Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(13)

Ramsey’s hand hovers near the pocket square. He lowers it. “We were seeing each other. I need another drink.”

He heads to the sideboard. Shaz thinks: For a grieving boyfriend, he hardly seems torn up.

“We were at the party barely half an hour when Holly got a phone call and left. Abruptly.” He shakes his head. “That call is the key to what happened. It has to be related to the allegations.”

“Allegations?” Fallon turns to peer more closely at him.

“There was a breach in the computer system at the bank. Customer account data was stolen. There was . . . innuendo . . .”

Croft nods at Fallon, who brings up information on the desktop computer. “Mayfair Capital Bank manages twenty billion pounds in assets for its private clients. The breach has been traced to MCB’s Investment Management Division—where Holly Kendrick worked.” He looks up, eyes avid. “She was suspected of the theft.”

“She didn’t do it,” Ramsey says.

Croft says, “You followed her to the bank.”

Ramsey hesitates, then admits, “Yes. I was worried. Because she was afraid.”

“Of whom?” Croft’s face darkens. “You entered via the back door to avoid the guard at the front desk. But now you fear that when the police review the CCTV footage, they’ll spot you.”

“No. Holly took a cab to the side entrance and went in the back. And the security cameras are being upgraded. They’re offline. As you—”

“So the rollover of security systems was the perfect time for her to destroy evidence and cover her tracks.”

“She didn’t do it. And she didn’t jump.”

Shaz clears her throat. “The Mercedes was parked directly below her office window.”

Ramsey throws his hands up. “Expert testimony from Baby Spice.”

“And pitch perfect.” She bites back, Idiot.

Croft flicks a remote at the flatscreen, bringing up the photos Shaz had snapped. “Ramsey. The Mercedes. Do you recognize the woman and man?”

Ramsey collects himself. “That’s Amelia Gordon-Lennox. Managing Director. And—”

“Crikey.” Fallon approaches the TV. “It’s Jeroen Dijkstra. The Chelsea striker.”

Croft steeples his fingers. “Why do you insist Miss Kendrick went off the roof?”

Ramsey deflates. “All right. I went up to Holly’s office. It was dark. No sign of her. And the window was shut.” He glares at Shaz. “Then I heard footsteps in the stairwell.”

“Describe the footsteps,” Croft says.

“Clicking heels. Light. Hers.”

“What did you do?”

“Opened the stairwell door. Called her name, got no answer. Climbed a flight and called again. Then . . .” He chokes up. “I heard the screaming from the street. I ran down.”

“And came directly here.”

“No, I wanted to help but she . . . Holly was . . . I couldn’t . . .” He scrapes his fingers through his hair. “There was nothing I could do.”

Fallon says, “Except beat it before the cops saw you.”

Ramsey’s fists close. “I know I’m in trouble. Amelia Gordon-Lennox saw me. She’ll tell the police. But I’m not here just to save my own skin. Holly’s office window was shut. If your street team didn’t open it themselves, somebody else did. After Holly fell.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Croft, I don’t know who else to turn to. Help me. And Holly. Please.”

“You have every assurance.” Croft stands and shakes Ramsey’s hand. Then he nods at Shaz and Harry. “All right. Good work.”

Harry is staring at the photos on the flatscreen, transfixed. Shaz nudges him from the office and they follow Fallon downstairs. Her fifty quid is in an envelope on the front desk. At the door, Harry hesitates.

He gazes up at Fallon. Whispers: “The car looked like a wrecking ball dropped on the windshield. The lady, she was proper smashed.”

Fallon sets a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Never intended for you to see such a sight. The police should have put up a screen. Hold in your mind, though—it was over in an instant.” He hands him a twenty pound note. “Chin up.”

Harry slips from under his grip and out the door. Shaz follows. On the street, Harry pauses under a streetlight. The twenty is crushed in his small fist. Though he tries to act hard, he rubs a hand across his eyes.

The streetlight illuminates a shiny smudge he’s left on his cheek. Shaz wipes it off with her thumb. Harry sniffs and says, “I’m not a baby.”

“Of course you’re not, love.”

From the doorway, Fallon gives them a sad gaze. The door clicks shut.



Shaz steps outside the Euston office tower at 7:30 A.M. The sun blazes in a blue sky. She stretches her back and removes her earbuds, the ones she found in a rubbish bin in the HSBC canteen. Birds sing in the chestnut trees.

At the bus stop shelter, the video screen plays a news update. The Mayfair bank. The Mercedes, a yellow tarp spread across its windshield. Suspected suicide . . . Holly Kendrick . . . security breach at MCB . . .

Her bus rolls up, a red wall. She hesitates. She has taken assignments from Michael Croft for two years. Been happy for the money. But this one—glitter and glass brilliance and twisted death. And the look in Harry’s eyes. Her throat thickens.