put up with any more of your complaints and protests." While he didn't believe the threat in the second sentence, John felt compelled to say it anyway. He needed to try to make Sherlock believe he wasn't going to put up with anymore of his childishness. In the end, though, John always somehow found the patience and resilience to do just that. He needed to smack himself upside the head sometimes.

After some moping and cleaning up, Sherlock returned to his dent in the sofa, only he sitting up with the computer on his folded legs. John washed up some of their dishes in the kitchen, leaving the rest for Mrs Hudson when she had time. When he returned and saw the coloured lights outside, he cleared his throat to alert Sherlock. The detective didn't spare John or the lights a glance. Before John could begin explaining the purpose of the noises he just made, a loud triad of knocks at the door spoke for him.

"It's open," called Sherlock, eyes remaining glued to the screen.

The door swung inward to reveal a damp police inspector. Lestrade brushed his silver hair with the flat of his hand a few times, which sent drops flying all over the hall. Even though he stood more than a metre away, John by instinct flinched and blinked.

"We found Gary's second flat," Lestrade announced.

"Goooood," Sherlock drawled. He punched the keys on the laptop even harder.

Lestrade nodded tentatively. His hands were locked behind his back, which had become a frequent stance of choice for when Lestrade felt antsy and expected some immediate action. When none came from either Sherlock or John, the latter waiting for a cue from the former, Lestrade started rocking on his feet. "So let's go."

"In a minute," mumbled Sherlock. "We'll follow you shortly."

"Now."

The sudden sharpness in Lestrade's voice caused both John and Sherlock to shoot him stunned looks. John felt his insides crunch. Sherlock was probably going to throw another tantrum over Lestrade's forceful order. When the detective held his seat on the couch – no sudden bounds or burning glares in the inspector's direction – John breathed the quietest sigh of relief.

"I'm not even dressed," Sherlock pointed out, spreading his arms as he did to make his point. He was still sporting a plum-coloured silk dressing gown. Under it he wore over a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt. The shirt featured the face of a black woman with an afro and the name 'Gloria Scott', printed in delicate script font. The first time John saw Sherlock wearing it, Sherlock counteracted his gawking by explaining how a friend at uni lent it to him, and how he quickly realised it originally belonged to the boy's father as a fan souvenir rather than as a casual garment. Indirectly, the shirt also led to Sherlock's involvement in a decades-old blackmail case, which he solved. In light of the connection and the lack of interest on his friend's part to reclaim the shirt, Sherlock kept it as a memento. He only wore it to get him in a serious thinking mood, and when he was out of nicotine patches and John's nerves were too tried to take any more violin-squeaking.

"Hurry up, then," Lestrade snapped. "You're coming in the police car with us this time. No objections, or . . . you're off the case."

Sherlock blew his lips. A real horse couldn't have sounded less bothered.

"We'll wait in the hall," the DI huffed. "Two minutes." Grabbing the doorknob with a slippery hand, Lestrade still managed to close the door in one go, but not before throwing John a pointed look. Don't let him dally, it said.

"Right," John muttered.

"Sorry?" Sherlock's fingers made a few more decisive clicks of the mouse button, then closed the laptop and threw it Frisbee-fashion to the other end of the sofa. The computer bounced and turned with enough momentum that John prepared himself to make an emergency dive toward it.

"Nothing. Can't you be a bit more careful with . . . hey, that's mine!"

"I couldn't find mine," Sherlock explained as he jumped off the sofa and began stripping himself of his robe. "Might be under the bed, but I was already out here, so . . ."

"Then please don't throw it about like it's yours! You've already broken it twice!" The second time Sherlock unintentionally knocked the device from a precarious spot, the drive crashed and John needed a completely new machine. Unfortunately, the store was out of the model in his choice of colour, and the one he got ended up looking remarkably similar to Sherlock's. That made it even more of a challenge to notice when Sherlock borrowed his laptop without permission. "What did you need to find out, anyway, that was so urgent you couldn't excavate your computer from the landfill that is your room?"

"Several things. No time to explain it all." The stale air in the shut-up flat, due to the incoming rain, parted like the Red Sea as Sherlock sliced through it toward his bedroom. He disappeared into the room's bowels for about four minutes, which John kept track of in case his flatmate decided to get into an argument about time with Lestrade. At the two minute mark, he popped his head into the hall and nodded to Lestrade. Lestrade rolled his eyes and nodded back. John smiled gratefully and shut the door behind him with consideration.

The speed at which Sherlock managed to transform from a bathrobe-toting ragdoll to a stylish consulting detective in just four minutes still astounded John. He suspected with trepidation that Sherlock secretly recycled the same clothes from a day or two ago without washing them, and just added some fragrant spray that hid his body odour on them. If that was so, he did manage to fool John's nose. His clothes looked crisp and fresh every single time. Maybe Sherlock filled his closet with a month's worth of suits so that he needn't worry about laundry every week.

Whatever his secret, today was no exception. Sherlock came out brushing the sleeves of his jacket with his hands, as if he were about to leave for a business meeting or a dinner party. The sides of his hands and the cool flash of his eyes worked better than any lint brush.

"All right, James Bond," said John, "we need to get going. Aren't you keen to sniff around Gary's secret flat?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock purred as he grabbed both their coats. His voice stressed and raised the pitch on the third syllable. He showed off his excited grin to John. "By the way, did you know that from 2006 to 2008, St Martin-in-the-Fields underwent a major renovation project that included the church, underground spaces and other buildings in the area? It was a £36-million project."

"Oh." John adjusted the sleeves of his jumper under those of his coat. "That's . . . interesting."

Sherlock bent his head forward and narrowed his eyes on John. "You don't find that significant?"

John could only shrug. "Should I?"

"Don't you remember what Gary was doing before he started working at the Palace Theatre?"

John squinted as he remembered, which made his widened eyes look even bigger. "Construction! He worked at a construction firm! Which was how . . ."

"Which was how he came into contact with the theatre in the first place, which also underwent a renovation project." With his scarf in place, Sherlock seized the handle on the second door that led out of the kitchen directly into the hall. His grin kept growing longer. "Food for thought."

The rain began pounding on the London streets when Sherlock and John came out the door of 221. Any efforts to defy Lestrade's command and hail a taxi were dismissed. John made a mental note that a brolly would have been a wise item to bring with them, but when he mentioned it aloud Sherlock shrugged it off. Oh, yes, his flatmate was definitely not in any danger of weakening his immune system and contracting some nasty bug. Nope, not at all.

"The address," Sherlock demanded as soon as the car pulled away from the curb.

He and John took their seats in the back, although Sherlock chose the right seat instead of the left. Lestrade took the liberty of claiming the passenger's seat in front, which meant he now had to turn around awkwardly to speak to Sherlock. At least the consulting detective had the consideration to sit in Lestrade's more direct line of sight.

"You'll never guess," Lestrade remarked with a knowing grin.

Sherlock's eyes brightened. "New Compton Street."

Lestrade's pleased look dropped into jaw-hanging astonishment, and then puckered annoyance. "Can I never take you by surprise?"

"Only when you least expect it." Sherlock graced Lestrade with a half-smile that both teased and comforted. "But you were right."

The DI started. "I was?"

"Yes. I never guess."

After a rumbling sigh, Lestade asked, "All right, then – how did you know?"

"It makes perfect sense." Sherlock's gaze did a jig between Lestrade and John as he spoke. "The people involved in Gary's murder were very familiar with his habits – they might even be people he knew well. If they wanted his death to look like a mugging, they couldn't simply leave him in a random alley. He had to be placed somewhere that was both hidden and a conceivable location for him to pass through on his way home. Gary found a residence in close proximity to the theatre so he could go home well into the night without travelling very far. Since he was killed at the theatre, the killers had to move him only a few blocks."

"Only a few?" remarked Lestrade half-facetiously.

"If it'd been any further, they might have been forced to use a car," Sherlock clarified. "But that could have drawn attention to themselves, since the body would have been taken outside."

"So the whole thing was premeditated," Lestrade after a thoughtful pause. It seemed the logical conclusion given the peculiar challenges of the crime scene. Appearing assured of his conclusion, Lestrade nearly turned forward.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Not necessarily."

The gray-headed cop promptly looked back again. "Why not?"

"Not enough evidence, and I'm not convinced everything was planned. The intent might have been to kill, but the purpose of the mugging cover-up was to disguise the motive of the crime, and by extension the culprits and location. That came as an afterthought. If they planned on making his death look like a mugging from the start, they would've waited till he was closer to his flat. There was no reason to kill Gary right then and there in his office, as far as we know. There's something else, too."

Sherlock's speech suddenly dropped off, which pulled Lestrade and John closer to him in anticipation.

"Yes?" Lestrade prodded.

Sherlock fully smiled now. "You didn't notice something odd about his desk? Either of you?"

John scowled as he thought. "There was blood on the desk. Is that odd?"

Sherlock leaned toward his flatmate. "If Gary was staying in his office to work, where were the papers? If his killers' appearance was unexpected, then the papers were removed by them. If not . . . if he had expected them, then it's likely he would've put them away."

John suddenly remembered Sherlock rummaging through the drawers in Gary's desk back at his office. "Did you see them?"

"He kept his paperwork in manila folders in two of the drawers. One folder marked 'Tech Dept' was empty."

Lestrade twisted himself about bit more to look at Sherlock from a more comfortable angle. "That's right. The boys in my unit noticed that, too. So they were stolen? For what?"

"Maybe that was why they killed Gary!" John exclaimed. His heart pounded at the prospect of having finally uncovered a concrete lead.

Sherlock shook his head solemnly. "No. That wasn't it."

"Then why were they taken?" Lestrade asked anxiously. The muscles in his cheeks stretched and stiffened the longer he waited for an explanation.

"Very simple," said Sherlock. He leaned back in his seat. "Blood spattered on them. They had to be removed or destroyed. I wondered whether any papers had been compromised when I saw that the desk was bare of many other things. People usually customise their workspace with all kinds of bric-a-brac. Gary had nothing but his computer, a cup of pens and a glass bowl of assorted mints, all of which were placed on the right side. They'd been safe from the spray of blood."

There was no stopping the bubble of excitement inflating inside of John as he listened to Sherlock's serpentine train of thought. "Incredible," he chuckled when his chest couldn't hold it in anymore.

Sherlock tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His entire face was one serene smirk. Even Lestrade had to give an impressed and slightly winded sigh after that.

"Well, all right, then. Let's see if you can work your magic at this place, too."

"Will do. Wake me up when we get there."

John peered out the window and cleared his throat. "Uh, we're here."

Sherlock's eyes shot open. He jerked upright in the seat. "Oh. Good."

'Here' was near the end of New Compton Street. It made John strangely claustrophobic despite the fact it was two-way. Maybe the fault lay in the supposed dead-end that stood beyond the Phoenix Garden, although in reality it took a left and turned into the head of Stacey Street, which intersected with Shaftesbury Avenue. But the buildings on both sides were tall, too, like a pair of human hands flanking a group of ants. The closeness he felt in the street and the rain splashing on him made John all too eager to dash for the door to the apartment building Lestrade headed for. As the inspector rapped on the door for the landlord, John glanced back and saw Sherlock still holding his seat inside the police car, glaring fiercely at the torrent just beyond the open door. The man honestly had the temperament of a spoiled cat.

There was no time for complaints. Lestrade's knocks were soon answered by an old man with barely any hair left on his shiny head. "Yes?" he said to both men with a disgruntled grimace. His voice had the softness of rocks scraping across sandpaper.

"New Scotland Yard, Mr Polley," stated Lestrade, holding up a document he struggled to protect from the rain. "We need to assess Mr Joseph Gary's flat. Would you kindly direct us to it?"

The way the landlord's eyebrows went up looked more like an involuntary twitch. "I see. Very well, come in. Wipe your feet first, if you don't mind, sirs."

John's heart lifted as the passage to dryness opened before him. It then jumped and somersaulted when a mighty force blew past him and Lestrade and nearly knocked them back out into the unrelenting storm.

Though struck dumb for a second by being so rudely intercepted, Lestrade gained his voice once he stepped over the threshold. "SHERLOCK!"

John shook his head and ruffled his hair to get the water out. He glanced up the stairs to spy Sherlock already on his way to Gary's rooms. Shouting and scolding would have been pointless by now. Lestrade was left only to mutter, "How does he move so bloody fast?"

It took John a moment to realise that Mr Polley had, in fact, blurted out the flat number before Sherlock dashed away like a rabbit buck, but his colleagues had missed it. Lestrade asked the man to repeat it for him. Mr Polley responded by giving the inspector the key. "Second floor, number 6."

The DI and the doctor took their time climbing the stairs to the correct floor, and were rewarded with an impatient Sherlock tapping his foot and leaning against the door.

"You were being slow on purpose, weren't you?"

"Put a sock in it," Lestrade quipped. "You're lucky I'm giving you the first look. Forensics will be here in fifteen minutes."

After clicking the lock open, Lestrade stepped aside in time to clear out of Sherlock's way. He let John go by, too. John quietly thanked him.

There didn't seem to be anything very suspicious about Gary's second flat. It was a one-bedroom with the living area and kitchen directly attached to each other. The oak floorboards in the living area were shielded by a large Persian rug of good quality. John even knelt down just to test how soft it was. A similar, smaller rug occupied the floor in the bedroom, too, which had one bed, a wardrobe and a desk which Gary must have used for work. It was equipped with a flat-screen computer and included drawers on the right side.

The whole place was very modern with its florescent lights imbedded in the ceiling, the casement windows that swung open and lent a view of the street and the Phoenix Garden, and the black-marble kitchen counters and sharp-edged, metal-handled cabinets. The microwave, fridge and electric stove and oven were naturally included as well. Yet the wooden boards and tope-painted walls gave it a homier, classic ambiance that suited an older resident. The choice of furniture reinforced the notion with one reclining leather chair, a low coffee table and a modest-sized TV set with a black VCR/DVD player. Nothing fancy. It appealed to John; if only he could afford the whole lot, even the furniture, and stay here whenever Sherlock gave him migraines.

John and Lestrade were still lingering in the main area when Sherlock called John to come look at the WC in the bedroom. That was enough of an invitation for Lestrade to come along as well. They found Sherlock standing like a sentinel directly beside the door to the toilet. His eyes addressed John. "Take a look."

Nerves tingling at what he might see, John came round and leaned his head in through the doorway. His body unwound a notch at the sight of an ordinary sink, shower, toilet and the usual linens. No nasty surprises lying in wait. No bloodied clothes or dismembered bodies.

"It's nice," John muttered, mostly praising its cleanliness. At least the victim wasn't a slob.

"You're not observing, John," Sherlock said with his schoolmaster's tone. "What do you see?"

John grunted a sigh. "I see . . . a clean loo. Looks like it's been used recently, though, so it didn't have a scrub job done on it."

"Good. What about the towels?"

John stepped further inside and touched the big one hanging on the metal rack. "Dry." He sniffed it. "But used, so not washed recently. That means Gary was here within the last few days."

"Same goes for the bed," noted Lestrade aloud while running his eye over the single bed. It looked like a chimpanzee had tried to make it. The sheets were thrown on hap hazardously with plenty of lumps and wrinkles still visible.

Sherlock didn't betray a grin, but there was a light of knowingness in his eyes. "Gary probably hired someone to clean the flat for him once a week. That means he was here recently. Also, what does it remind you of?"

Lestrade stood up straight next to the bed and arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

John thought over the question silently. What did it remind him of? It seemed like an ordinary flat, like one he might own with enough money in his account. He no longer left his bed in such a state, though, after having served in the army. But before that . . .

The light in his head went on. "It's like a bachelor's flat," John answered, turning around and joining the men in the bedroom.

"Exactly." Sherlock grinned and nodded back toward the towels. "One set of towels, one single bed, the single leather chair . . . this isn't a love nest. That doesn't necessarily mean Gary and Malaika weren't fooling around, but it couldn't have been something serious. That was not why Gary rented the flat in the first place." The grin on his face suddenly vanished when he eyes alighted on the floor. He furrowed his brow.

John noticed and was ready to ask about it when Lestrade cut in. "Wait, what? Who on earth is Malaika?"

Sherlock looked up to explain, dropping the curious scowl. "Malaika Qadir is a woman who works at St Martin-in-the-Fields as the organist. She's known Joseph Gary for about seven years and seems to have had a close relationship with him. Possibly an affair, although the contents of this flat don't support it. Mrs Lyla Gary suspected her husband of infidelity with Malaika, which has created a lot of tension in their relationship, as you can imagine. You didn't meet her because she arrived after you left and, apparently, no one drew your attention to her existence. Is that true?"

Lestrade folded his arms and shrugged helplessly. "Never came up. What, is she a wallflower?"

John jumped in. "I doubt she wouldn't catch your eye if you saw her. She's a former Muslim and still wears the veil."

If Lestrade had ever looked shocked to John in the past, none of those incidents compared to the bugging eyes and disbelieving scoff he witnessed now. Someone might as well have told him the Queen was a hermaphrodite. "You've got to be joking!"

"That's why no one will talk about her," Sherlock said in a lower, more gravelly voice. "They let her perform for them up in the loft, but she isn't allowed to come down during the service or mingle with the rest of the parish afterwards." A dark, unanticipated mood was beginning to cloud Sherlock's humour.

"Can't say I really blame them," Lestrade admitted. "I'm sorry for her, too, but you have to consider what that sort of thing does to a well-regarded church like St Martin. I'm surprised they didn't encourage her to leave."

Sherlock started to nod, but then froze. The scowl returned, but he was staring straight ahead. His jaw clenched a little.

"Sherlock?" John approached his friend, sensing that something had dawned on him, and it wasn't a happy realisation. "Something wrong?"

His friend stay spaced-out for a few more seconds, then blinked and jiggled his head. "It's nothing." He put a hold on any further explanations. Sherlock walked over to the two-and-a-half metre tall mahogany wardrobe standing against the left wall, and pressed his weight against it. To John it looked like Sherlock was trying to tilt it back. Its front legs may have lifted a millimetre off the ground, but even that exhausted Sherlock's strength in a blink. He let it drop back down.

"Careful," hissed Lestrade.

Sherlock tried the desk next. That looked slightly lighter, but the detective could hold it only a centimetre off the ground for about five seconds. He set it down more gingerly, even though the floor quietly creaked beneath him. He then returned to John's side, where the rug ended. He lifted it as much as he could to inspect its underside and the floor.

"Is this important?" John inquired. Lestrade was too busy staring in bafflement at the young detective's movements.

"Someone moved the rug." Sherlock dropped the rug and pointed to the bit in front of the heavy wardrobe. "See those six little round indentations, and the three bigger ones surrounding them? See how they're lined up? They're from the feet of the chair and desk. Two of the small ones are from the chair when it was pushed all the way in, and four are from when Gary sat in it."

"Why only two for the first position?" Lestrade asked.

"Because the other two are hidden under the wardrobe. Same goes for the back legs of the desk."

John gazed at the spot Sherlock pointed out. "Why would anyone bother to move it, and only less than a metre?"

Sherlock hopped onto his feet and scanned the room with wide eyes. "Probably wanted to hide something. Forensics will look into it for us." He whipped his gaze toward Lestrade. "We have more urgent business to attend to, I'm afraid. Let's go, John."

The doctor needed a second to recover from this sudden shift in activities. John felt as startled as Lestrade looked, but he didn't think he was in a position to question Sherlock yet. Not until he knew what his friend had in mind. If Sherlock had seen what he needed to see in the flat, it would be in their best interest to press on.

"Are you sure you've got what you need?" asked Lestrade, following closely behind them to the door to the flat.

"Quite sure." Sherlock wore a rather perturbed expression on his pale face. Wherever it was he wanted to go, he looked anxious to get there as soon as possible. "Text me on what you find. The sooner, the better."

John waited to ask until the door shut soundly behind them, Lestrade's still befuddled face behind it, and they were halfway down the steps. "What's next on our agenda, then?"

"St Martin-in-the-Fields," said Sherlock. "We need to talk to Malaika Qadir. I have a feeling she might be in trouble."