𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐄𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 || 𝐁𝐁𝐂 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤

32: Cypher

Noon, Central London:

A gleaming sign reads: 'SHAD SANDERSON:' Investment Bank.

Banks of digital clocks told the time in New York, London and Tokyo. London hits 12 pm; Hong Kong hits 8 pm; New York hits 7 am. Simultaneously.

I watched as employees waved their badges at electronic eyes, permitting the security doors to swing open. From the looks of it, you can't go to the toilet here without a pass.

"When you said we were going to the bank, I didn't expect this," John said, the elevator carrying us up several floors. I looked around appreciatively; it certainly was impressive.

The Trading Floor was large, filled with cubicles of tired looking workers, each speaking energetically on the phone. Office workers dashed past carrying assortments of papers, each looking as if they were on a personal mission.

We waited in reception until an overly-friendly receptionist led us into the office of the Director of the Trading Floor, where a man in an expensive but ill-fitting suit stood up to greet us. He had that ridiculous floppy hair which screamed 'privately educated snob.'

I took an instant disliking to him.

"Sherlock Holmes," said the man eagerly, shaking Sherlock's hand.

"Sebastian."

"How are you, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

"These are my friends, John Watson and Alexandria Novak," he said, ignoring Sebastian's question.

"Hello," I said. Sebastian blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Friends?" he asked.

"Colleague." John was quick to correct.

"He's my jailer," I said, earning a snort from Sherlock. Sebastian shook John's hand, John grimacing at his vice-like grip.

Seb went to kiss my hand, but I avoided that by vigorously shaking his.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break in."

He directed us to a darkened corner office with a glass front.

"Sir William's Office. The Bank's former chairman. His room has been left here – like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in here late last night."

"What did they steal?" John asked.

"Nothing. They just left a little message." Sebastian flicked on the lights to the office.

The office was pretty ordinary. But what had captured her attention was a gilt-framed oil painting: a portrait of a grim-faced banker. The plaque read 'SIR WILLIAM SHAD. 1944-2009. CHAIRMAN.'

The picture had been vandalised. Someone had drawn a thick line across Sir William's eyes using bright yellow aerosol. The paint had dripped, leaving a row of yellow dripping from the original mark.

We were currently looking at CCTV footage showing the office late last night. A still frame every sixty seconds, the portrait was just about visible in the grainy shots.

Then, miraculously, the paint suddenly appeared. Seb froze the picture at 11:34 pm. He flicked back to the previous shot at 11:33 pm. No paint.

"Sixty seconds apart. So someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around - then left within a minute."

Sherlock gazed at the footage with a keen air of interest.

"How many ways into that office?" he asked. Seb furrowed his eyebrows.