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FIC: Contamination, Chapter 2: And the rain sets in
See master post for headers & notes
Lestrade read through Adler's files while he waited for more information to come in. Waiting about was his least favourite part of the job, and it seemed like it happened more and more these days: more information, more people bringing him the information instead of finding it out himself, more delegation, more paperwork. More synthesis, too, though, which he supposed was the payoff.
Donovan poked her head in. "Found your man Leon Blank. Spent last night in the drunk tank; pretty good alibi, don't you think?"
"Right." He drummed his hands on the papers on his desk. "Tell Jones to put together a team; you go get a warrant to search his flat. We'll meet you there."
She grinned. "Can do, sir."
Lestrade checked his watch, then buried himself back in his files. By the time Donovan rang to tell him she had the warrant, his eyes felt gummy and his left foot had fallen asleep. He gathered up his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase; something told him he'd be spending some time reading in his car while Donovan turned things upside-down and shook them until information fell out.
He texted Holmes; it was worth keeping the man updated. Otherwise, Holmes was likely to wriggle into crime scenes through keyholes and manhandle all the evidence.
Lestrade arrived to find Holmes and Dr Watson already outside Blank's building, talking to Donovan. "Sir," she said, as he joined them. "They were here when I got here."
"On your way to break in?" Lestrade said. "Good thing I texted you."
Holmes smirked, hands deep in his pockets, and Dr Watson tucked his chin into his collar and grinned. "I did wait for you," Holmes said, with an air of offended innocence.
Lestrade knew better than to buy what Holmes was peddling. "Why? You never have before."
"Manners, John informs me, and something about catching flies with honey." He turned, hands still buried out of sight, his coat like a carapace. "I confess I wasn't listening, John."
"Yes, you were," Dr Watson said, rocking slightly on his heels.
"Mmm." Holmes pivoted again, his pale eyes flat in the afternoon light. "Lestrade, I must see the flat. If you would be so kind."
Lestrade shivered, and not from the cold; Holmes's rarely-deployed courtesy was artificial and piercing. He rather preferred it when Holmes was vicious and insulting; there was nothing false about that. As he gestured for the pair to follow him, Dr Watson met his eyes, and he had the strange feeling that the man knew exactly what he was thinking.
Blank's flat was messy, with an overabundance of no-doubt fake Burberry draped over worn furniture. The walls were bare, except for a calendar with a picture of a naked woman with an ice lolly in an improbable location. Holmes leafed delicately through a pile of post, then dropped to his stomach in the bedroom to look under the bed. "Well," he said, holding out his hands for Dr Watson to pull him to his feet, "this was a waste of time. Lestrade, do get me a copy of the audio from the crime scene." He dusted the front of his coat and turned to go.
"That's all you're going to look at?"
"That's all I need," Holmes replied. "Blank's not your killer."
"Yeah," said Lestrade. "I was pretty sure of that anyway, but it's a hell of a conclusion for you to come to so quickly."
Holmes's eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction, and a familiar look flickered across his face; as often as he saw it, Lestrade had never grown used to it. He sometimes thought that when Donovan looked at Holmes, all she saw was that look, startlingly ugly on Holmes's normally-handsome face; in his darker moments, he thought Donovan saw Holmes more clearly than he did. "No use of space or colour. Nothing on the walls but pornography. No coherence or flow. This is not the home of an artist, and therefore, not the home of the killer."
"The killer worked in invisible ink," Lestrade said, crossing his arms.
"John checked," Holmes said, and strode out the door. "Audio, Lestrade!"
Lestrade looked at Dr Watson, who held up a UV torch. "Nothing," he said, and tucked it back into the messenger bag he had slung across one shoulder. "See you later, Detective Inspector." And he followed Holmes out of the flat.
A few seconds later, Donovan poked her head around the doorframe. "Are you ready for us now?" she asked.
Lestrade looked around the flat, thinking of Grace here, cross-legged on the bed of a man she thought was her boyfriend, happy in the time before he hooked her on drugs and started pimping her out. He smiled tightly at Donovan. "Get your team in here and get everything you can." He drummed his fingers on his arm, then took out Adler's card and phoned him for the address of his sister.
* * *
Irene Adler lived not far from Holmes and Dr Watson, in a somewhat better-maintained building. She was a tall woman around Lestrade's own age, her eyes red from crying; the family resemblance to her brother was clear. "Inspector Lestrade," she said. "Nate told me you were coming by to talk to me about Grace."
"Yes," he said.
She gestured for him to come inside. The main room was sparsely furnished, and a half-full packing box sat in a corner. Ms Adler saw him notice it, and said "It's embarrassing, isn't it? I moved in six months ago and I've still got things in boxes. Have a seat." She curled herself into a corner of a large armchair, tucking her slipper-clad feet up off the floor.
Lestrade sat on a hideously uncomfortable horsehair and wood affair and tried to smile at her. "Your brother told me that Grace was a student of yours," he said. "I was hoping you could help me locate her parents."
"I wish I could. She -- my partner and I run a theatre company, you see, and Grace just started hanging around. We let her do some set painting, and she wanted to act, so I gave her lessons. She never told me her real name, said her father'd left years ago and her mother didn't care anymore, so she'd picked her own." She twisted her hands into her lap. "I wish I did know. I wish I knew anything that would help. When Nate told me her boyfriend was a pimp, I didn't want to believe it. I told her she could always come here, if she needed a place to stay, but I hadn't heard from her in over a month." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't believe she's dead."
"I'm sorry," Lestrade said. "Did Grace use any drugs when you knew her?"
Ms Adler shook her head. "Just pot, like any kid her age. Nothing else, that I knew of."
Lestrade nodded. "We'll do our best to catch her killer, I promise you. Meanwhile, if you think of anything, give me a ring." He handed her his card.
Ms Adler took it, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Grace's--her body, Mr Lestrade. What will happen to it?"
"She'll be cremated," he said, and Ms Adler nodded. She walked him to the door, shook his hand firmly -- her fingers were very cold, her fingernails short with pale pink polish, God Holmes was rubbing off on him -- and then he was outside in the cold again. His stomach rumbled, and he decided he should probably eat something today, considering he'd lost his breakfast outside the art museum and skipped lunch.
He was finishing off a middling bacon butty in his car when his phone beeped; it was a text from Donovan. "DI Adler arrested Blank. NO EVIDENCE. ARSE."
Lestrade shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and headed back to the Yard. When he arrived, Adler was in his office. "What do you want?" Lestrade said, keeping a tight check on his temper. He shoved past him and settling into the desk chair.
"I need Grace's files," Adler said. "The one I gave you, and the one on the murder."
"I need you not to arrest people without evidence, but we can't always get what we want."
"I have evidence."
"Like hell. I've seen everything you have, and more, and I'm telling you, Blank was elsewhere when she was killed. Is he scum? Absolutely. Did he do this? I don't think so." He catalogued Adler's features, trying to find what Holmes had seen about the eyes, from all that distance away. Something was subtly off -- not about the eyes, but about his memory. He had a good memory for faces, and Adler's memory-face didn't quite match the face of the man he saw before him; it gave him a nagging sensation that he was talking to the man's identical twin.
"You have no idea what he's put Irene through--"
Lestrade had had enough. He felt for Ms Adler and her lost student, but obsessions like this were in the way of good work. Obsessions made you do stupid things, and arresting Blank like this was idiotic. "This is my case!" he gritted out, between clenched teeth.
"He's mine," Adler snarled. "I've been trying to nail this bastard, but nothing we knew was enough, nothing would stick, not till this. I'm not letting him get away because you have scruples."
"I don't have scruples, for fuck's sake. I have lack of sufficient evidence. I have an alibi. We can't hold him on this."
Adler slammed his hand into the doorframe. "Dammit! We know -- we know what he's doing, to Grace Blue and plenty of girls just like her over the past few years."
"That doesn't mean he's the one who cut her up. Take him down for what he's done, by all means, but I don't think he's a killer. I think we've missed something, and someone very dangerous is going free because of it."
Adler gritted his teeth. "Just -- give me the damn files, Lestrade, and I'll be out of your hair. We're not going to agree on this."
Lestrade tipped back in his chair, narrowing his eyes. The files were on the passenger seat of his car, in the battered briefcase his father'd bought him when he was promoted to Inspector; he'd been so annoyed over the arrest that he'd forgotten to bring it back inside. "I don't have them." He watched Adler carefully. "I gave them to Sherlock Holmes." For an instant, something like fear crossed Adler's face. Lestrade gave him a tiny smile. "Besides, you must have the electronic copies; what do you need the printouts back for?"
Without answering, Adler spun on his heel and stalked off.
After he'd left, Lestrade shrugged back into his coat. May as well make good on his lie; Holmes might see something new. Maybe even something that would nail Adler, who was starting to make Lestrade's brain itch like mad.
* * *
Next chapter: Your shadow on my wall
And the rain sets in
Lestrade read through Adler's files while he waited for more information to come in. Waiting about was his least favourite part of the job, and it seemed like it happened more and more these days: more information, more people bringing him the information instead of finding it out himself, more delegation, more paperwork. More synthesis, too, though, which he supposed was the payoff.
Donovan poked her head in. "Found your man Leon Blank. Spent last night in the drunk tank; pretty good alibi, don't you think?"
"Right." He drummed his hands on the papers on his desk. "Tell Jones to put together a team; you go get a warrant to search his flat. We'll meet you there."
She grinned. "Can do, sir."
Lestrade checked his watch, then buried himself back in his files. By the time Donovan rang to tell him she had the warrant, his eyes felt gummy and his left foot had fallen asleep. He gathered up his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase; something told him he'd be spending some time reading in his car while Donovan turned things upside-down and shook them until information fell out.
He texted Holmes; it was worth keeping the man updated. Otherwise, Holmes was likely to wriggle into crime scenes through keyholes and manhandle all the evidence.
Lestrade arrived to find Holmes and Dr Watson already outside Blank's building, talking to Donovan. "Sir," she said, as he joined them. "They were here when I got here."
"On your way to break in?" Lestrade said. "Good thing I texted you."
Holmes smirked, hands deep in his pockets, and Dr Watson tucked his chin into his collar and grinned. "I did wait for you," Holmes said, with an air of offended innocence.
Lestrade knew better than to buy what Holmes was peddling. "Why? You never have before."
"Manners, John informs me, and something about catching flies with honey." He turned, hands still buried out of sight, his coat like a carapace. "I confess I wasn't listening, John."
"Yes, you were," Dr Watson said, rocking slightly on his heels.
"Mmm." Holmes pivoted again, his pale eyes flat in the afternoon light. "Lestrade, I must see the flat. If you would be so kind."
Lestrade shivered, and not from the cold; Holmes's rarely-deployed courtesy was artificial and piercing. He rather preferred it when Holmes was vicious and insulting; there was nothing false about that. As he gestured for the pair to follow him, Dr Watson met his eyes, and he had the strange feeling that the man knew exactly what he was thinking.
Blank's flat was messy, with an overabundance of no-doubt fake Burberry draped over worn furniture. The walls were bare, except for a calendar with a picture of a naked woman with an ice lolly in an improbable location. Holmes leafed delicately through a pile of post, then dropped to his stomach in the bedroom to look under the bed. "Well," he said, holding out his hands for Dr Watson to pull him to his feet, "this was a waste of time. Lestrade, do get me a copy of the audio from the crime scene." He dusted the front of his coat and turned to go.
"That's all you're going to look at?"
"That's all I need," Holmes replied. "Blank's not your killer."
"Yeah," said Lestrade. "I was pretty sure of that anyway, but it's a hell of a conclusion for you to come to so quickly."
Holmes's eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction, and a familiar look flickered across his face; as often as he saw it, Lestrade had never grown used to it. He sometimes thought that when Donovan looked at Holmes, all she saw was that look, startlingly ugly on Holmes's normally-handsome face; in his darker moments, he thought Donovan saw Holmes more clearly than he did. "No use of space or colour. Nothing on the walls but pornography. No coherence or flow. This is not the home of an artist, and therefore, not the home of the killer."
"The killer worked in invisible ink," Lestrade said, crossing his arms.
"John checked," Holmes said, and strode out the door. "Audio, Lestrade!"
Lestrade looked at Dr Watson, who held up a UV torch. "Nothing," he said, and tucked it back into the messenger bag he had slung across one shoulder. "See you later, Detective Inspector." And he followed Holmes out of the flat.
A few seconds later, Donovan poked her head around the doorframe. "Are you ready for us now?" she asked.
Lestrade looked around the flat, thinking of Grace here, cross-legged on the bed of a man she thought was her boyfriend, happy in the time before he hooked her on drugs and started pimping her out. He smiled tightly at Donovan. "Get your team in here and get everything you can." He drummed his fingers on his arm, then took out Adler's card and phoned him for the address of his sister.
* * *
Irene Adler lived not far from Holmes and Dr Watson, in a somewhat better-maintained building. She was a tall woman around Lestrade's own age, her eyes red from crying; the family resemblance to her brother was clear. "Inspector Lestrade," she said. "Nate told me you were coming by to talk to me about Grace."
"Yes," he said.
She gestured for him to come inside. The main room was sparsely furnished, and a half-full packing box sat in a corner. Ms Adler saw him notice it, and said "It's embarrassing, isn't it? I moved in six months ago and I've still got things in boxes. Have a seat." She curled herself into a corner of a large armchair, tucking her slipper-clad feet up off the floor.
Lestrade sat on a hideously uncomfortable horsehair and wood affair and tried to smile at her. "Your brother told me that Grace was a student of yours," he said. "I was hoping you could help me locate her parents."
"I wish I could. She -- my partner and I run a theatre company, you see, and Grace just started hanging around. We let her do some set painting, and she wanted to act, so I gave her lessons. She never told me her real name, said her father'd left years ago and her mother didn't care anymore, so she'd picked her own." She twisted her hands into her lap. "I wish I did know. I wish I knew anything that would help. When Nate told me her boyfriend was a pimp, I didn't want to believe it. I told her she could always come here, if she needed a place to stay, but I hadn't heard from her in over a month." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't believe she's dead."
"I'm sorry," Lestrade said. "Did Grace use any drugs when you knew her?"
Ms Adler shook her head. "Just pot, like any kid her age. Nothing else, that I knew of."
Lestrade nodded. "We'll do our best to catch her killer, I promise you. Meanwhile, if you think of anything, give me a ring." He handed her his card.
Ms Adler took it, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Grace's--her body, Mr Lestrade. What will happen to it?"
"She'll be cremated," he said, and Ms Adler nodded. She walked him to the door, shook his hand firmly -- her fingers were very cold, her fingernails short with pale pink polish, God Holmes was rubbing off on him -- and then he was outside in the cold again. His stomach rumbled, and he decided he should probably eat something today, considering he'd lost his breakfast outside the art museum and skipped lunch.
He was finishing off a middling bacon butty in his car when his phone beeped; it was a text from Donovan. "DI Adler arrested Blank. NO EVIDENCE. ARSE."
Lestrade shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and headed back to the Yard. When he arrived, Adler was in his office. "What do you want?" Lestrade said, keeping a tight check on his temper. He shoved past him and settling into the desk chair.
"I need Grace's files," Adler said. "The one I gave you, and the one on the murder."
"I need you not to arrest people without evidence, but we can't always get what we want."
"I have evidence."
"Like hell. I've seen everything you have, and more, and I'm telling you, Blank was elsewhere when she was killed. Is he scum? Absolutely. Did he do this? I don't think so." He catalogued Adler's features, trying to find what Holmes had seen about the eyes, from all that distance away. Something was subtly off -- not about the eyes, but about his memory. He had a good memory for faces, and Adler's memory-face didn't quite match the face of the man he saw before him; it gave him a nagging sensation that he was talking to the man's identical twin.
"You have no idea what he's put Irene through--"
Lestrade had had enough. He felt for Ms Adler and her lost student, but obsessions like this were in the way of good work. Obsessions made you do stupid things, and arresting Blank like this was idiotic. "This is my case!" he gritted out, between clenched teeth.
"He's mine," Adler snarled. "I've been trying to nail this bastard, but nothing we knew was enough, nothing would stick, not till this. I'm not letting him get away because you have scruples."
"I don't have scruples, for fuck's sake. I have lack of sufficient evidence. I have an alibi. We can't hold him on this."
Adler slammed his hand into the doorframe. "Dammit! We know -- we know what he's doing, to Grace Blue and plenty of girls just like her over the past few years."
"That doesn't mean he's the one who cut her up. Take him down for what he's done, by all means, but I don't think he's a killer. I think we've missed something, and someone very dangerous is going free because of it."
Adler gritted his teeth. "Just -- give me the damn files, Lestrade, and I'll be out of your hair. We're not going to agree on this."
Lestrade tipped back in his chair, narrowing his eyes. The files were on the passenger seat of his car, in the battered briefcase his father'd bought him when he was promoted to Inspector; he'd been so annoyed over the arrest that he'd forgotten to bring it back inside. "I don't have them." He watched Adler carefully. "I gave them to Sherlock Holmes." For an instant, something like fear crossed Adler's face. Lestrade gave him a tiny smile. "Besides, you must have the electronic copies; what do you need the printouts back for?"
Without answering, Adler spun on his heel and stalked off.
After he'd left, Lestrade shrugged back into his coat. May as well make good on his lie; Holmes might see something new. Maybe even something that would nail Adler, who was starting to make Lestrade's brain itch like mad.
* * *
Next chapter: Your shadow on my wall