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

They ate a leisurely dinner, the great detective displaying not the slightest hint of nerves. The food was excellent, the service flawless. The purple of evening succumbed to the deep blue of night. The enormous ‘H’ continued to burn above them, defying gravity and even imagination.

There were still people about. These restaurants were well-patronised, and there were several large hotels nearby, tourists wandering the neat tracks of the parkland.

Holmes had set out on the table the five photographs that Mr Inmarahan had given him. He had to wait till nine thirty before he took the first one off.

A young woman called Amy Ling. She emerged from the doorway of Tower Two, turned and strolled away with no harm coming to her. There were still too many witnesses about.

But by ten thirty, two more photographs had been removed, and the traffic in the park was a good deal sparser. There were no other remaining diners by this juncture. The seating around them was bare. The tables had been cleared and all the staff had gone inside.

Holmes had taken on a pensive air. Inspector Penchit glanced at him worriedly.

“Only two left. Are you sure it must be one of them?”

“The next prospective victim? Almost assuredly.”

“The motive for murder is professional jealousy, then? Thinning down the ranks of the top-scoring newcomers, to give the culprit a better chance at lasting the course.”

Holmes smiled gently. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“And you have someone in mind?”

“‘Someone’ is for later,” the detective told the freshly bewildered policeman. “What we’re looking, for at this moment, is better called ‘something’.”

And then his head came up. Another of the inductees had emerged from the building. Another woman, Mai Chencup. She had become the highest scoring of the people in the fast-track office, and when she started heading out across the grass, Holmes could see that there was not a single other person near her.

He stiffened, an instinct fastening itself around his bones.

And then looked upward, pointing with his gaze for the inspector’s benefit.

“There!”

Penchit squinted. “Mr Holmes? What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Tower Two, and yet not the tower,” Holmes said dryly. “Quick, man, look again!”

The inspector peered harder, and then let out an astonished gasp. And who would not? Part of the wall of the tower appeared to be suddenly bulging. Appeared to be moving. And how in the name of all the gods could that be possible?

It was a few storeys below the skybridge. But as Penchit watched, it appeared to accelerate. He still couldn’t make out its proper shape – it was too much a part of the structure it was moving down. But it scuttled down the tower with a determined fluidity that was almost sickening to watch. There was no doubt of this thing’s intention, whatever it might be. It was a predator, now closing on its prey. And fast!

Poor Miss Mai had noticed nothing. She was ambling out across the green turf, one hand rubbing gently at her brow. Glad another day of frantic toil was over. Grateful for the open air and solitude. And if she had been truly alone in this park, how quickly would she have come to regret those facts?

The camouflaged shape reached the bottom. Penchit thought that its true form might finally be revealed. But then he got another shock. As soon as it departed from the building, it no longer took the structure’s colouration. Instead, it turned a partially fragmented green, exactly the same colour as the grass.

And it continued forwards.

It was making no sound he could hear. But a sudden reptilian must have grasped Mai Chencup. She abruptly stopped and looked over her shoulder. And when she saw that a whole section of the verdant turf had risen up and was pursuing her, she let out a horrified wail and started running although, it had to be admitted, not nearly fast enough.

At which point, Sherlock Holmes bellowed, “Now!”

He sprang to his feet, drawing his pistol. The inspector and the other police people followed suit. And now the Englishman was leading the charge, rushing forwards, dragging the others along with him. He began firing at the baffling shape, and he was not the only one.

It halted its pursuit of the unfortunate woman. The thing seemed to throw its head back, and it wailed. The sound was so piercing it almost wounded Penchit’s ears. What was this apparition?

Sherlock Holmes, apparently, had no time for such questions. He was still going forward, firing another shot with every step he took. His Glock had an extended magazine, so there were plenty of them. One 9mm round after another plunged into its target, as did the ammunition of the plain-clothed men and women around him.

The creature still fought death for quite a while. It thrashed and hollered, then it shivered and it twitched. By the time it finally lay still, more than half an imperial pound of lead must have gone into it.

Mai Chencup had fallen to her knees and was crying hysterically, the pursuit by this mysterious beast and then the cacophony of gunfire overwhelming her. Holmes walked over to her, offering her his hand. And when she took it, getting to her feet, he wrapped an arm around her, hugging her in a paternal, comforting fashion.

“You’re quite safe now, madam,” Penchit heard him say. “One of the monsters is gone. The other will not last.”

One of …?

He still had not the slightest idea what was going on.

The great detective looked at him across the woman’s shoulder, then inclined his chin in the dead creature’s direction, inviting him to take a closer look.

Penchit walked across to it cautiously. Now that it was done for, the beast had lost most of its ability to conceal its true nature. Its proper shape – a muddy brown hue – stood out obviously on the grass. When Penchit looked to one side again, Holmes had joined him.

“Not a gigantic hound at all,” the inspector breathed. “A gigantic lizard.”

“Exactly,” Holmes nodded. “The most famous – naturally – is the chameleon. But there are several more species of reptilian that are capable of taking on the appearance of their surroundings. It must have been lurking underneath the crosswalk section,” and he lifted his gaze again, “for a couple of days.”

“But you said two monsters. So there is another?”

Sherlock Holmes became tight-tipped.

“Not like this one. Something else. This is the monster that performed the actual killing. But the worst one by far is the monster that controlled it.”

Acting on the great detective’s instructions, Penchit had the whole fast-track team assembled by nine the next morning. They were in the same room he had first encountered them, except their computers and telephones were all switched off. They were sitting quietly at their desks. Miss Chencup was not amongst them, since she was quite obviously not a suspect. But the rest of the young forty-nine were here.

Holmes was not, which genuinely surprised him. Penchit had entered the vast building to be informed that the detective had not shown up as yet. As advised, he had brought several uniformed officers with him, who were standing beside the room’s only doorway in or out.

And when Holmes finally arrived, the inspector got another mild surprise. The man was dressed the same way he’d been yesterday. And yet he’d added to his garb an intriguing item – a large black backpack, filled to its entire capacity. Penchit’s eyebrows lifted when he saw that. He had never imagined that such a legend as Sherlock Holmes would wear such a commonplace and mundane thing. Had the Englishman been out touring the city sights this morning?