How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 12: Places to go...

Sherlock lay on the couch in his dressing gown with his fingers steepled and his eyes closed. John puttered about in the kitchen, making tea. He walked into the room and stood near Sherlock, staring at the pictures pinned to wall above the prone man.

"So what am I looking at here?" Sherlock didn't reply and John nudged him with his knee, causing Sherlock's eyes to snap open and an annoyed expression to cross his face.

"What, John? I'm busy." John looked down at the detective with a no nonsense glare and repeated his question. Sherlock waved vaguely at the photos. "Evidence."

"Obviously. A little better explanation, if you please."

Sherlock heaved a sigh that said 'why can't you figure this out for yourself?' and leapt to his feet, knocking John back and nearly spilling his tea. John snorted, annoyed, as Sherlock began pointing to photos.

"These are photos of the key players in this. Some are street cameras courtesy of Mycroft, the others are from members of the homeless network that Wiggins gathered for me. Ok this one is the dead girl six days ago. No signs of any illness. Therefore, when it did affect her, it killed her quickly which backs up Molly's theory of an injection. This one is the girl with her client..."

"Client?" John interrupted.

"Oh yes, John," Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully; "our victim was nowhere near a normal homeless girl. She was actually Marilyn, not her real name of course, a high class call girl in an exclusive contract with a high ranking politician."

John whistled out a long breath. "Well THAT is a turn out. Does Greg know?"

"Greg?" Sherlock questioned, distractedly.

 John rolled his eyes. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Oh, right. Yes, I informed him earlier once Wiggins got a positive ID on her." He gestured dismissively. "I doubt the information will benefit him in any way though." John frowned. "So this one here is the politician. As you can see, or perhaps not you," another frown from the doctor, "but I can see from the lines and general puffiness of the face that he has been very upset recently. After checking into his personal life and eliminating everything else, the only possible cause for this distress is the loss of his paramour."

He gestured to another group of photos, showing what appeared to be the inside of a small but opulently decorated flat. "This is Marilyn's flat. Not much to see, except," he pointed to a corner, "here. There is a pile of items all originating from the same person. A certain former client of hers named Gareth Henderson. Now, according to everything we have found so far, he hasn't been a client of hers for a little more than two years now but he still sends her sentimental drabble every week, like clockwork. It all sits in this corner, collecting dust so she obviously doesn't care about him but he still wants her."

 He turned away from the wall, neglecting to explain the other pictures to John, and took off his dressing gown, exchanging it for the Belstaff. "Well come along John, places to go, people to see."

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Sherlock's eyes flitted around the very masculine room they occupied. His eyes landed on the slight young man before them and his lip curled in disgust.

Mr. Henderson was the epitome of a spoiled, rich kid who was well into his twenties and still lived on his parents' dime. His clothes were ridiculously expensive and purchased solely for that reason. They didn't flatter him at all. His face was rat- like, with sharp angles and a pointy nose and chin. Overall, he wasn't pleasant to look at and was even worse to listen too. Basically, Sherlock thought he was a pompous arse and that was coming from the king of them. He had already deduced that the man didn't have the spine to murder anyone himself but was still deciding if he was depraved enough to hire someone to do it.

"Tell me about your relationship with Miss Marilyn. Be brief."

Gareth frowned. "She won't answer my calls."

"How long has it been since she answered your calls?"

"19 months, 4 days." He answered promptly, making John whistle under his breath.

"Did you ever consider that she might not want to speak to you?" John asked incredulously, getting a blank stare from the other man.

"Of course not. I'm the best thing that ever happened to that bitch. It's that bastard she went to. I know it's him! She'd come crawling back to me if he ever left her."

Sherlock knew it was a bit not good, but he couldn't resist quipping, "Well, she's dead now so doesn't look like she'll be coming back anytime soon."

Henderson stared at Sherlock, his face turning an unattractive shade of red. "Liar! You're just saying that to get me to leave her alone! Well it isn't going to work!" He got to his feet and pointed to the door. "Get out now!!" John and Sherlock obliged him.

On the sidewalk, John turned to Sherlock. "Ok, I'll call Lestrade and tell him we've found the culprit and..." Sherlock shot him a disbelieving look and he trailed off. "What? Isn't he the killer?"

Sherlock snorted and shook his head. "Hardly. He wanted her back, however misguidedly, but not to eliminate her."

John was confounded. "Ok, so what now?"

"Now we go find suspect number two."