Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(12)

Around the corner, from the lifts, come footsteps and radio static. Shaz darts out of the office into the hallway. The detective and a uniformed PC round the corner.

The PC points his flashlight at her. “Oi. Step away from that door.”

She widens her eyes, deerlike. “What’s wrong?”

The detective reads the logo on her uniform shirt. CLEAN-TEQ. She’s wearing rubber gloves, holding a dust rag.

“Did you enter that office? Touch anything?”

“No, sir. What’s the emergency?”

“Have you seen anybody on this floor tonight?”

Behind him, the door to the stairs cracks open. A little face peeps out. Shaz shakes her head, like she’s answering the question. The door shuts.

“The building’s closed,” the detective says. “You’re off the clock.”

The PC escorts her downstairs. As the lift doors open she sees a thin boy skitter out of the stairwell and slip through a side door before the cop spots him. Well done, Harry.

Beyond the lobby windows a crowd clusters, wraithlike under the strobing lights.

“Was it an accident?”

“Not your concern.” The PC points at the exit.

Outside, Shaz jams the rubber gloves in her back pocket. Her real shift, at a Euston office tower, starts at midnight. Harry waits for her in the crowd, watching a police photographer shoot the Mercedes. The camera flash reflects from his eyes like lightning.



Outside the Marylebone headquarters of Croft Security, the surveillance camera swivels and the door buzzes open. Shaz snakes through. Harry shadows her, silent as a stone.

Richard Fallon greets them at the top of the stairs. Croft’s second in command is florid and bright eyed. “Here you are. Brilliant.”

Fallon escorts them towards the corner office. Through its open door Shaz sees Michael Croft. He sits tapping his mobile against the arm of a Saxon leather chair. His face is brooding beneath the blue flicker of the flatscreen, tuned to Sky News. His client paces.

“Stay calm,” Croft says. “Gathering information takes time. The incident happened only two hours ago.”

“I can’t. I have to know what happened to her. You’re the security consultant—I’ve retained you to stay calm and find the truth.”

Nic Ramsey is in his early thirties, dressed in a banker’s sharp black suit but jittering like a nervy teenager. At least like the nervy teenagers Shaz knows. Fallon raps on the door.

Croft waves them in. “Report. You got access to the roof?”

Harry’s cheeks shine with heat. “No, sir. Door’s deadbolted. No way to open it. Brand new keypad, but it ain’t hooked up. Press the buttons and the display says, ‘seek assistance.’”

Croft processes that. “Did you find anything noteworthy in Miss Kendrick’s office?”

Ramsey stops, taken aback. “This is your street team? Are you having a laugh?” He points at Harry. “This kid can’t be ten.”

“We needed intelligence from the scene,” Croft says. “That meant getting inside despite the presence of the police. And nobody slips past the cops better than these two.”

“Except the boy’s wrong. Somebody threw Holly off MCB’s roof,” Ramsey says.

His words land like a smack. Shaz pauses, and says, “The window in her office was open.”

Ramsey spins on her. “No, it wasn’t.”

Croft’s eyes narrow. “Why do you say that?”

“She never opened it,” Ramsey stammers. “Street noise. It was practically painted shut.”

Croft’s voice is a needle prick. “If you lie, I can’t help you. Garbage in, garbage out.”

“You want to strap me to a polygraph machine? I came to you.”

“Polygraphs are unreliable. But your flushed face, the visible throbbing of your pulse in your carotid artery, and the whiteness of your knuckles reveal everything such a test would.” Croft waves at the room. “Moreover, infrared cameras register changes in body heat. High-def audio equipment analyzes vocal tics for deception and dishonesty. It’s most sophisticated.”

Ramsey seems to shrink.

“Tell me again what happened, this time sparing the fabrications,” Croft says.

Ramsey shuts his eyes. “Dammit. Oh, Holly. Calling it suicide is a way of destroying her twice.”

Croft looks at Fallon. “Pour Ramsey a whisky.”

At the sideboard, Fallon splashes Macallan into a tumbler. Ramsey takes it. “I feel like I’m being interrogated at 221B Baker Street.” He raises the glass to Fallon. “So, thanks, Watson.”

Fallon’s brow knits. Croft smiles fleetingly. His voice turns soothing.

“You didn’t actually learn of Miss Kendrick’s death this evening from your colleagues.”

Ramsey sighs and tosses back the drink. “No. Though I did attend the bank’s summer party. At the Royal Academy. So did Holly.”

Party, Shaz thinks. That’s why Ramsey’s suit is speckled with glitter, like Holly’s dress.

Croft says, “You and Miss Kendrick detoured on the way there for an assignation?”

Ramsey blinks. “How . . .”

“You’re repeatedly rubbing your pocket handkerchief. I presume she helped—” He cuts a glance at Harry. “—ah, put you back together, before going to the Royal Academy.”