Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Great Game- Six

Chapter Six

On the TV was a news report of last night's occurrence. '12 dead in gas explosion'. "A whole block of flats. Glasgow this time. He gets about." Shutting the TV of, I start to pace around the flat. "Yes. Well I suppose we lost that round. Though technically I did solve the case so..." I grabbed John's gun and started to fire at the wall. "God damnit!"

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

Chucking the gun aside I collapsed on the sofa, fuming. "What the hell does that matter? People are dying!"

"He killed the old woman because she was starting to describe him. Not 'them', John. Him. Just for once, he's put himself in the firing line." I stated. "What do you mean?" Sherlock took over. "Well, usually he must stay above it all. He arranges these things but no-one ever has direct contact..."

"What? Like Connie Prince's murder? He arranged that? People come to him to get their crimes fixed up? Like booking a holiday?"

"Yes, it would seem so." I mumbled before moping to my bedroom, getting changed. I was so frustrated, so upset that, yet again, someone died because they were describing the person in firing line.

"I hope you'll be very happy together." John stated, angrily. "I'm sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake. Actual, human lives. I just want to know, do you care about that at all?"

"Would caring help save them?" Sherlock deflected. "No."

"Then I'll continue to avoid the mistake."

"You guys find that easy don't you?" John stated now adding me into conversation. "Very. Is that news to you?"

"No. No."

"John, as easy as it may sound the people at stakes are a distraction." John's jaw clenched. "You're disappointed in us."

"Oh, good. Good deduction."

"Don't make heroes out of people, John. Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." Not long after Sherlock directs his attention on me. Not moving. Not talking. Just gazing. I offered him a small, faint smile. He breaks from his trance when the bomber's phone went off.

BEEP.

BEEP.

"That's the Thames. Near St Paul's. Check the papers, John. I'll try online."

"Oh, You're angry at us so you won't help. Not much cop, this caring lark." I said. John seems to click, thinking we were right. "Archway suicide."

"Ten a penny."

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington..."

"Nothing!" I message Lestrade, and we get ready for the Thames...

Plastered over buildings by the riverside were posters. 'Hickman Gallery. The Lost Vermeer.' We walk along the shore towards the cornered off area. Sherlock's and mine phones go off:

Remember this is Michelle's turn.

I look towards Sherlock, he was looking directly at me. "You reckon this is connected then? The bomber?" Lestrade asks. "Must be." Sherlock states. "But we must assume some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"

"Yes, Greg." I bend down and zip open the body bag, analysing what I could. "Hang on, isn't Sherlock supposed to be doing that?"

"No, the bomber wants this to be Michelle's turn." Sherlock states, seeming like an upset child. "Any ideas, Michelle?" I snap my glove on. "Seven so far."

"Seven?" I'm suddenly on the corpse like a blood-hound. Sniffing, pressing the cold skin, unbuttoning clothes, rolling up the body's trouser leg, examining his wristwatch. I look towards John. "Dead about twenty four hours. Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?" John stands back up from examination, asking Lestrade. "Apparently not, not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

"Yes. I'd agree. There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth..."

"Yes. There would be." I stated. "And there are more bruises... Here and here..." John gestures to the corpse's hairlines and ears. "Fingertips." I mumble. Sherlock seems to catch onto what I mean. "He's mid-Fifties, I'd say. Not in the best condition."

"He's been in the river a while which has destroyed most of the data..." Sherlock stated. I dispose the gloves and smile at my phone. "But I'll tell you one thing." Nodding towards the poster. "That lost Vermeer painting is a fake!"

"What?"

"We need to identify the corpse. Find out who his friends and associates are..." Lestrade cuts in. "Wait, wait! What painting? What're you on about?" Sherlock holds his PDA up. "It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master. It was supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago and now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds." Sherlock stated. "What's that got to do with this."

"Everything, heard of Golem?" I ask. "Golem?"

"It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" John asked, whilst filling Lestrade in. "Jewish folk-story. A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin. Real name Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. That I've beaten once or twice so not really deadly in my eyes." I point to the body. "That's his trademark style. The Golem squeezes the breath out of his victims with his bare hands."

"What's this got to do with that painting? I don't see..." Sherlock butted in. "You do see, You just don't observe."

"Alright, girls you're both pretty, Michelle? Wanna take us through it." John calmed Lestrade and Sherlock before escalation. I started to pace. "What do we know about the corpse? The killer's not left us with much. Just shirt and trousers. They're pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night. But the trousers are heavy duty Polyester. Nasty. Shirt's the same. Cheap. They're both too big for him. So, some kind of standard issue uniform. Dressed for work then. But what work? There's a loop on his belt, must be for a walkie-talkie. Security guard more likely. That'd be borne out of his arse."

"His backside?" Lestrade questions. "Flabby. You'd think he led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs say otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. The watch helps. The alarm shows he did a regular night shift."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died?"

"No. Buttons are stiff. Hardly touched. He set the alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. Killer must've been disturbed otherwise he'd stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front tat he tore off. Suggests the dead man worked somewhere recognisable. Some kind of institution. From his pocket. Soaked by the river but still recognisably... Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum. Or a gallery." I look through my phone. "Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of it's attendants missing. Alex Woodbridge. Last week they unveiled the rediscovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay a killer like the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: The dead man knew something about it. Something that would stop the owner charging thirty million pounds for it. The picture is a fake."

"That was fantastic." One Sergeant said amazed and dazzled. "Meretricious."

"And a happy new year." John finished as we all stared at the body. "Poor sod."

"I'd better put out some feelers for this Golem character."

"Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?" I smiled. "I say man, I was disguised as one last time. The things you do in a man's world. Although, I wouldn't change it; Makes for too much fun." I begin to laugh...