Sherlock mainly knew of the Orchard by reputation, or at least, he had done up until the past few evenings. A large early Victorian building in a now-rundown area of Hackney, it had once been a venerable private residence, added to in the 1960's when it had been developed into a hotel. Then, in the 1980's, the recession had led to its closure and it had stood empty for nearly fifteen years, until an enterprising group of young men had bought and refurbished it.
None of this history was of particular interest to Sherlock, naturally. What was interesting was that the Orchard had now become the internationally praised and cited example of how to run a brothel.
What a fine, proud city London was!
Sherlock would have been perfectly content to go his whole life without knowing a damn thing about the place, but a request from Lestrade a few days ago had piqued his interest sufficiently to get involved with a little subterfuge involving a couple of the employees of the 'hotel'.
Drug related murder. Questionable alibi. Coerced witnesses. Lestrade knew all the things to say to get Sherlock's attention, and Sherlock, facing down a veritable drought of cases, had gladly taken the offered bait. It was almost disappointing now, to know it was nearly over. All he had to do was go to the Orchard and meet his contact, cornered in a pub a few nights ago and brought around to Sherlock's way of thinking with a handful of well formed lies.
The taxi ride to the Orchard had been long and dull, the (painkiller addicted, ex-secondary school teacher) taxi driver having become very quiet once Sherlock had given him the name of his destination. Once they arrived, the driver peered with something approaching fascinated dread at the windows of the building, as if expecting to see illicit sex acts being committed right up against the glass.
Sherlock glanced around as the taxi pulled away, noting the gradual drift of people making their way towards the main door, the few nervous first timers hanging around in the street, trying to look like they weren't thinking about going in. He didn't need to worry about them though; like all good Victorian buildings, the house that had become the Orchard had a tradesman's entrance, and that was where his contact, Ollie, was going to meet him.
Ollie was a simple minded creature, one of the brothel's 'entertainers', keeping the patrons company or showing them to their rooms, occasionally bedding them and generally keeping the party mood going, while working towards having his own room there. He'd been flattered by Sherlock's attention when they'd met and had easily bought his story about being a private investigator employed by Simon Greeley's suspicious wife. Ollie's job put him in a good position to observe the comings and goings of customers and staff alike, and also to raise questions with other staff without drawing undue suspicion, and so had been perfect for Sherlock's purposes. Now all Sherlock had to do was get to the tradesman's entrance, meet Ollie at the door and get the list of Greeley's shift times and movements from him.
He climbed the steps to the small awning-covered door at the side of the building and knocked as he'd been instructed. The door swung open and Sherlock was greeted by a smiling face.
It wasn't Ollie.
"Hi," said the tall young man who had opened the door. "Are you lost? You know most people prefer the front doors, right?"
The man (keen angler, recently failed his driving test) was wearing the dark grey suit and pale blue shirt that passed for a uniform among the security guards at the Orchard, the same suit that Greeley would wear on duty. If Sherlock were to ask for Ollie it would be immediately suspicious, and he couldn't risk word getting back to Greeley, not when he was already twitchy from the constant questioning of the police.
"I, er, sorry. First time here," Sherlock replied, faking nerves and self-consciousness. The security man grinned at him and nodded.
"No worries," he replied. "Lots of eyes at the front, eh? I'll show you into the bar."
