The Ghost In The Theatre: Ch13

Chapter 13: White Paint Peels, Too

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"We're going to see Mrs Gary again?" John rubbed his hands against the chill of the wet day. He threw a look around the interior of the cab for an accessible heater. "How do we even know she'll be there?"

"We don't," Sherlock murmured. "If she's not, we can get a hold of her home phone or cell. Besides, it's Malaika and the church I'm more interested in."

To John's relief, he found himself sitting next to a shuttered heating vent. He shifted his buttocks to the left and planted his hands against it. He pursed his lips when he heard Sherlock's last sentence. "Why the church?"

After sniffing through semi-stuffed nostrils, Sherlock replied, "I want to see if there's a connection between the renovation projects. The matter may just be a coincidence, but I'm not going to risk ignoring it. It gives us something to do while Lestrade unearths more clues on Gary's activity."

"You think a connection could give us an idea of what Gary was doing?" John scratched at a small patch of itchy skin on the back of his scalp. "Won't his computer at the flat tell us more?"

There was a schism between words and tone as Sherlock softly answered, "Perhaps." His concise response failed to mask contradictory suspicions that were growing in his mind. A flicker of a reptilian smile made the corners of Sherlock's mouth curve up into his cheeks. He balled his left hand into a fist and leaned the same arm against the window. Staring at the splattering rain supposedly helped him think more clearly than looking at his companion.

"Let's suppose for a moment, though, that Gary was involved in something illegal. He decides to rent a flat of his own so his wife won't accidentally become involved. Given that he's a theatre manager who originally worked as a clerk for a construction firm, we can surmise he's a puppet rather than an entrepreneur. Mrs Gary had every right to be surprised at her husband's dramatic career shift; he couldn't have done it on his own. So he's a pawn for a more powerful criminal. Given his clandestine background, according to his wife, he's been involved in bad business for a good long while – we're not dealing with a novice. His cover as a manager doesn't give him opportunities to travel much or come into contact with valuables merchandise or weapons. He could therefore either be a contact for his boss with other powerful people – Soho is very conducive for that sort of elbow-rubbing – or he deals in information. What kind of information we don't know, but we do have a clue when considering how he switched from the firm to the theatre."

"Construction," John chimed in immediately, as if Sherlock had put the word in his mouth. It still took a second for the meaning of his answer to seep in. "Ah! So, you're thinking that Gary dealt in some racketeering enterprise involving construction, which explains the renovations for the two places he was most closely associated with."

Two silver-blue eyes locked on John, glittering like aquamarine stones. "Exactly, assuming he has criminal liaisons at all."

John's skin tingled at the theory, yet he wasn't quite satisfied. "But if there was something underhanded going on during those renovations, how would the church's records be of any help? Gary might have tampered with them in some way if he was involved."

"That's what I'm counting on."

"But won't his files show us the real story?"

Sherlock groaned like a hungry tiger. "Do I have to explain everything? I said Gary wasn't a novice, so any vital information he kept at his flat wouldn't just be lying out there for us to see. He would have protected it by encrypting the files or storing them somewhere safe."

Another idea came to John. It was only another theory, and one that didn't have much evidence in its defence, but it seemed worth putting out there. "If the information he safeguarded was so valuable, could that be the reason why he was killed? Could the 'mugging' have been a hit?"

Sherlock let his gaze wander somewhere in the space in front of him. "I told Lestrade that the facts don't point to premeditation, or if they do, to very poor premeditation. If the killers wanted information, they could have just broken into his flat for it . . . unless Gary had obscured it so well that they had to wring it out of him."

"That could be the reason why they came for Gary at his office – for an interrogation," proposed John. "And then they moved his body so it looked like he'd been killed on his way home."

Sherlock wrinkled his forehead. "But why the theatre? Why not the flat? Do the same thing, but closer to where they dropped him off. Far more convenient. In fact it would have been better to kill him in the theatre and leave him there. The information they wanted was in his flat, not the theatre. That'd be enough of a diversion for the police."

"But not you," John remarked with a smirk.

Sherlock returned the smirk with a touch more smugness. "Obviously."

"But maybe they didn't know it was in his flat. They could have thought Gary kept it hidden among his papers in the office."

"That would have been a good cover on his part. We may find he did that. Yet aside from the clean-up, there's no sign of anything being disturbed."

John nearly jumped out of his seat at the prospect of catching his friend off guard. "Except those missing papers from the desk! The ones you said were sprayed with blood. What about those?"

He was answered by a frosty glare and an arched eyebrow. "'Technical Department'? Oh, yes, I'm sure he had a wealth of information stored in that file. Besides, nothing else was touched. Lestrade will tell you as much later. Why carefully conceal their presence and then not bother to fill the empty file with something so as not to draw anyone's attention?"

John sighed, not bothering to hide his exasperation. "Maybe they're just not that smart, Sherlock. Can you never make room for mistakes on the part of the criminals?"

Hands slapped together like thunder. Sherlock rapped the conjoined knuckles of his thumbs against his forehead. "No, no, no!" he cried in time with the knocks. "They're not idiots, John. Believe me, if they were, this case would have been cracked much sooner. Could they have made mistakes? Of course, but this isn't one of them. You can tell by – wait."

Sherlock pressed himself against the window to peer through the rain. He rubbed a gloved hand to wipe off some of the mist that had formed on the inside of the cold glass. He stared for a second and then turned to John, eyes filled with lightning. "We're here."

The cab came to a stop shortly after his declaration. Coats turned into makeshift hoods to shield their wearers. The two friends made a beeline for the church offices through the freezing downpour. John considered himself a decently fast runner, but there was no comparing to the magic bullet that was Sherlock Holmes. It was a revival of New Compton Street – the detective was off like a jet engine and gave no care about leaving his flatmate behind in the puddles of the slated courtyard. The vestry building stood only twenty strides away, so John was only as wet as a partially-drowned rat when he reached shelter.

From there they once more hiked up to the third storey where Lyla Gary's office resided. Sherlock nearly barged in to the secretary's chamber, but managed to remember to give the door a courteous knock first. He didn't feel compelled to wait for a full answer of permission from Ms Anne Black. The bespectacled brunette jolted in her seat as Sherlock lunged forward and loomed like a vengeful giant in front of her desk.

"Morning. Is Mrs Gary in? I'm Sherlock Holmes from yesterday and I must speak with her immediately."

Ms Black sat up and began rolling her pen between her fingers. Must have been a trick she used to regain her professional composure. "I'm afraid she won't be in for a while, sir. On Mondays she comes in from two to six o'clock. If you would like me to take a message or set up an appointment, I'll happily oblige."

Sherlock huffed. "Is Ms Qadir in, then? I'd like to speak to her as well."

Ms Black's pencil-thin eyebrows, as black as the rims of her square lens, dove toward each other like two fit Olympic divers. "I'm sorry? Ms who?"

John saw Sherlock's shoulders lock with mounting stress. "Qadir. Malaika Qadir. Is she in today? If not, could you tell me when she will be?"

"Are you certain you have the name right? Malaika Qadir? I don't recall—"

"Black veil," Sherlock cut in, his voice a whetted blade. "She wears a burqa and a veil."

Ms Black's eyes fluttered. "Oh. Right. Sorry, her name slipped my mind. I only knew . . . yes, sorry." She cleared her throat in the way soft-spoken people do when they have to deliver bad news. "She worked under Mrs Gary, yes?"

The detective straightened his back. "'Worked'?"

"Yes." The tiny Adam's apple bulging out of the secretary's stork-like throat gently glided up and down as she swallowed. It looked like she was trying to down a whole sparrow's egg and failing miserably. "I'm afraid she was dismissed yesterday afternoon. Are you friends of hers?"

"Is there a way we can get in touch with her?" Sherlock queried sharply. "Phone number? Address?"

"I'll check the directory, if you'd like," said Ms Black in a more chipper tone.

"Please do."

She gave a cordial nod. "Please take a seat outside. I'll be with you in a moment."

"Thank you." As Sherlock swept past John towards the door, he caused a small breeze to graze the doctor's face. At the same time he planted a question near John's ear in a whisper. There was only one word: "Construction."

It was enough to jog John's memory. He let Sherlock make his exit before approaching Ms Black with one of his most affable and guileless smiles. "Thanks for your help. We really appreciate it."

The secretary glanced away from the computer and eyed John with a professional but friendly look. "You're very welcome. Do you two know her well?"

John raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "More like a friendly acquaintance. We, uh, met her through Joseph Gary. Just wanted to check in on her to make sure she's all right, what with his passing and all."

"Ah. Right." Ms Black's affable demeanour dulled a bit, which she tried to mask by stretching her mouth in a flat smile and looking back at the computer screen instead of directly into John's eyes. "She was a friend of Mr Gary's, then?"

John feigned polite surprise. "Yes. I assumed most people knew. But I guess if you didn't know her . . ."

"No, no. I knew that she was the organist and was closest to the Garys. I'm just Mrs Gary's secretary, though. I'm not privy to many personal details about her or her husband."

A red flag popped up in John's mind. He held on to his casual tone. "But, then, how'd you know about Malaika getting sacked? Just word of mouth?"

Ms Black trained her eyes on the screen, but her stiffened expression told him she was floundering for an answer. "Mrs Gary might have mentioned it before she left yesterday. I . . . don't know why she would have. It did seem a bit odd to mention, but . . . well, it's her business." She pushed her glasses up her nose and flashed John a slightly warmer smile. She was trying too hard to seem innocent. "It's not my place to pry."

"I understand," said John quickly, not wanting to make a fuss out of it. He wanted to stay on her good side, after all. "Mrs Gary seems a nice enough person. A bit . . . distant, I guess, but in a respectable way."

Ms Black chuckled. She started to unwind as Malaika's relevance to the subject matter diminished. "She's a bit on the chilly side, but she's not the . . . well, the bitch you'd expect her to be." Another chuckle. Slightly more nervous. It was reasonable that as an employee at a church, Ms Black had to guard herself against make cursing a habit. He chuckled with her, though, which disarmed the secretary of her anxiety.

John waited little while before gently prodding the young woman for the information he actually wanted. He detected a faint tinge of guilt in his gut for chatting her up for such an impersonal reason. It wasn't simply because he was misleading her about his interest; he also was setting a bad example for Sherlock. Yes, his friend did this sort of thing already, but he shouldn't have encouraged him to treat people like this by doing it himself. John had to make peace with himself, though, if they were going to make any progress with the case. Some things, he hated to admit, were worth the risk of duping a few people. It was a fine line he despised walking, and despised it all the more when Sherlock used it to harass him about his 'moral self-righteousness'.

'At least I don't do it because they're just information ATMs,' he'd argue, to which Sherlock would reply, 'Oh, no, you have the decency to do it because you want a shag. So much more noble.'

John cleared his throat to banish his recollections, then slipped his hands into his coat pockets. "How long you been working here?" He gave Ms Black another one of his winning grins.

"About five years." Her answer sported a hint of coyness, as did her smile.

"You like it here?"

"Absolutely. I never realised it until I started working here, but St Martin's is an interesting place. The concerts, the café, the academy, the international acclaim – there's so much going on I still can't believe it sometimes."

John blew a short, low whistle. "Sounds busy. And you just had some renovations done a few years back, right? The church, I mean. Gary mentioned it."

Ms Black's fingers plucked at the keyboard now and then, but John had gained her almost undivided attention. She allowed herself to lean back in her seat as they chatted. "That's right. I came here about halfway through the whole thing. I don't know about the finer details, but plenty of long-time employees – like Mr Nilsson, the sexton – have said the church seems to have got a new spark of life since the renovation."

"Mr Nilsson?" John raised his voice just enough that Sherlock could hear him from the hallway, if his friend was even listening. "The sexton. So he's . . ."

"The grounds keeper. Been here for years." Ms Black chose this moment to fix up her hair, giving John a good eyeful of the length and body of her tresses while she pulled out the elastic and made a higher queue. "He probably knows more about it than anyone else."

John's body straightened rather accidentally, but he covered it with another bright smile. "Really? That's fantastic – I've actually been dying to know more about all the renovations that've been done. I'm not an architect or anything, but it's a . . . side-interest of mine."

"If you want to talk with him," said Ms Black, enjoying being helpful, "I'm sure you'll find him if you look around. He's from Sweden, I think. Tall, broad, blond, and usually has a stubble. He just moseys about the place a lot of the time. Does most of the upkeep work on the weekend. He should be around the rest of the day." With her hair in its new position – and it did flatter her by showing off more of her neck – Ms Black resumed her search on the computer, her fingers making the keys click and clack like tap shoes.

"That's splendid," John said with genuine appreciation. "Thank you very much."

It might have been a small blessing that John hadn't thought of anything else to say after that. To him, it didn't feel right having their exchange end on an exploitative note, even though the secretary had volunteered all the information of her own volition. John still felt a bit unclean about it, and it made him draw a blank on further topics of discussion. At least the awkward silence that ensued did not endure for too long. Even when quietude reigned, Ms Black's face quickly contorted in a befuddled but concentrated manner. Interrupting her search while she looked like that might have boded ill for John as well as Sherlock in their quest.

The look of consternation on the secretary's face didn't alleviate even when she addressed John again. "We don't seem to have contact information for Malaika Qadir. No phone, address or email." Her coffee-bean eyes, submerged in disappointment at her failure to help a new and likeable acquaintance, made John melt a little inside. "Sorry. Try looking her up in the phone book. I'm sure you'll have better luck there."

"It's all right," replied John, assuring her with an open grin that there was nothing to forgive. "Thank you again for telling me about Mr Nilsson. You have a pleasant day."

Ms Black wished him the same. Her smile almost mimicked his. They both raised a hand in a wave that wasn't really a wave, since their hands didn't move, but it carried the same meaning.

When John faced Sherlock again, who had curled up his legs in front of him, feet on the seat, and was tapping his fingers on the tops of his knees with eyes shut, all the ease and amiability John felt in the room dropped out of his stomach, making a splatter on the floor visible only in John's imagination. Getting that information was all too easy.

"Don't kick yourself over it," chided Sherlock before he even opened his eyes. When he did, he glimpsed at John and threw him a twisted half-smirk.

"You're turning me into a monster," John tossed back in dead monotone. "Let's just find Mr Nilsson, all right?"

That was fine with Sherlock. Down the stairs they trundled, or what felt like trundling at the speed Sherlock had set for them. Sometimes it was as if Sherlock didn't really have feet; he could have achieved mobility by the mere power of his brain as far as John was concerned. That was essentially how his flatmate did anything, in the figurative sense. No real reliance on physical energy, or physical wellness. His brain was the engine that never stopped, so a portion of its output was allocated to keeping him going when a good mystery gave him sustenance.

Their return to the outside world showed that the weather had improved since their departure. The driving rain had mellowed into a curtain of mist. It did not, however, brighten their prospects of finding Mr Nilsson. Given the weather, Sherlock assumed that Nilsson was most likely inside staying dry and warm. The church looked like the most reasonable place to check first. John was sent up the creaky stairs to the loft with the organ and the balcony seats while Sherlock scoured the ground floor and the chambers flanking the sanctuary. No sign of the sexton. Even with its immense size, the pair took only a few minutes of skulking to see that Nilsson was not there. When they met up again outside the church, both men's eyes fell on a small glass-walled pavilion sitting between the church and another building. On one side they saw the word 'Crypt', standing out as clear as day. They looked at each other for a shrug of confirmation, which they each got. Well, why not?

John remembered the episode when he went into the Crypt under St Martin-in-the-Fields for the first time for a long time afterwards. That was mainly because it was one of those surprises that, interestingly enough, had nothing to do with Sherlock. The detective appeared equally amazed but less perturbed by the stylish layout of the café. It resembled, in many ways, a typical cafeteria. Square tables dotted the space, each surrounded by four chairs with black fabric seats and metal legs. The light filling the vaulted room was being emitted from electric lamps that'd been installed on all four sides of each pillar. The florescent bulbs drew John's attention to the crusted white filling between the bricks in the ceiling and the slates (and grave markers) on the floor. While the glare did illuminate the room, it also kept him aware of the building's antiquity and the gradual decay that was taking place even after a fix-up. But it wasn't unpleasant or unwelcoming. A few of the tables were already occupied by visitors eating a late breakfast or early luncheon. Food staff seemed to pop out of the brickwork laden with boxes or cartons, striving not to trip on or catch their draping aprons on a stray table corner.

For all the added pleasantness, however, John couldn't fully grasp the café's appeal to the general public. For one, it was chilly like a graveyard at midnight. Its size also put him off a bit. The room didn't exactly have an embracing, heart-warming ambiance to it, and who knew if there were still corpses encased inside the centuries-old walls? John could admit the Crypt Café had a charm of its own, in a historic and mildly morbid way, but he did not plan on staying around long enough to eat there. Some place above ground would do just fine.

"And Malaika said they hold concerts in here?" John wondered aloud, though he assumed Sherlock was standing close by to hear. "Do you think the acoustics really work . . . Sherlock?"

When he turned and realised his friend had abandoned him, John spun 360 degrees and called out Sherlock's name again with more vexation. His temper dropped back down when he spotted his friend with a middle-aged Asian chap standing behind the sandwich bar. Groaning, John stormed over to them. The effort became unnecessary when Sherlock walked back towards him. John halted in his tracks to prevent a collision.

"Well?"

"Nilsson should be here in half an hour. He comes in around noon every day for lunch. Deming said we could wait for him here. He'll direct him to us. The man is a monolith, though, so it shouldn't be difficult to ID him."

"As tall as the Golem?" John couldn't resist asking.

"Not quite, but still conspicuous." Sherlock let a grin slip. He then led the way to the table of his choice, which stood against one of the pillars. As the detective, of course, Sherlock also seized the first choice of seat. He wanted a view of the entrance and the sandwich bar, which Mr Nilsson would go to first when he appeared. Their vigil was a tad more awkward than usual – not that that was a rare occurrence – since John had eaten only two hours ago. Sherlock wouldn't have eaten even if his stomach had been void of food for days. After ten minutes of silence, John received a dizzying shock when Sherlock started pressing him to get a boxed sandwich or a bag of crisps. Not for him, of course.

"But I'm not hungry. We had a late breakfast, remember?"

"We can't both look like we're waiting. You'll be hungry in an hour, anyway, so go get something."

"No! You get something if you're so paranoid. You ate less than I did."

"I don't need anything."

"Neither do I!"

Sherlock levelled a piercing look between John's eyes. "You've been eating less than usual lately. Ever since the scale broke, you've become disturbingly obsessed with losing weight."

John almost squeaked as he cried, "No thanks to you! And I not obsessed!" His cheeks turned scarlet when he caught the glances of a few puzzled patrons out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "I'm not going to allow my flatmate and doctor to starve himself over a few measly pounds that he didn't even gain." The detective softened the timbre of his voice to that of a troubled parent, which only made him sound more condescending. John could see the evil smile hiding behind those concerned eyes. His ears turned hot.

"You're a medical professional, John." Sherlock smiled sweetly. "You should know better."

"You're not going to wind me up over this. I just wanted to try skimmed milk for a change, and it was you who broke the scale!"

Sherlock's mouth folded downward, and his voice turned into an iron weight. "Get. Some. Food."

John gritted his teeth against the order. No, he had more willpower than that. Taking Sherlock's demands for a case or for anything he needed was one thing, but John was not about to let his friend dictate his eating habits. No way in hell was he going to . . .

Dammit! A minute and a half of resistance against the pressure of the mad detective's stare ended in John snarling under his breath and roughly shoving his chair out from under him as he stood. He was going to get Sherlock Holmes one of these days, even if it killed him. He asserted this vow to himself the whole way to the sandwich bar and back.

On his return, John set the BLT at his place and tossed a bag of plain crisps to Sherlock. John came close to laughing when Sherlock let the bag to bounce off his chin without lifting a finger to catch it. Sherlock flinched and blinked. His mouth curled into a half-sneer, half-pout as he eyed the bag. How did it look so endearing on him?

Uneasy silence returned. John chewed on his sandwich without further objections, except for what his eyes could convey. Too bad Sherlock spent most of the time monitoring the doorway, rendering John's glares completely ineffective. Sherlock did, however, take a moment to open the crisps bag and set it between them so they could each take a portion. Neither of them touched it.

The BLT sandwich had been consumed out of existence, excusing a few crumbs on the table and John's lap, by the time a burly fellow with shorn flaxen bristles on his face and scalp ducked through the café door and exchanged a short exchange with Deming as he picked out his lunch.

Sherlock's left eyebrow went up. "No sudden moves."

John switched his attention from the Swedish weightlifter to Sherlock. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Just smile and pretend nothing's wrong."

The hairs on John's neck sprung up. He flip-flopped between examining Sherlock and the man he presumed was Nilsson in the hope of extracting an explanation. "Is something wrong?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, "he's coming."

John could hear a pair of combat boots making footfalls from behind him along the stone floor. Sherlock slinked out of his chair and uncoiled his lanky body. "Jonas Nilsson, yes? Thank you for your time." He shot out a hand toward the barrel-chested man.

"It's no trouble, Mr Holmes," Nilsson replied in a gruff but civil manner. His small eyes, which mirrored Sherlock's as the two men scanned each other, sat deeply in his head under two bundles of straw-like hair that turned out to be eyebrows. He took Sherlock's hand in a firm grip and gave it a single shake. John didn't envy that hand.

Whatever damages his metacarpals sustained from the contact, Sherlock was the human embodiment of self-possession after he allowed one passing wince to slip through his mask. He introduced Nilsson to John and encouraged John to make extra room for the sexton so he could sit next to him. Despite the stab of icy apprehension in his chest, John scooted toward the pillar. The effort still didn't spare him from feeling like he would be squished like a bug on the bricks. He also couldn't escape the heavy, earthy musk emanating from Nilsson's tawny leather jacket, which still glistened from the rain and water vapour from outside. It smelled like it had fermented in a wet cemetery for a week. The odour crowded his olfactory glands so badly that John couldn't breathe properly. That left the majority of conversation to Sherlock and the Incredible Hulk.

"You two have some questions about the church's history?" Nilsson spoke bluntly and continued to look over the visitors with arsenic eyes. Those orbs actually left a slight stinging sensation on John's skin, if that made any sense.

Sherlock spoke to Nilsson as if everything was business as usual. "John and I share a curiosity for historical sites. In fact, we both agree that they are a vital part of London's identity. We took a walk around at the church this morning and were amazed at how well-kept it is. This café is also a marvellous innovation. I understand you have a great familiarity with the touch-up projects commissioned for the church. I have to commend you for it."

The well-defined muscles in Nilsson's block of a face relaxed a degree at Sherlock's effulgent praise of the buildings. That wouldn't be enough, though, from what John could tell. He held his peace but made himself ready to step in should the occasion require it, even at the risk of finding his head reduced to a bloody lump with one shove of Nilsson's right shoulder.

"I'm not really involved in all the planning for the fixing up," Nilsson clarified in a rumbling baritone that would have humbled a grown lion. John was a little impressed by the Swede's fluency and almost nonexistent accent. He must've had a good head for languages. "In terms of actual labour, I enjoy it and find it rewarding when it turns out as well as it does. And that people like you appreciate it. What exactly are you interested in?"

Sherlock pushed his façade of sincere interest to the brink of fanaticism. He looked more and more like an eager schoolboy on a class trip. "Well, the time and energy that is placed in renovations must be extraordinary. It shows how much your employers care about this place. Just how extensive have the renovations been?"

Nilsson shifted in his chair. The metal rods holding up the seat creaked and cried under the moving weight. John took a quick breath and held it while he watched the bars bow.

"You might already know this, but three to five years ago the church sponsored a major restoration project. Most of the work done then was for the church and the public areas surrounding it. Maybe you noticed the new window above the sanctuary, with the odd hole in the middle. An Iranian architect was commissioned to design it to give the building a more contemporary feel. Changes like that were made to revitalise St Martin's for the new millennium. But we also expanded our storage spaces and the visitors' facilities. It gets hectic with events held here."

"I understand," said Sherlock. "It sounds like a massive undertaking. Do you know where the funding for it comes from?"

Nilsson shrugged, which to John felt like the Himalayas rising fifty metres off the ground. "Different sources. The church raises plenty of money through its events, and from donations made by visitors and the congregation."

Sherlock spent a second letting his eyes skip around, knitting and rubbing his fingers together as he did. He absorbed every detail of the man across from him. When he spoke again, he carefully proceeded with his questioning. "For such a huge project, you need a contractor you can rely on. Someone trustworthy and with years of experience under his belt. Who did your employers go to?"

The huge man tilted his head to the left. John's stomach bounced a few times during the tense pause. "It's not really that important, is it? Or are you looking for a contractor with St Martin's seal of approval?"

"Oh, no." Sherlock brushed away the question with feigned nonchalance. "I'm simply a curious man. This sort of thing fascinates me. And John, too."

John blurted a quick "yeah" and tried to smile at Mr Nilsson. He probably looked like a complete twit, but as long as they left the crypt with their necks still properly aligned, John didn't care if he came across as mentally challenged. All right, maybe he'd care a little, but not enough to have a row with the Swede whose body content consisted mostly of muscle.

Nilsson paid John little mind. He preferred to devote his attention to the person asking the questions. His grey gaze, like a northern blizzard, met Sherlock's serene winter-morning eyes. "'Curious' – I can see that." Two heavy arms lay down on the table, making the polished surface slant a few centimetres south in his direction. "All right, I'll tell you. We initially engaged Balfour Beatty's services for the work, but a conflict of interest – I'm not sure what – caused progress to fall through early on. So we switched to a smaller company that proved to be very reliable." Nilsson raised and spread his lumberjack hands without lifting his arms. John could see the mountain chains of veins on them popping out of his skin. "That's all there is to it. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Nearly," said Sherlock. He didn't shy away from the fierce glare or the hands. "What was the name of the company?"

"Brennan and Devine. I don't know who else they've worked for."

"Do you know who recommended them?"

"I'm afraid not," said Nilsson. He sat as still as a boulder and gave the impression of being just as immovable.

Sherlock let the conversation fizzle on that prickly note, which didn't seem wise to John. However, the lull in chatter ended up being an artful transition from the moment Sherlock knew he'd scrounged all the information he could, to the one when he declared his retreat. His expression turned wry during this pause.

"Well, I don't want trespass on your luncheon any further," he announced with a sprinkle of imposed friendliness. "You have been most helpful. Thank you again for you time."

"Are you sure you don't want something to eat?" Nilsson enquired in a voice as flat as a frozen lake.

"We already ate." The scrape of Sherlock's chair against the floor stung John's ears, but it sounded as sweet as a choir of angels by its significance. John rose with his friend and gave Nilsson a "cheers" and farewell nod.

John and Sherlock managed to put five steps between them and the husky sexton when Nilsson shouted, "Hold on a moment!"

Tension seized John's shoulders. Sherlock's hand went to his friend's left bicep and pressed it reassuringly. They pivoted in Nilsson's direction in unison.

Nilsson was dangling an open bag in front of him. "You forgot your crisps."

Glancing at each other, John and Sherlock let the air rush out of their lungs and the strain to roll off them like water on a seal's skin. Sherlock shifted back to Nilsson. "We're all set. Those sandwiches filled us up—"

"Thanks very much," cut in John. Not quite sure what came over him, although he did hear a quiet roar in his stomach, he nonetheless marched back over to Nilsson and reclaimed the crisps.

While John made his way back to Sherlock, stunned by his own sangfroid in response to the gargantuan sexton, the detective's face lit up with a new thought. "By the way," he called to Nilsson, "do you know when Gary's funeral is scheduled to take place?"

"Saturday morning at eleven," was all Nilsson provided before tearing into his boxed chicken salad sandwich. Sherlock's half-hearted 'thank you' seemed to fall on deaf ears.

John didn't utter another word until he was back at Sherlock's side and making the trek back up to the surface. It didn't seem necessary to explain himself unless the detective prompted him to, which he fully expected and was not left disappointed.

"I thought you said you weren't hungry," noted Sherlock.

"Well, I am now." John flicked a few crisps into his mouth, then rustled the bag at Sherlock. "Take one."

"I'm fine."

John stopped walking and shook the bag again. "Doctor's orders. I'm not the only one starving myself."

"I don't need . . ." Sherlock's protest trailed off as he glowered at the open bag with the same childish grimace from earlier. John was nearly convinced Sherlock wouldn't go for it, but a second before he was ready to put the bag away in his jacket, swift pale fingers snagged a flake and shoved it into Sherlock's mouth. His lips twisted and writhed as he chewed.

"I'm not doing it for you," he asserted after swallowing.

John beamed in the dark stairwell. "I know."

The return to fresh air and fog brought John's mind back to the case and helped him recall what they had and still needed to investigate about Joseph Gary. It didn't seem they'd learned much from that uncomfortable encounter with Nilsson. That is, until Sherlock felt able to speak freely without being overheard by any of the visitors or employees. The scowl he wore was not only a response to tasting food while on a case.

"Who do they think they're fooling? If he's supposed to be a garden variety sexton, I'm the prime minister of South Africa."

John coughed, dislodging some crisp crumbs in his throat as he did. "Actually, South Africa has a presi—"

"A former yakuza as a sexton – did they really think no one would notice?"

John came close to pulling a muscle in his neck from turning his head too fast. "I'm sorry?"

"Japanese mafia. Surely you saw his body tattoos."

"His what?" Everything inside John, from his gut to his brain, reeled. It felt like his entire body has been sucker punched.

Sherlock's eyes rolled about like magic 8-balls. "A half a centimetre of inked skin showed above the collar of his T-shirt. When he leaned on the table, too, the tugged-back sleeves exposed the ink just below his wrists. The technique and style are characteristic of irezumi – hand-done tattoos injected underneath the skin. Has a distinctive look."

John waved his hands frantically, and the bag of crisps along with them. "Wait, wait a minute – Japanese tattoos? Aren't those really popular, especially among foreigners? What makes you think Nilsson is a mafia goon?"

"Former mafia goon, and there is other correlating evidence, too."

"Such as?" John asked with a scoff.

"The knife nicks on his face and hands, and the scar that formed after a bullet grazed him just below the left ear, strongly indicate a history of violence. His manner of walking gave him away, too."

Sherlock suddenly stopped and reached for his phone in his coat pocket. "Okay," John continued, knowing his companion was still listening while he read over what John assumed to be a text, "what could that possibly tell you?"

One look at the message he'd received made a smirk appear on Sherlock's face. "The yakuza utilise a wide, arrogant gait to distinguish themselves for ordinary people." He stored the mobile away and strode with purpose toward the street. When John caught up with him, Sherlock continued. "He's been out of the business for a roughly a decade, but he still walks like one of them. Except for their tattoos, most yakuza have no qualm against showcasing their criminal affiliation."

"How do you know he's not one any longer?"

Sherlock waved a gloved hand for a cab, cursing the encroaching fog with a cutting glare. "Along with discarding the trademark hairstyle of the yakuza and growing a timid amount of facial hair, he often forgets about his tattoos and inadvertently exposes them through his choice of clothes and careless movements. A yakuza would only let his tattoos show if he wanted them to be seen – that's the level of discipline expected of their society."

John sighed sharply and shook the shudders out of his system. "And what exactly has this got to do with the case?"

"Nothing," said Sherlock lightly, a bit more pleased now that a cab had stopped for them.

That wasn't the answer John was hoping to hear. His heart sunk a little at the idea that they could have learned more but didn't. They hadn't even tried to get their hands on the contracts for the renovation. "It was a bust, then?"

"Oh, no! Not at all!" Sherlock was behaving oddly upbeat about the state of things. When he instructed the cabbie to take them to New Scotland Yard, things began to make a little more sense.

"Lestrade texted you?" John asked, even though he knew the answer. "With good news, I trust?"

"The forensics team swept the flat, and Lestrade seized Gary's computer to have its contents examined. Not because of what was in the flat, though."

John lifted his brows, befuddled by the alleged contradiction. "What, then?"

Sherlock half-turned toward him. There was that python smile again, complete with hooded eyes that could lure the most skittish creature into a false sense of security. "He ran a background check on Gary."

-----------

Phones rang off the hook, and computer keys clicked and clacked like women's high heels. John had been to NSY enough times not to be distracted by the sounds of the police headquarters and the flurry of bodies and papers coming to and fro as he and Sherlock wove through the labyrinth of cubicles to Lestrade's office. To Sherlock, of course, they might as well have not existed. As fast as he tried to move, John couldn't outpace Sherlock to their destination. With new data awaiting him in Lestrade's care, too, Sherlock left little room for consideration of anyone and anything else in his field of focus.

Four and a half piles of paperwork filled up most of Lestrade's desk when they came in. The DI was in the middle of a call, but Sherlock's appearance brought all other concerns and activities to a halt. He signed off with a brisk farewell and stood as Sherlock and John entered the room.

"I trust we've excavated a few treasures," Sherlock greeted, strolling in with his routine peacock strut, "from Gary's dirty past."

After resting the phone in its cradle and sorting some of the mess before him, Lestrade decided to get right to the matter. He sighed, walked around his desk while surveying the detective and the doctor, perched himself on the corner of his desk and folded his arms. "You're five steps ahead as usual, I see. Well, it's not been all that easy. Gary did seem to be living something of a double life. On the surface he appears to be a perfectly respectable individual: hard-working, well-off, involved with his parish, recognised professionally with awards and whatnot. When we go back farther than twelve years, though, it's harder to trace the bloke. It's as if he's lived two different lives, and he left the first behind to become Joseph Gary, humble clerk turned theatre manager. But even as Gary he's accrued a suspiciously lucrative income. We've also taken a look at the Palace's financial history, and that has lots of holes, too."

This news set off an excited spark in Sherlock, but he forced himself to stay still. "So, 'Joseph Gary' isn't even his real name. Very interesting." He cast a glance back at John. "Looks like our 'criminal associations' theory was spot on." Winking at his friend, he switched back to Lestrade. "By the way, was the construction firm Gary worked for called Brennan and Devine?"

Both of Lestrade's arms and his jaw dropped. "How did you find that out?"

"A most intriguing man by the name of Jonas Nilsson gave us an abridged account of St Martin's renovation project. We thought perhaps it might be connected to Gary's previous job and the renovations done at the Palace Theatre."

Unable to keep still himself, Lestrade stood on his two feet again and walked about a bit. "Were you able to find one?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "Not yet, but there is one. It can't be a coincidence now we've had confirmation from someone unconnected to the theatre. But I recommend you run a background check on him, too. Jonas Nilsson is the sexton and may still have international connections in the criminal underworld. Or he's trying to make a fresh start."

Lestrade, in a move that startled John, dramatically turned toward the consulting detective. "Speaking of background checks, I decided to do a little digging regarding Malaika Qadir. Do you still think she's crucial for this case?"

A blankness started to overlay Sherlock's facial response to the alteration in topic, but he complied by candidly answering Lestrade. "Lyla Gary had her sacked the other day, and it seems her contact details are not available through the church directory. Given her close relationship with Joseph Gary, regardless of its exact nature, I still hold to what I said earlier. She is important and we must make get in touch with her soon."

"And like I said already," returned Lestrade, "that's been a bit difficult even for us."

Sherlock finally allowed a scowl to settle on his brow. "Why?"

John felt a chill run through his skin even before Lestrade lifted his hands in defeat and explained. "She has no phone – not a cell or a land line. Nor does she have an email address."

The corners of Sherlock's lips drooped. "What about a home address?"

Lestrade scratched the back of his head and ran his fingers through his sterling-gray hair. "We think we've narrowed it to a few places, all within . . . let's say, not-so-good neighbourhoods." The DI paused for a beat. It might have been because he read something in Sherlock's otherwise inscrutable expression, but John couldn't be sure. When he continued, Lestrade's words had lead-weighted feet. "They're the sort of places that people who shouldn't be in this country chose to live in as a way of keeping their illegitimacy a secret."

The chill became a cold snap inside the DI's office. The bustle of ordinary life in the cubicles outside carried on. They were trapped in a time capsule for a few infinite seconds.

Sherlock's deadened face implied he was submerging into his thoughts. In light of the situation, with Lestrade staring at Sherlock, anticipating a response of any kind, John dared to open his mouth.

"Illegal immigrant?"

Dark eyes flitted over to John. Lestrade inhaled deeply and turned more toward the army doctor. "That's what I'm thinking. A desperate foreign girl whom a man of questionable character, based on his background, decided to sponsor. It's not clear what she was doing for him in return, but I can tell you one thing: it won't look good for the Garys, St Martin's or the theatre's reputation if word gets around about this."

"She worked at the church," Sherlock put in quietly, making John and Lestrade glance at him. "She was an employee. What do her records say?"

"She did fill out the paperwork," Lestrade expounded, "but any details regarding contact information and previous experience were mostly fabricated. And I mean fabricated to the point that . . . there really is no Malaika Qadir."

"And where did her pay checks go?" A small burst of heat entered Sherlock's voice.

Lestrade chuckled incredulously, but without humour. He was as bewildered as the men to whom he passed on the information. "No record of a bank account in the name of Malaika Qadir. She could have one under another name, or she cashes her checks and keeps her earnings in a secret stash where she lives. But we can only speculate right now. It'd be helpful if we could get her in here for questioning."

"I might be able to arrange that," said Sherlock.

"Good. We'll keep airing out Gary's laundry and take a look at the company he worked for. Who was the other fellow?"

"Jonas Nilsson. St Martin's grounds keeper, former yakuza member."

Lestrade's eyes rounded to about the same size as John's when Sherlock first told him. Then he shut them and shook his head slowly. "What is going on at that church?"