Who Killed Sherlock Holmes? (16 page)

Costain ran for the ladder and clambered up it, Quill ahead of him, Sefton and Ross right behind. He wished he had a gun, but that was out of the question with uniforms about: he wasn’t
authorized to carry. They all had Metvests on under their life vests, but that was the extent of their protection.

He hauled himself over the side of the ship and onto the unfamiliar deck, which was swaying violently. He felt deeply scared about Ross behind him, that she’d be shot and fall, but no, no,
for fuck’s sake, don’t think, just run. Ahead, two men, who still didn’t seem to have spotted them, what with all the noise and the lights shining towards them, were heaving at a
tall, thin coffin of a crate. They were trying desperately to get it to a point on the rail where its own weight would take it over. Fuck, this lot were professionals, to try to complete their job
while their mates were under fire.

The first of them looked up and cried out just before Quill ran into him like a train, knocking him to the deck. The second of them grabbed – not a gun, thank God, not a gun – a
crowbar and Costain was on him, full of anger, exulting in it, punching him in the throat and falling with him onto the slippery deck. They rolled and hit a door as it was opening, and out of it
rushed two more men. One of them shoved something towards Costain’s neck, and he realized a second too late that it was buzzing with an electric arc, and—

Sefton threw himself aside as the shooting started, him and Quill and Ross having to scramble back along the slippery deck, desperately trying to find some cover. He saw in a
moment holes appearing in the wood beside him, sawdust and water and bonfire-night smell in his face. There was nowhere to hide. He thought in that moment he was about to die. Then, thank Christ,
light and sound from back down the deck, answering fire and the sound of running boots.

‘Police officers!’ he shouted, in case their own lot fired on them. He had time to look back to where Quill and Ross had their heads down, and now there was answering fire, back and
forth, each side trying to keep the other pinned down. The two men Quill and Costain had tackled were inching their way back towards the crate. Where the fuck was Costain? God, had he gone over the
rail? Now, one of the men got up and ran at the crate, actually dodging fire. All he’d need to do was throw his weight against it . . .

Sefton found that his legs were actually trying to make him clamber to his feet, to get into the way of harm, and he could feel Ross moving that way too, but beside them, with a roar of
something that sounded more like pain than courage, Quill had beaten them to it. He’d pushed himself to his feet and was leaping to intercept the man who even now was hurling his weight
against the crate. Once, twice, then Quill was on him, but it was too late. The crate went tumbling over the rail, and in that second the man who’d pushed it was revealed, a shaven head and a
black T-shirt under a leather jacket. Suddenly, he jumped back as holes burst out of that T-shirt, and he fell. Quill hadn’t stopped moving, he’d just changed direction, and he was
clambering up; he was on the rail in the way of bullets, silhouetted against the white light all around them. Then he was over; he’d hurled himself after the crate.

Sefton heard the splash as Quill hit the water.

In the murky waters of the Thames, James Quill plummeted down. He’d had time to take a big breath. He had in his hands a pocket knife he’d brought to cut ropes.
He’d landed in the foam of the crate’s impact, so he must be right on top of it. Christ, the cold! He swam as best he could, a couple of big strokes, down, down.

There it was, standing upright on the river bottom, illuminated by the searchlights from the boat above. He was calm. This was nowhere near as terrifying as Hell had been. He didn’t feel
in danger of going back there now, and that was his only measure of risk. Right now, his anger was all he was. He used it. If he could just save one person, he might make his life feel worthwhile.
He had seconds.

He saw they’d cut fucking holes in the crate, so it would fill up. The thing must be weighted at the bottom. He saw fingers desperately clawing at those holes. He pushed himself, flailing,
towards them. He shoved the knife into the gap between two boards and heaved. The blade broke and fell into the dark. He got his fingers into the gap and broke his own nails heaving where the
victim was heaving.

The fingers touched his own. They grabbed his, tried to get him to pull, but there was still solid wood between them. Quill made a last desperate effort and got his legs down, tried to heave
them against the top of the crate, and now suddenly there were hands on him, black gloved hands, pulling him away as more of them flocked suddenly at the crate, and he realized these guys were the
underwater rescue unit. He had to let out his breath at the second a blessed oxygen valve was shoved into his mouth, and he saw, in that moment, the top being wrenched off the crate.

He saw a dead face staring at him.

Quill had been there at the moment life had gone. It was a man, and all Quill could think of was that he knew him from somewhere. Then he was being propelled upwards and he closed his eyes and
let all thought go in a shout of fury as he broke the surface.

Sefton ran to the rail to help Quill scramble back into the vessel, which had only been secured a few minutes before. Across the deck, armed officers were standing above a row
of surviving crew members, who were cuffed and lying face down. Quill’s expression was terrible to see. ‘I . . . knew him,’ he whispered.

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ Sefton looked round, and there was Ross, who’d found a blanket and rushed to wrap it round Quill.

Quill ignored that. ‘The important thing we have to find out . . . Did he ever live in London?’

‘What? Who?’

Quill gestured frantically over the side. ‘The victim. We have to find out.’

The divers were now hauling the body over the side, and Sefton found to his surprise that he too recognized the pale, contorted face of the corpse that was laid out on deck. Petrovski and his
officers had organized a stretcher. The faces of the divers told a story of anger and failure. They’d been delayed a few seconds too long by a firefight that had had a greater intensity to it
than anyone had expected.

Sefton shook his head to clear it. ‘Jimmy, the important thing is to find out what’s happened to Tony. The armed uniforms have gone down into the hull; they’re searching every
inch of the ship—’ He was cut off by a shout. Armed officers were marching two more cuffed suspects out onto the deck, and behind them, being helped along by other officers, was
Costain. His face was covered in livid welts and bruises, one eye almost fused closed by them. He saw Sefton and Ross looking over at him and pushed himself away from those holding him up, made
himself stand, an impossibly stoic expression on his face.

Sefton looked to Ross. She turned back to Quill. ‘So,’ she said, too quickly, ‘who’s our victim?’

The crew of the vessel checked out as those registered to sail her. Three of them were now dead. The rest weren’t talking, were calm, even. It looked to Sefton like they
felt the danger was over for them now. They were professionals, who’d regarded potentially going to prison as part of what they’d been paid for. He’d met a few like them in his
time within gangs. He covertly tried the bell with the powerful sense of the Sight to it on those being held in cuffs, but got no reaction out of any of them. It wasn’t likely they’d
get much more on interview.

As the
Lone Star
was brought in to dock, Sefton watched Costain accept only the minimum of first aid. He said he was sure he hadn’t broken anything. Sefton saw Ross concentrating on
the victim’s body, taking photos of it, Quill standing beside her, still wrapped in blankets, staring, and finally decided someone should bloody do the decent thing. He went over to Costain.
‘So what happened?’

‘I got ambushed by a bunch of this lot, took me out with an electrical stunner, I think it was.’ He paused to run his tongue round his teeth and wince. ‘Not clear about what
happened next. I think a couple of them must have hauled me down into the hull, where . . .’ He paused to control his breathing. ‘You’ve seen this lot. Swastikas and shit. They
thought they had time to take it out on me. One of them held me while the other went to work. Fucking deluded. The armed officers burst in and I was hoping they’d drop one of them, but no,
they were good as gold, hands in the air, on their knees, and I wasn’t in any state to take advantage.’

‘That’s so weird, that they’d take the time to do that. It’s almost like you were the target.’

‘Yeah. So why not you and all?’

‘You don’t recognize any of this lot, do you?’

‘No. Believe me, I’ve taken a long hard look.’

‘You should get yourself looked over by the FME, check you’re OK.’

Costain shook his head. ‘I want to finish the operation. I want to take this ship apart, make sure we haven’t missed anything.’

Sefton’s glance darted over to Ross, then back to Costain. ‘Listen—’

‘Quill’s not going to think to bloody stop me unless you get him to. So don’t, OK? I need . . . I need to keep working.’

Sefton couldn’t bring himself to argue. He put his hand on Costain’s shoulder, where he was pretty sure it wouldn’t hurt him, then went over to join Ross and Quill. Ross was
looking at her phone, hands still in evidence gloves, comparing a picture to the corpse on deck. Sefton wanted to say they should all be gathered together, but seeing the look on Ross’s face,
he recalled again the enormity of what Costain had done to her and felt like he’d just walked across the deck from one end of a seesaw to the other. It wasn’t that she wasn’t
feeling for Costain, he was sure; it was that she didn’t like how much she was. ‘What have you got?’ he asked.

‘I got his name and occupation from his passport, then checked IMDb. This guy is Erik Gullister, sixty-eight years old, a professional actor, been in loads of stuff on US television,
everything from
Castle
to
Sons of Anarchy
to
E.R
., back in the day. I searched for his name in the Dutch media, and, if Google translation is close enough, when he was
abducted, he seems to have been in a season of theatrical events staged at seaside locations. No starring roles, no recurring characters, not since the 1970s, when he was the lead in a couple of
short-lived series. Problems with drugs, dealing as well as possession, a couple of arrests, according to Google. But he’s still one of those guys who’s been in so much that you know
his face but not his name. It strikes me also that three of these five victims had criminal records, but not Lassiter and obviously not Holmes—’

Quill interrupted her, insisting again. ‘Did he ever live in London?!’

‘He doesn’t seem to have worked here, and . . . Here we go – his passport isn’t stamped for the UK. This is his first visit to London. Why is that important?’

Quill just shook his head, visibly relieved.

‘But listen,’ Ross continued, ‘here’s the most important thing. One credit leaps out at you.’ She scrolled down the screen and pointed.

Sefton was looking over her shoulder now too. ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ he said. He called Costain, who made his way over as quickly as he could and looked at the screen incredulously.

‘He was the lead in
American Sherlock
for six episodes in 1978,’ said Ross.

‘Bates played Holmes too,’ said Sefton. ‘You said he was Sherlock in that school play.’

‘And Lassiter had been an actor,’ said Quill.

Ross looked it up on her phone. ‘With the lead in a touring
Hound of the Baskervilles
.’

Costain’s face showed the sudden copper pleasure of seeing a connection materialize. ‘I’m betting if we ask Duleep’s family if he ever played Sherlock Holmes, in an
amateur production or something, they’ll say yes.’

‘This,’ said Ross, ‘is why the differences in the murders are indicative. Killer or killers are willing to alter, within boundaries, how close they get to the original
location, and will compensate for that with other details, because the one thing they absolutely need, the one thing they’ll sacrifice other aspects in order to achieve, is this: their
victims must have played Sherlock Holmes.’

Quill got home before midnight. He’d called Lofthouse and briefed her about the results of the raid, got the paperwork sorted, including decent arrangements for the
victim. No grieving widow, but there were some grown-up children. No comfort to them that their father wasn’t in Hell. Quill had made sure the crew were, as he’d always done it, put in
separate cell corridors, so they couldn’t get their stories sorted between them.

He’d realized in the car that he should have ordered Costain to go and get his injuries checked out. The sergeant had taken a first-aid kit from one of Petrovski’s lot and had
retreated into a corner like a wounded animal, to deal with some minor cuts and bruises on his face. He’d still been staggering when he got back to the others, refusing to admit to how much
he’d been hurt, not wanting, maybe, to look weak in front of Ross.

The face of that actor kept coming back to Quill: old and lost, not knowing why this had been done to him. He’d been escorted from his hotel room; they’d found out, got into the back
of a car all smiles and laughter. What had they said to him?
We’re such fans of yours. We know all about your work. Listen as we reel off our research.
Whoever was behind this knew
exactly who to hire: not just professionals, but ones that fitted the Conan Doyle story. What enormous organization would it take to fund and carry out something like this, and with such a precise
and eccentric aim?

As Quill drove, he kept finding his attention drawn to the rear-view mirror. It was, he realized, like last time. Was he being followed? He never saw the same car, but he kept jerking his head
up, hoping to catch one, like it leaped back into the mirror every time he looked away. He pulled up in front of his house in Enfield, switched off the lights and engine, and sat there without
getting out, still looking in the mirror. He kept expecting some vehicle, some something, to come round the corner at the end of the close. Once again, there was a feeling of something hanging
back.