Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

“I’m sure,” Holmes acknowledged. “Is it possible to see the place the victim worked?”

Soon, they were riding up to the twenty-fifth floor of Tower Two.

“Cedric was a fast-track inductee,” Mr Inmarahan was explaining. “We take on some fifty of them every year, choosing only the very best and brightest of the output of this region’s colleges.”

“A recruitment programme, then,” Holmes said. “And how long does the probationary period last?”

“A year,” his host answered factually. “After which time, we select the ten who have prevailed above the others.”

And Holmes simply said, “Ah.”

Cogs were already turning quickly in his mind. He decided to keep his suspicions from the others for the moment. But he already had motive.

The elevator doors slid open onto white walls, fluorescent light, and bustle. There were rows of small desks with computer screens. Every single one of them was occupied by a young man or woman, simultaneously tapping at a keyboard and conversing on a telephone.

The place sounded like Babel running backwards with an a capella soundtrack by the Yoko Ono Band.

“Here?” Holmes ventured.

“No. We keep the inductees in a separate office. It makes them find their own feet, rather than learning from the others.”

Business practices in the Far East were thoroughly stringent, Holmes reflected. But then, when you considered the rewards … 56 new apartments, 57 swimming pools. Which meant that every home had a pool out on its terrace, and there was a larger central one. And this within a general section of the globe where deprivation, even poverty, was frequently the norm. It defied imagination.

He was led through to another office which was much the same, but had only fifty desks, and the occupants of them looked even more harassed. Holmes could smell something as soon as he walked in – and it was desperation. Hair was mussed by anxious fingers. Eyeballs were bloodshot, and he could see a great proliferation of chewed fingernails. And none of these hopeful folk had been a year out of college yet.

“How far are they into the programme?” Holmes inquired gently.

“Just two months.”

Ten more to go, then. At the end of which, only one in five of them would apply for a mortgage on an apartment with a swimming pool on its own terrace. The rest would be discarded. People had killed for considerably less.

“You must evaluate them regularly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And how was Cedric faring?”

“He was one of the very finest.”

“Naturally.”

Holmes began to stroll behind the desks. Barely a face looked around at him. Barely a marbled eye took in his presence. When one did, it squinted momentarily, and then looked angry with itself, diverted from the task in hand.

Finally, he reached an empty chair. The screen was filled with financial charts. And there was a pair of headphones lying beside it. Perhaps this computer not only displayed but spoke its information. And why would that be?

He touched the keyboard, noticing that there was something unusual about it too. Then his gaze went to a little dish beside it, filled up with what he thought at first was coloured candy. But it was no such thing.

“These are considered a delicacy in the Far East, are they not?” Holmes grimaced.

“Indeed,” replied Mr Inmarahan.

“And the owner of the desk?”

“He must be on a bathroom break. The fellow is an example to us all. Young Mr Suvu.”

“Mr Sulu?” Holmes blurted.

But it turned out not to be the case.

Abil Suvu was from the eastern provinces of this emergent nation. He had done remarkably with his exam results, in spite of almost insurmountable personal difficulties. An accident in childhood – some manner of conflagration in his home – had damaged his hands and left him blinded. Which explained the Braille keyboard that Holmes had already noticed, and the speaking device.

But he had battled against those handicaps, and done so well for himself he had finished up with a job here, albeit a probationary one like all the others.

“Ah, but here he comes,” said Mr Inmarahan almost delightedly.

There was the tapping of a white cane. There was the fumbling shuffle of a man whose sight had left him. Mr Abil Suvu looked no different to the other inductees in this room, except that he had large wrap-around dark glasses on, and a pair of white gloves.

His employer introduced them. Mr Suvu looked astonished when he learned who he was stood in front of. He extended his right hand. Holmes reached for it, and then dropped his grasp momentarily before their palms connected.

Suvu completed the handshake nonetheless.

“It is such a pleasure to meet you, sir.” His tone was sibilant and strangely accented. He was most definitely not from around here. “Ah, that I could see the world through your eyes, and be able to notice things the way that you do.”

“Maybe you shall, one day,” Holmes answered.

It was such an enigmatic remark that everybody around him looked puzzled. Holmes ignored it, walking to a nearby window, gazing at the thriving city down below. Inmarahan had followed him.

“Can I ask something more of you?” the detective inquired.

“But of course.”

“A list. Of your five top-scoring inductees.”

If his host was renewedly mystified, he did not let it show.

“And photographs of each of them, for the purposes of identification.”

“Yes, right away. Anything else?”

“You have a car park for your employees, I take it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’d like to have a look at it.”

Each of the ranked vehicles had a cardboard pass in its windshield, identifying the driver as a Global Oriental employee. Holmes marched down past them until he came to a Toyota people carrier.

He stared at the name on the cardboard pass. “How is he able to drive?” he wondered out loud.

“I believe that someone from his building ferries him back and forth on a daily basis. The other man has a job nearby.”

“Does the owner of this vehicle have a family, children?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“I see,” Holmes muttered. And in which case, why such a large vehicle? He took note of the fact that only the front two seats were upright. All the rest were folded flat.

The great detective turned his attention back to Penchit, who had been quietly shadowing him this entire while.

“And what should we do now, Mr Holmes?” the inspector asked.

“We make sure that we are armed. We wait until nightfall.”

Holmes paused, smiling to himself.

“And then we wait some more.”

There were restaurants to one side of the Central Park with partially open sections, fans turning in the awnings above them. And the evening was thickening by the time they were ready. People strolled past on the way from work. Holmes and Penchit were sitting at a table with a clear view of the towers, whose illumination had come on by this hour. The colossal glass and metal ‘H’ shone luminously against the dusky skyline.

Utterly magnificent , Holmes thought. He could not find the words to properly describe the sight – it would take a Nobel Laureate of the powers of Kipling to do that. For all its faults, this modern age he’d found himself in really did produce some breathtaking, heart-stopping spectacles.

He sipped at the pina colada he’d ordered before his meal. One of the Glocks that he had purchased in America was snuggled underneath his jacket, and he knew that the inspector was similarly armed, as were several plain-clothed men at adjoining tables. There were five of them in total. Any more than that and the culprit might take notice, and then flight.