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Chapter 8 - The Great Game

With three hours to go, Sherlock, John, Lestrade and I stand around Monkford's car.

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asks.

"How much?" Lestrade repeats. "About a pint."

"Not 'about'. Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen." Sherlock says.

"Frozen?" Lestrade asks.

"There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats."

"Who did?" John asks.

"Janus Cars. The clue's in the name."

"The god with two faces." John says.

"Exactly."

"They provide a very special service." Sherlock says to Lestrade. "If you've got any kind of problem-money troubles, bad marriage, whatever-Janus cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble-financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat..."

"So where is he?" John asks.

"Columbia." Sherlock replies, closing the car door.

"Columbia?" I repeat.

"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Columbian pesto note in his wallet..." Sherlock says. "Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly." Sherlock says. "No one wears shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."

"His arm?" Lestrade asks.

"Kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding." Sherlock answers. "Why? Because he recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion; he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"M-Mrs. Monkford?" John asks.

"Oh yes, she's in on it too." Sherlock says. Lestrade lowers his head with a look of amazement on his face. "Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best." He turns to John and I. "We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved." He turns and leads us away. Sherlock triumphantly clenches his fists at his sides as he speaks. "I am on fire!"

We sit at the table in the living room in our coats, the heating hasn't turned back on since the "gas leak". The windows are still broken and boarded up. Sherlock types something up onto The Science of Deduction.

A few seconds later, a "blocked" phone call comes in on the pink phone, lying on the table beside the computer. Sherlock answers.

"He says you can come and fetch me. Help. Help me, please." A young man says tearfully through the speakers on the phone.

In the morning, we sit at a table in a café. John tucks into a cooked breakfast and has a mug of tea in front of him. I sip on my own mug of tea while Sherlock impatiently drums his fingers on the table, waiting for the pink phone, which lies on the table, to ring. I also watch the phone carefully, waiting for a call to come in at any moment.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asks.

"Mmm. You realize we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?" John says. He takes a mouthful of food.