The Soldier and Consulting Detective

Fake

We made it to the river Thames, meeting Lestrade who is over by a corpse. An officer tries to stop us, but with a flash of my badge, I am able to get us past the police tape.

"You reckon this is connected then?" Lestrade asks, nodding his head to the body. "The bomber?"

"Must be." I answer looking at the dead man.

Sherlock pulls out the pink phone from his pocket and looks at it.

"Odd though, he hasn't been in touch."

"But we must assume some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade questions.

"Yeah." Sherlock and I answer.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asks the two of us.

"Seven so far." Sherlock answers immediately.

"Seven?" The inspector repeats.

Sherlock and I begin to examine the body, with Sherlock at the head and me at the legs. I move his trousers up a bit, looking at the legs for clues and feel the material as well. Cheaply made, polyester. I place the material back where it was and I remove his sock to examine the feet but almost gag at the smell.

"Switch me places." I gag, standing away from the putrid smell. Sherlock gives me a weird look, as does John, and stands. "What?" I say defensively. "I don't like the smell." He rolls his eyes but moves towards the feet, allowing me to examine the top half of the body.

We gather what we need and Sherlock shoots John a look to examine the body. He looks at the inspector for permission, and gets a shrug in response. John clears his throat and kneels to examine the body, Sherlock and I moving away to give him room. Sherlock brings out his phone and begins to type away as John speaks.

"He's been dead twenty four hours. Maybe a bit longer." He informs. "Did he drown?"

"Apparently not." Lestrade answers. "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated ."

"Yes, I'd agree." John says.

"Bruising around his nose and mouth indicate so." I input, throwing in my two cents.

"And more bruising here and here." John points out the places, including his knuckles and the hairline.

"Fingertips." Sherlock and I mutter. This method of killing is familiar to me, the name of the killer on the tip of my tongue.

"His late thirties, I'd say," John declares standing. "Not in the best condition."

"He's been in the water a long while." Sherlock inputs. "The water has destroyed most of the data. But I'll tell you one thing." He turns off his phone and smiles a bit. "That lost Vermeer painting is a fake."

"What?" Lestrade asks for the rest of us.

"We need to identify the corpse," Sherlock begins quickly. "Find out about his friends and-"

"Wait wait wait wait," Lestrade cuts in confused. "What painting? What are you on about?"

"It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters?" Sherlock asks. "Dutch old master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago."

"Now it's turned up," I interject. "Said to be worth thirty million pounds."

"Okay," Lestrade said barely glancing at me. "So what has that got to do with the stiff?"

"Everything." Sherlock excitedly, his eyes widening slightly.

Suddenly something clicks, the name of the killer. An assassin.