Читать книгу The Case of the Misplaced Models - Tessa Barding - Страница 11

Sherlock did join me for another morning run later that week. And again. And again, until it became a much-beloved habit. For me, at least. At that point I wasn’t too sure about Sherlock, but the fact that I heard his bedroom door open whenever I left the bathroom to change into my running gear gave me reason to hope that he was enjoying our exercise routine as much as I did.

We usually ran for about 30 to 45 minutes, depending on the weather and on whether or not it was a good leg day for me, but we always moved in perfect synchronicity with each other, either in companionable silence or chatting easily.

It was during one of our runs that I got my first insight into what Sherlock did for a living. I’d seen papers and photos lying around but he always made a point of hastily collecting them as soon as I got in, just as if I’d caught him brooding over state secrets.

‘When do you have to be at the practice?’ he asked.

‘About half nine,’ I said. ‘I got a post surgery check-up scheduled for 10am and I need to prepare my room.’

‘Don’t your assistants do that for you?’

‘I’m not your lordly brother,’ I said. ‘Our assistants and practice nurses have their hands full already. Besides, I rather like getting everything ready myself. Puts me in the right spirit.’

‘And caters to your perfectionism, right?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that everything has to be just so, at least where basic organisation is concerned.’

‘Are you telling me I’m a neat freak?’

‘Neat, yes. Freak, I don’t think so. I’ve watched you closely over the last couple of weeks–’

‘Now who’s the freak here?’

‘But I think,’ he continued, ignoring my words, ‘it’s to do with your military background. Some things just stick, eh? Anyway, I’d like to show you something.’

‘Show me what?’

‘You’ll see.’

He steered me out of Regent’s Park and towards Ulster Terrace where he hailed a cab. We drove for about 40 minutes, with him typing away on his ever present phone and not speaking until we stopped before a building I knew well enough.

‘What on earth are we doing at the Royal London?’ I asked, climbing out of the cab behind him.

He paid the cabbie and motioned for me to follow him. ‘I need to ask your advice.’

‘My advice on what?’

‘I’m missing one minor detail on something I’m working on. I’m almost there, I can feel it, but there’s one tiny thing that I can’t quite identify.’

What was he getting at? And why were we–

‘Are you taking me to the morgue?’ I asked, recognising the route he was taking.

‘I am, yes.’

When we turned the last corner, the nurse in attendance didn’t seem particularly surprised to see him.

‘Morning, Sherlock,’ the sturdy young man said. ‘Brought a friend?’

‘A trained pair of eyes. John, Rafi, Rafi, Dr Watson. Where is he?’

‘Number 3017.’

‘Thanks.’

I hated morgues. I truly, deeply did. I’d seen my share of patients for whom all help came too late and whose lifeless bodies I’d had to send to the morgue, both during my time in the military and during my time as trauma surgeon. Sometimes even your very best isn’t good enough, and it’s something you never, ever get used to. So, yeah, a morgue was not much of a favourite place of mine. Never has been, never will be.

Sherlock, in blissful ignorance of my musings, walked up to the storage unit and pulled out a drawer. On it lay the dead body of a young man who looked to have been in his mid-20s.

‘Come here, John,’ Sherlock said and I joined him.

He pointed at three slash wounds. ‘See this? The chest and upper arm wound wouldn’t have caused his death but this here,’ he indicated the carotid artery, ‘this was unstoppable.

‘Problem is, I have no idea what weapon may have caused this, and neither does the pathologist. Something small and serrated but we’ve not been able to figure out what kind of knife causes wounds like these.’

‘Too blunt for a knife,’ I said and stared into the young man’s face for a moment, then looked for and found a box of rubber gloves. I snapped a pair on, then hesitated.

‘I’m not sure if I should be doing this,’ I said, to no-one in particular.

Rafi nodded encouragingly. ‘S’all right, mate, Sherlock already signed you in, yesterday, and Dr Muller authorised it.’

I shot Sherlock a sharp glance. He smiled and winked, and so I bent forward to inspect the body.

The deceased had been in good physical shape and of an average, unremarkable build. The body was slim with no excessive body fat and his muscles weren’t particularly defined. There were a few scars, small ones, stitched together expertly, no signs of drug abuse. His lower lip was split and his right cheekbone was bruised.

Rafi helped me turn him on his side so I could look at the young man’s back and the back of his legs, too. Nothing noticeable there. The only eye-catcher was a tattoo between his shoulder-blades depicting the logo of a Premier League football team.

We rolled him back and when I nodded, Rafi covered the man’s body once more and pushed the drawer back. I binned the gloves.

‘He was a football fan, wasn’t he?’ I asked. It was more of a rhetorical question, given the tattoo, and Sherlock didn’t bother answering. ‘Where was he found?’

‘Near Selhurst Park Stadium. In the parking lot of a car cosmetic specialist on Clifton Road.’

‘After a game?’

‘Yes.’

I pursed my lips, thinking. I was well familiar with how football games sometimes went, or rather: ended. I stitched young (and sometimes not so young) hotheads together on a regular basis, splinted broken bones where possible, fixed dislocated shoulders, you name it. Why football brought out such violence amongst its fans was beyond me; I’d never seen anything like that after a rugby game. But that’s a whole different subject and doesn’t belong here.

Most injuries I’d looked after had been caused by fists, booted feet, clubs, even brass knuckles on more than one occasion. Knives, too, although carrying weapons into a stadium wasn’t as easy as it used to be, with security having been enhanced. Unless–

‘Keys,’ I said. ‘The wounds were caused by keys.’

I took my keys out of my pocket and positioned them so that one key blade pointed out between my thumb and index finger and the blades of the second and third key extended out of the bottom of my hand. ‘See? You can slash like this,’ I demonstrated, ‘or stab with the bottom ones like this.’

Sherlock looked at me and nodded solemnly, as if I had just proven a point.

‘I knew it,’ he said, satisfied. ‘I knew you’d see it.’ He turned to Rafi and held out his hand. ‘I told you, didn’t I? You owe me a twenty.’

I looked from Sherlock to Rafi and back to Sherlock.

‘What?’ I asked, incredulous. ‘You already knew the answer?’

Sherlock inclined his head.

‘Was that a pub quiz to test me?’

‘Yes,’ my flatmate replied cheerfully and pocketed his winnings. ‘Of course I knew about the keys, and, yes, I wanted see whether it’s really so hard to find out. Most people look, but they don’t observe. They see many things, but fail to connect the dots. It pleases me that you seem to at least grasp the basics of proper deduction.’

‘Thank you, Sherlock. I feel so much better now. Mind telling me why you’re allowed to come and go as you please and how on earth you’re authorised to sign people in to look at a dead body?’

‘He comes here all the time,’ Rafi said, sorting through a pile of paperwork. ‘Dr Muller likes him, and he usually comes with–’

‘That’s quite enough, Rafi,’ Sherlock interrupted him. ‘I’ve kept John for long enough. He still needs to shower and breakfast before he can be let loose on his own patients. He works with people who are still alive and we’d like to keep it that way.’

With that, he placed a hand on the small of my back and pushed me towards the exit.

‘Tell Dr Muller I’ll stop by again later today to collect the samples he promised me.’

‘Will do. Bye, Sherlock. Bye, Dr Watson.’

Sherlock hopped out of the cab a few minutes away from home.

‘I’ll pick up breakfast for you,’ he said. ‘You go shower and all, and it’ll be ready for you when you’re done.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘You won me twenty quid. It’s only fair to share, right?’

‘See you–’ I began but he’d already slammed the door shut. I looked after him, shaking my head and wondering what all this had been about. And what kind of samples could he possibly want from a pathologist?

Maybe not the best thing to think about, given that he’d just wandered off to get breakfast. I’d probably find out soon enough.