A Consulting Detective, Ex Army Doctor, and Child Mercenary Walk Into A Room

Chapter 8: The Great Game

Sherlock bends down and zips open the body bag. He looks the body up and down. It's a large, middle-aged man. "Any ideas?" "Seven so far." "Seven?" Sherlock is suddenly all over the corpse like a blood-hound, sniffing, pressing the cold skin, unbuttoning clothes, rolling up the body's trousers leg, examining the wristwatch, tapping into his PDA.

He examines the face with a lens and his eyes light up. At last, he shoots a look at John, jerks his head towards the body then concentrates on sending texts. John looks to Lestrade for permission. He shrugs. Why not?

"Dead about twenty-four hours. Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?" "Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated." John nods. "Yes. I'd agree. There's quite a lot of bruising around the nose and mouth ..." "Yes. There would be." I gesture at the corpse's ears and hairline. "And there are more bruises ... here and here ..." "Fingertips." John shoots Sherlock a look. Probably still pissed at him. I can imagine him thinking: what does he know? I scan the entire body with my eyes. "He's mid-fifties, I'd say. Not in the best conditions," I stated. "He's been in the river a while which has destroyed most of the data ..." Sherlock's phone beeps. He smiles. "But I'll tell you one thing. The lost Vermeer painting is a fake!"

This takes a beat to take in. "What?" "We need to identify the corpse. Find out who his friends and associates are -" Lestrade stops Sherlock. "Wait, what! What painting? What're you talking about?" I hold up my PDA. "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." Lestrade was still confused. God, he is so slow. "Ok. So ... what's that got to do with the stiff?" Sherlock is excited. "Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?" I nod my head. I've only skimmed through it though. "It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" "Jewish folk story. A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin. Real name Oskar Dzunda. One of the deadliest assassins in the world." I scoffed at this, yeah right. Sherlock gestures at the corpse. "That's his trademark style." "This was a hit?" "Definitely. 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 throws his hands up, fed up. "You do see. You just don't observe."

I quickly intervened before the squabble got out of control. "All right, girls. Keep calm. Sherlock? Wanna take us through?" Sherlock does. He straightens up, enjoying himself.

"What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much. Just a 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. And 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 -"

"Tube driver?" suggests Lestrade. Sherlock pulls a face. "Security guard." I tried. "More likely. That'd be borne out by his backside." "His backside?"

"Flabby. You'd think he led a sedentary life - yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins on his legs - say otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good."

I smile, pleased that I guessed the right occupation.

"And the watch helps. The alarm - shows he did regular night shifts." "Why regular?" asks Lestrade, "Maybe he just sets his alarm like that the night before he died?"

"No, 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 have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge of insignia on the shirt front that he tore off. Suggests the dead man worked somewhere recognisable. Some kind of institution."