#do I tag each cipher too or nah? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sophiaholmes221b · 4 years

Text

Sophia Holmes and the Blind Banker

Chapter Four

Dad hands me the book as we get into the taxi and I flick through it, seeing the date stamped in the front. This can tell us a lot: the book belongs to the West Kensington Library and is dated for the day he died. Was he at the library when he was threatened?

We stride through the double doors at the front of the modern building, and onto an escalator which takes us up to the aisle, the book is from.

I know this library like the back of my hand, as it's often the building of choice for me to go to when I think, so I have no trouble leading dad and John to the right place.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died," dad states, for John's benefit. He checks the reference number stuck to the bottom of the spine, then wanders down the shelves, taking out books and examining them. I look further down, whilst John starts pulling some out opposite dad.

"Sherlock," John says, and I spin around to look at the space where the books were. Another tag sprayed in the same paint as before fills the gap.

Seeing this, dad steps forward, and takes a handful of books in each hand, revealing another identical set of graffiti to the one in Sir William's office. Instinctively, I reach for my phone and snap two or three pictures each of the new graffiti, then jog to catch up with dad as he turns on his heel.

Dad hails another taxi and we sit in silence, our thoughts churning over in our minds. John looks idly out of the window as we work. Two sets of graffiti, both exactly the same, but what's the link? The murderer needed to send the same message - a threat - to two people, but why?

I step out of the cab first and sprint up the stairs to the printer, printing off the new photos and sticking them above the others on the mirror, leaving just a small gap in the centre of the mirror. Dad and John join me by the fireplace, and together, we stare at the images.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cypher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in," dad recites, using the information we have to piece together the china fragments. "Hours later, he dies."

"The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cypher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home," John continues.

"Late that night, he dies too," I add.

"Why did they die, Sherlock?" John asks softly.

Dad traces his fingers over the line painted over Sir William's eyes. "Only the cypher can tell us," dad says, tapping his finger against the photo. We need some advice from an expert to tell us more. Dad's expression sharpens as he too reaches the same conclusion. "Come on John," he says brightly, standing up and striding towards the door.

"Hmm?" John murmurs, following us.

I tap a small message into my phone, send it, and receive one straight back. Smiling, I step into the cab dad hailed before my arrival and feed the cabbie the address.

***

We walk across the centre of Trafalgar Square towards the National Gallery, trying to ignore the funny looks we're getting. Obviously, John's blog is picking up on followers, and more people are recognising who we are.

"The world's run on codes and cyphers, John," dad states randomly. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

"Yes," John says sarcastically, "okay, but ..."

"... but it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

"Where are we headed?" John asks.

"We need to ask some advice," I grimace.

"What?! Sorry?!"

Dad throws him a dark look and John smiles in disbelief. "You heard her perfectly."

"I'm not saying it again," I pipe in.

"You need advice?" John asks sceptically.

"On painting, yes," dad says. "I need to talk to an expert."

"We can't be experts in everything," I point out, leading them around the side of the Gallery to where a boy a little older than me is spray-stenciling onto a grey, metal door which leads into the back of the building. The image seems to be of a policeman holding a rifle in his hands, but in the place of his nose, he has a pigs snout. Near the bottom of the image, the graffitist has sprayed his tag, 'RAZ'.

Raz continues spraying as we approach him, a canvas bag overflowing with spray cans at his feet.

"Attractive," I call out as we get nearer. "Very fetching."

Raz rolls his eyes at my sarcasm. "Part of a new exhibition," he smirks, continuing to paint.

"Interesting," dad says, just as interested as I am.

"I call it 'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy'," Raz chuckles quietly.

"Catchy!" John says, disapprovingly.

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner," Raz says, turning to face us, looking cocky. "Can we do this while I'm workin'?"

I show the photos of the cypher to Raz, who turns and tosses the spray can in his hand to John. Instinctively, John catches the can, then looks at us in bewilderment. Raz takes my phone and begins to scroll through the pictures of the cyphers from the office and library.

"Know the author?" dad asks, staring intently at Raz.

"Recognise the paint," he answers, still scrolling. "It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols: d'you recognise them?" I ask, mentally logging the paint type.

Raz squints at the images on the screen. "Not even sure it's a proper language," Raz replies and I sigh in disbelief.

"Two men have been murdered, Raz," dad continues, studying Raz sternly. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz taunts, vainly. "It's hardly much, now, is it?"

"It's all we've got," I say, gritting my teeth with anger. "Two men, Raz, the next could be any of us and the clue to stopping this is in the graffiti!"

"Are you gonna help us or not?" dad asks, a little more calmly.

Raz sighs, beaten, then shrugs. "I'll ask around."

"Somebody 'must' know something about it," dad asserts and Raz runs his tongue along his teeth.

I hear approaching footsteps, and look around. "Oi!" the PCSO calls, and the other three look around. I instantly grab my phone back and run, following dad as Raz drops a second spray can from his hand and kicks his bag towards John. Around the corner, we stop, panting and laughing.

"Any information, however small, you know where to find us," dad speaks to Raz. He nods, then scarpers off.

"Should we help him?" I ask, gesturing around the corner to where John is currently taking the fall for the graffiti.

"Nah," dad says, smiling. "Let's leave it to him."

***

We make our way back to 221B in silence as we quietly mull over the new information that Raz was able to give us. I file the paint type into its respected department, then continue to piece together what we already know about the crime.

There is a gang operating in London at the moment which is threatening seemingly random people through a set of cyphers sprayed in places where the target would see it and recognise it. The paint, as we now know, is fairly cheap to buy, coming in at just under £5. That would mean it's easy to get hold of, and that opens up the field of potential buyers of this paint considerably. All we can hope to do now is to wait and see whether this graffitist decides to show up again.

Around half an hour later, when I emerge from my thoughts, I realise I'm back in Baker Street watching as dad pins some more images of various pictograms and cyphers onto the mirror. I also realise that I'm holding a book that I don't remember picking up, and I look down to read the information on the page. It seems to be a book on codes and cyphers. My dormant mind obviously didn't find anything of use on the pages before, so I continue to flick through the book, occasionally glancing up at the mirror to compare an image. Dad stands beside me, mirroring my actions with another book containing similar translations.

The slamming of the kitchen door awakens my mind a little, but I continue to hold my head low, appearing to be studying the book in great detail. I hear John's heavy footsteps and assume that he is quite angry at us leaving him behind. It's just a guess.

"You've been a while," dad announces, not bothering to turn around.

John walks a few more steps into the room, and I look up in the mirror to analyse his body language. His shoulders seem rather bunched up, and he holds his fists in clenches, stopping to blink back the anger at dads steady calm as he turns to us.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," he says tetchily, and my head snaps back down before he notices that I'm trying to hide a smirk. "Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" He begins to pace, an angry grimace on his face as he begins to speak again, getting louder as he voices the consequences of us leaving him behind. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet; and I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."

Dad doesn't seem to be listening. "What?" he says absently, looking up to check another image, but I can see a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday," John yells, seeming to me to be rather angry. He puts on a rough London accent, not too far off the ones the so-called 'gangstas' use on the streets. "They're givin' me an ASBO!"

"Good. Fine," dad continues to half-listen, and I watch John's face tighten.

"You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time," he says, a little more calmly as he turns to look out of the window.

Dad slams his book shut. "This symbol: I still can't place it."

"It's not in here either," I conclude, tossing my book onto the cluttered desk.

Dad walks over to John, who's just started to shrug off his donkey jacket and pulls the jacket back over his shoulders. "No, I need you to go to the police station ..." dad says firmly, wheeling John back around so that he's facing the living room door.

"Oy, oy, oy!" John protests indignantly.

"... ask about the journalist."

"Oh, Jesus!" John says, exasperated as dad grabs his own coat from the back of the door, and throws mine over.

"His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements," dad continues, unaware or just not caring about John's protests. I don't know why he wouldn't want to go!

"If you look to see exactly what he does after going abroad, then that'll mean we're one step closer to piecing this damn story together," I say as we go downstairs and out onto the street.

"Why, what're you going to be doing?" John asks, obviously still a little annoyed with the both of us

"Gonna go and see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide," dad tells him as we part ways.

On the other side of the road, I see the same Chinese lady from before, but as I glance around to look at the path in front of me, she disappears again.

***

"I would like to see Edward Van Coon's P.A.," dad demands as he strides up to the desk, flipping open Lestrade's Police Identity Card.

"Just a minute sir," the woman says before buzzing us through to the trading floor.

I walk on through first, walking directly to Van Coon's office where his P.A. sits by her laptop. She doesn't look surprised when we walk in, so I assume the receptionist phoned ahead to warn her of our arrival.

"Good afternoon," she says, standing up and letting us walk over. "I'm Amanda, Eddie's personal assistant. But, of course, you already know that." Amanda titters slightly. She leans over and taps a few things into her laptop, bringing up an online calendar of Van Coon's meetings and business trips.

"We just need the last two weeks before his death," I say, pacing the room as to take in as much as I can.

"Right, okay," she types a few more things in and brings up a bigger version of the dates, ones mainly focused on the days around his death. "Ah, here!" she cries out, and we lean over her to look at the screen. "Flew back from Dalian Friday. Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team."

"Can you print me up a copy?" dad requests.

"Sure," Amanda replies, leaning over to type a command to print into the computer.

"What about the day he died?" dad asks. "Can you tell me where he was?"

"Sorry," she apologises, looking at the screen. "Bit of a gap."

I sigh through my teeth and twirl around, frustrated. The calendar shows no entries at all for the day he died - Monday 22nd. Dad also looks away, annoyed, and something clicks.

"I have all his receipts," Amanda realises, standing up to sift through a draw.

"Something isn't right, and I don't mean Van Coon's empty diary," I tell dad quietly.

He frowns at me, looking puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Look at the dates," I say, pointing to the computer. "Van Coon supposedly returns home on the Friday, yet when we come to his suitcase on the Monday, everything's still inside, untouched. Now we know the body was fresh because the graffiti warning was, so why was his bag untouched?" Dad looks up, frustrated, I think, that he didn't notice that. "Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

He nods, but there's no time to continue, as Amanda stands back up with a file of crumpled receipts, and spreads them over her desk.

"What kind of a boss was he, Amanda?" dad questions, probably trying to delve into their relationships. "Appreciative?"

"Um, no. That's not a word I'd use." Amanda says, fiddling around with her ring, a clear sign that she's not telling the full truth. "The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."

Dad bends over the table to get a better look at the receipts and I cross to the other end, watching Amanda suspiciously. I notice a pump-action bottle of luxury hand lotion nearby, and realize that it's the same brand as the one in Van Coon's flat.

"Like that hand cream," I say. "He bought that for you, didn't he?"

Amanda looks at me in surprise, fiddling around with an emerald hairpin in her elaborate updo. I shuffle through the receipts, taking her expression as the only answer I need, and try to order them in a way that'll give us a vague idea of the things he did leading up to his murder on Monday. Picking out a few, I pass dad several taxi receipts dated for around the 22nd March.

He picks one up and hands it up to Amanda. "Look at this one. Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."

"That would get him to the office," she says slowly, looking down at the piece of card as dad continues to sift through the paperwork.

"Not rush hour; check the time. Mid-morning," dad corrects her. "Eighteen would get him as far as ..." he fades off as he tries to calculate.

"The West End," Amanda realises. "I remember him saying."

I hand dad a London Underground ticket for Piccadilly with the same date, but at a later time than the taxi. He glances at it before handing that one up to the P.A. as well.

"Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly."

"So he got a Tube back to the office," Amanda frowns. "Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?"

"Because he was delivering something heavy," dad says, still sifting through the receipts, but beginning to form a chronological order of events. "Didn't want to lug a package up the escalator."

"Delivering?" Amanda questions, sceptically, obviously wondering what, like all of us, was being delivered. Evidently, whatever it was that was tightly packed inside his luggage.

"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station," dad repeats. "Dropped the package, delivered it and then..." Dad trails off as he finds another receipt, standing up as he looks at it. "... Stopped on his way," he looks up. "He got peckish."

Dad turns around and heads for the door. Amanda looks at me in surprise. "Thanks for the help!" I call, picking up the receipts and following him out.

#sophiaholmes #blindbanker #blind banker #bbcsherlock #sherlock #benedict cumberbatch #Benedictcumberbatch #parent!lock #sherlock'sdaughter #cumbercollective

1 note · View note